Page 28 of Carrick
Something in my chest shifted—just a fraction—but enough to feel. I didn’t thank her. Couldn’t. The knot in my throat was too thick, and gratitude felt too much like surrender. But she smiled anyway—one of those knowing, wordless smiles women trade in moments that don’t need language. She slid the mug closer. No pressure. Just an offering.
I turned before I could second-guess it. The door creaked open, and the cold met me like a slap—sharp, bracing, real. It burned in my lungs and stung against my cheeks, and I let it. Welcomed it. Let it cut through the fog clinging to my thoughts.
It helped. Not enough to fix me. But enough to remind me I was still here. Still breathing. Still burning.
I followed the gravel path, hands buried in the front pocket of my hoodie like I could anchor myself there. Cold bit at my cheeks, wind tugging loose strands of hair like impatient fingers. My boots crunched with every step—too loud and too soft all at once.
The barn rose ahead like something half-remembered. Tall, weathered wood. Faded red paint turned rust. Golden morning light slanted through high windows and broken siding, casting cathedral beams across packed dirt. Sacred or haunted—I couldn’t tell.
Deacon was already there, moving with slow, ritual grace as he hauled feed bags from the truck. Every motion deliberate. No wasted effort. No sound but the scrape of burlap and the hush of hay underfoot.
He didn’t look up.
“Need help?” My voice came out low, scratchy—like it had rusted overnight.
He paused mid-lift. A nod. Nothing more. But that was enough.
I stepped in beside him and took hold of the next bag, letting the weight of it burn through the ache in my arms and turn into something useful. We fell into an easy rhythm. No chatter. No need to fill the air. Just the crunch of boots and breath and the sound of two people working through something they didn’t have words for yet.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was solid. Real. Something that felt earned rather than expected. The kind of quiet that wrapped around your bones instead of your throat.
After a while, when the last feed bag was in place, I leaned back against a post, breathing hard but not exhausted. Just present—in a way I hadn’t been in days.
I tipped my chin toward the largest stall. “That one’s been giving me the side-eye since I walked in. Should I be concerned?”
Deacon tugged off his gloves, unfazed. “That’s Storm.”
He nodded toward the horse in question. “Big black bastard. Thinks he’s hot shit, but he’s mostly fluff and attitude.”
I pushed off the post and walked toward the far stall. The horse stepped forward as I approached, massive and dark and watching me with curious, intelligent eyes. I paused just outside the gate and held out my hand. He sniffed, huffed, then nudged his nose into my palm like we’d done this before.
“Hey,” I murmured. “You’re beautiful.”
His breath was warm against my skin, grounding me in the moment in a way that no amount of pacing or coffee ever could.
Behind me, Deacon’s voice was soft. “Most don’t get close that fast.”
I didn’t turn around. “I notice when trust is offered freely. It’s rare.”
I kept one hand on Storm’s broad neck, stroking slow and steady, memorizing the feel of coarse hair and thick muscle beneath. He blinked, content, and leaned into me like we’d known each other for years.
I closed my eyes for a second. Let the silence hold me.
“You’re wound tight,” Deacon said after a while, matter-of-fact but not unkind.
I let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh. “That obvious?”
He made a noncommittal sound. “Only to people who know what it looks like.”
I finally turned to face him. He was leaning against the side of the stall now, arms crossed, eyes sharp but not invasive.
“I’m losing it, Deacon.” The words came out thinner than I meant them to. “I hate sitting around. I hate the waiting. The not knowing if Rayden is out there, hurt, or worse. I hate that I’m here, locked up like a delicate thing, while everything I care about might be burning.”
He nodded once. No judgment. Just understanding.
“I hate it too,” he said. “And I love these guys—they’re my brothers. But sometimes this house makes me feel like I’m buried alive. Too many ghosts. Not enough noise.”
