Page 38 of Lost Then Found
But Springsteen—he was Dad’s. Big bay gelding, blaze down his face, steady as a heartbeat. The kind of horse you ride when you don’t want to think—just need to move.
I rub the back of my neck. “Springsteen today.”
Covey nods, already reaching for a saddle. “Need a hand?”
“Nah,” I say, stepping toward the stall. “I’ve got it.”
Springsteen flicks an ear when I open the gate, turns his head like he’s been waiting on me. I press a hand to his shoulder, run it down the line of his neck—feel that familiar warmth, steady and grounding. He shifts just a little, leans into the touch like he knows I need the silence more than anything else right now.
“Yeah,” I murmur, “me too, buddy. Me too.”
I throw the pad over his back, smooth it out, then swing the saddle up in one motion. The cinch tightens with practiced pulls. It’s second nature. Doesn’t ask anything of me but muscle memory.
Bridle goes on easy. Bit settles in place. He doesn’t fight me—never does. Just stands solid while I finish adjusting the straps. I give his flank aquick pat, then lead him out into the sunlight.
The air’s crisp. Light fading into that early evening gold. Feels good. Honest.
I tighten the girth one last time, plant a boot in the stirrup, and swing up in one clean motion. Settle into the seat. Adjust my reins.
Springsteen shifts under me—big and quiet, like he’s got something wound tight in him too. I press my heels in, light but sure, and give a soft cluck of my tongue. He steps forward, steady at first. Then I nudge him again, and we pick up pace.
The rhythm settles into my bones as we move—hooves hitting dirt, leather creaking, wind picking up just enough to cut through the heat still clinging to the back of my neck. The barn disappears behind us. So does the house. So does the noise.
Fields open up in front of us—gold grass swaying, fence lines slicing clean through the land, cattle grazing off in the distance like nothing’s changed.
This…this is the only thing that makes sense today.
I think about my old man. About the way he raised us. He was hard—on us, on himself. All grit and expectation. You earned what you got, and if you couldn’t keep up, you got left behind.
I respected him. Hell, I loved him. But softness wasn’t something he offered. Not even when we needed it.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he left all this to me. Because he knew I’d do it differently.
Iwantto do it differently. Especially with Hudson.
I don’t want to be the guy who shows up barking orders and calling it love. I want to be someone he can come to when shit gets hard.
I want him to know me. Not just know of me.
But the thought creeps in—quiet, ugly. What if he doesn’t want that? What if I’m too late? What if he never even asked about me?
That one sticks. Buries deep.
My grip tightens on the reins. Jaw locks up. What if he’s betteroff without me?
What if I’ve already missed my shot—and I didn’t even know I was supposed to take it?
I blow out a breath, low and hard, and lean into the saddle as Springsteen carries me farther out. Away from the house, away from the noise. Just the sound of hooves on packed dirt, the wind moving through the trees, the faint groan of branches stretching in the breeze. This stretch of land’s always worked like a reset—like if I ride far enough, let the reins out just a little more, I can put some distance between me and everything I don’t want to deal with.
That’s when I see it.
Old Faithful.
Been sitting here longer than the Wilding name’s been stamped on this ranch. Calling it a house might be generous—it’s more bones than anything now. Sagging roof. Porch half caved in. Paint peeled down to bare wood. It’s lopsided, crooked as hell, but still standing.
Always has been.
Mom and Dad talked about tearing it down more times than I can count. But they never did. Maybe it was the history. Maybe it was too far down the to-do list. Or maybe they just didn’t have the heart to rip down something that refused to fall apart on its own.
