Page 104 of Knotting the Cowboys

"First of all, Willow here is smarter than both of us combined. She's not going to let you do anything too stupid." He runs a hand along the mare's neck, and she whickers softly. "Second, muscle memory is real. Your body learned young—it'll come back faster than you think."

"You have a lot of faith in my body," I say, then immediately flush at the double meaning.

River's lips quirk, but he keeps his voice professionally neutral. "Your body hasn't let you down yet, has it?"

The weight of that statement—after what we just shared, after the trust I placed in him—makes my throat tight. "No. I suppose it hasn't."

"Then trust it now. Come on." He moves to Willow's side, making a cradle with his hands. "Left foot here, swing your right leg over. I've got you."

The moment of contact, even through my boot, sends warmth shooting up my leg. His hands are steady, strong, and I try not to think about how they felt on my bare skin less than an hour ago. Focus, Willa.

I place my foot in his makeshift stirrup and push up, muscle memory indeed flickering to life. My right leg swings over Willow's back with more grace than I expected, and suddenly I'm mounted, looking down at River from a height that feels both foreign and familiar.

"See?" He grins up at me, pride evident in his expression. "Natural."

As he adjusts the stirrups for my height, his hands brushing against my calves with clinical efficiency, a memory surfaces unbidden. Grandpa's weathered hands doing the same thing, his voice patient as he explained about proper seat and gentle hands.

"You're thinking about something," River observes, stepping back to check the saddle's position.

"My grandfather." The words come easier than expected. "He taught me to ride on a pony named Buttercup. Terrible name for a horse, but I was seven and thought it was perfect."

River swings up onto his own mount with fluid ease. "Tell me about it."

So I do, as we begin walking the horses toward the open field. I tell him about early morning rides when the dew still sparkled on spider webs. About Grandpa's endless patience with a chattery little girl who wanted to go fast before she'd learned to sit properly. About the stories he'd tell as we rode—ranch history mixed with tall tales until I couldn't separate fact from fiction.

"He'd let me ride until I was basically asleep in the saddle," I say, smiling at the memory. "Just walking the fence lines as the sun set, me swaying like a sack of grain, barely holding the reins."

"Sounds dangerous," River comments, but his tone is warm.

"It should have been. But I never felt safer." My voice goes soft, remembering. "He'd catch me before I could fall, every time. Lift me off Buttercup and carry me inside, my head on his shoulder. I'd wake up in my bed, boots off, tucked under the quilt like the ride had been a dream."

"Except it wasn't."

"No. It was real. The only real thing sometimes, when my parents..." I trail off, old pain threatening to surface.

River doesn't push, just guides his horse closer so we're riding side by side. "We can make new memories, you know. Starting now."

I look over at him, this man who just gave me pleasure without taking any for himself, who's teaching me I can be wanted without being consumed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But first rule of new memories—you have to actually be present for them." His smile turns playful. "So whatever weight you're carrying from before? The cities, the expectations, the fears? Leave them back at the gate. Just for now. Just for this ride."

"That's a big ask, cowboy."

"I know. But you're a big girl. I have faith in your body, remember?"

That makes me laugh, surprising us both. "Okay. Present moment. I can do that."

"Good." He clicks his tongue, and his horse picks up the pace slightly. "Then let's see if your muscle memory extends to a trot. Heels down, shoulders back, and breathe. Everything else will follow."

I mirror his movements, and Willow responds instantly, her gait smoothing into that rolling rhythm I'd forgotten I knew. My body adjusts without conscious thought, finding the sweet spot between tension and relaxation. The world starts to move faster around us, and with it, my worries begin to fade.

Maybe River's right. Some part of me has always known how to do this—not just ride, but trust. Be present. To let go.

The field opens before us, endless and welcoming, and I follow River deeper into it, leaving my fears at the gate like he suggested.

For now, there's just this:horse and rider, earth and sky, and the promise of new memories waiting to be made.

The trot becomes a canter without me consciously deciding, just River calling out "Ready?" and my body answering before my mind can interfere.

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