Page 211 of Lost Then Found
Chapter 23
LARK
Me:I just agreed to go riding with Wren. Please don’t let me die out here.
Miller:If you die, can I have your earrings? The good ones, not that cheap shit from that ‘antique shop’ we went to.
Miller:Also, I’m stealing your espresso machine. Don’t be selfish.
I haven’t felt this free in years.
It’s not soft, not easy. It’s the sort of freedom that steals your breath and leaves your heart racing in your chest, the kind that comes from moving too fast and not caring if you stop. The wind hits hard, drying my lips, pulling loose strands of hair from my braid as Moose tears across the pasture.
Moose is a Thoroughbred, tall and narrow-hipped, all long legs and lean muscle. He’s built like a runner—sleek, fast, all power coiled beneath that dark bay coat that gleams almost black when the sun hits just right. A white blaze slices down his face, uneven and jagged, like it was painted on by mistake, and one sock on his back leg flashes as he moves. He’s not the biggest horse in the pasture, but when he runs, he feels massive—like there’s no catching him, no stopping him. Just raw speed and fire, tearing through the open space like he was born to own it.
His hooves beat a rhythm into the ground, kicking up dirt that clings to my jeans and the sweat on my neck. I press my knees in tighter, feel the saddle shift under me as we cut along the fence line, the world narrowing to this—his speed, my breath, and the land rushing by.
A hawk cuts circles overhead, wings stretched wide, casting a slow-moving shadow that drifts across the grass in front of me. The air is warm and the sky has that sharp, clean blue that only ever seems to happen out here.
Moose breathes steady beneath me, his stride long and smooth as we slow to a trot. The ranch stretches out in every direction—golden fields giving way to pockets of cottonwoods, the mountains behind them standing tall and still.
This is what I love about Summit Springs. What’s kept me here, even when I thought about leaving. You don’t get this anywhere else—not the air, not the stillness, not the way everything feels both old and alive at once. Some places just don’t let you go.
Wren is just ahead on Ringo, her glossy red ponytail swinging behind her, pulled through the back of a faded baseball hat that she probably stole from either Ridge or Boone. She’s relaxed in the saddle, one hand on the reins, the other resting easily on her thigh. She doesn’t have to say anything. She knows these horses, knows this land, and it shows in every movement she makes.
I’ve always admired that about her—the way horses respond to her, like they recognize something in her that makes sense. There’s no resistance with Wren, no posturing. She moves with them, not against them, and they trust her for it.
She runs the best horse training program in all of Montana. Everyone knows it. She’s got clients from out of state sending their horses here to be worked by her—green colts, problem geldings, high-strung mares. She takes them all, figures them out, works with them until they’re settled—confident and ready for whatever comes next. It’s long days in the sun, starting before dawn, every session tailored, methodical, earned. People send her their horses because they know she’s not going to give them backuntil they’re better.
We grew up like sisters. Just a couple years between us, always side by side—same kitchen tables, same dusty pastures, same sunbaked round pens. I remember watching her in those long, blistering summers—quiet voice, steady hands, more patience than most grown men had.
Even Lane noticed. I caught him once, leaning on the fence, arms crossed, eyes on her while she worked a skittish young gelding no one else could get close to. He didn’t say much, but later, he told me that kind of patience wasn’t something you could teach someone. Said Wren was just born with it.
And he was right.
Wren and I ease the horses down to a walk, the trail narrowing where it slopes toward a shallow creek. Sunlight hits the water just right, catching on smooth stones as it moves lazy and slow.
She stays quiet for a bit, eyes on the ridge like she’s trying to tuck it away in her memory. Then she glances over at me, voice low.
“Moose treating you alright?”
I pat his neck, fingers brushing against the warm leather of the reins. “He’s a saint. Ellie could learn a thing or two.”
She grins. “Ellie’s a menace. You were brave even getting on her.”
“Brave or stupid.”
“Same thing.”
We settle into a familiar silence, the horses’ hooves soft against the dirt trail. It’s easy. Comfortable in the way that only comes from years of riding side by side. Maybe it’s been a while, but some rhythms just stay.
After a minute, Wren says, “Glad you’re back.”
I glance over. “You mean that?”
She nods. “Boone’s been better since you got here.”
That lands in my chest. Not hard. Just… solid. “You think so?”
