Page 25 of Broken Roads
They take a step back, and I lift the saddle, setting it gently onto Max's back. This, at least, is something I know how to do without thinking. My body knows the movements, has performed them thousands of times. My hands know exactlyhow much pressure to apply, where to adjust, how to make horse and tack work together in perfect harmony.
I wish people were as easy to figure out.
My eyes flick toward the road again, scanning the empty drive before I can stop myself. They should be back by now. Town's not that far, and Beckett knows we need that feed before evening.
"What’s this?" Sarah asks, distracting me as she points to the cinch hanging from the saddle.
"That's the cinch, or girth," I explain, taking it in hand. "
Holds the saddle on, like a belt. Too loose and you slide off; too tight and it hurts him.”
"How do you know what's right?" Tommy/Timmy asks, his small face serious beneath the brim of his too-big cowboy hat.
"Practice," I say simply. "You learn to feel it."
I demonstrate, reaching under Max's belly to grab the strap from the other side. Max is used to this, doesn't even flinch as my arms work beneath him. For a moment, I lose myself in the simple task, the world narrowing to just this: leather, metal, horse. No complications, no city girls with sharp tongues and sharper eyes, no jealousy burning in my gut.
My momentary peace is disrupted when a distant engine breaks through my concentration. My head snaps up before I can stop myself, eyes seeking the source. Beckett's truck is only just visible as it turns onto our long drive, kicking up a cloud of dust.
My hands falter on the strap, fingers suddenly clumsy. I fumble the buckle, cursing silently as I have to redo it.
"Sorry, boy," I murmur, forcing my hands to steady. Taking a deep breath, then another, I will my heart to slow its sudden gallop. Why the hell am I reacting like this? It's just Beckett and the city girl coming back from town. Nothing to get worked up about.
The truck is closer now, the afternoon sun glinting off its windshield, making it impossible to see who's inside. But I know. Beckett driving, one arm probably resting casually on the open window. And her beside him, maybe laughing at something he's said.
My jaw clenches so hard I feel it in my temples. The next buckle I fasten snaps too loudly, making Max shift his weight with uncertainty.
"Sorry," I mutter again, placing a steadying hand on his neck. It's not his fault I'm suddenly wound tight enough to snap.
The truck pulls up near the stables, engine cutting off with a low rumble that seems to echo in my chest. I keep my hands moving on the saddle straps, explaining the importance of proper tension to the Miller kids, but every cell in my body is tuned to the passenger door. It swings open, and Hailey steps out. The sight of her causes my breath to catch in my throat.
"Mr. Walker, you stopped talking," Sarah points out, tugging at my sleeve again.
"Right," I mutter, forcing my attention back to the saddle.
The rest of my words come out mechanically. From the corner of my eye, I track Hailey as she reaches back into the truck for something. She's wearing the same jeans as this morning, but they look different now, tucked into those new boots. More purposeful. More like she belongs here.
The thought sits wrong in my chest, sharp-edged and so fucking uncomfortable.
Beckett circles around from the driver's side, saying something that makes her smile as she takes a folder from him and clutches it to her chest.
"Is the saddle supposed to make that noise?" Tommy/Timmy asks, pointing to where the leather creaks under my too-tight grip.
I ease off, silently cursing my lack of focus. "Leather always talks," I explain, gentling my touch.
Adjusting the strap of her purse, Hailey nods at Beckett. Her hair is different—still in that braid, but with loose strands framing her face like she's been riding with the windows down. She looks... settled. Like the stiffness I've seen in her shoulders since she arrived has eased somewhat.
My jaw clenches against the sudden, unwelcome curiosity about her day in town. What she saw. Who she met. Whether she liked it.
She turns away from Beckett, heading toward her office. Her walk has changed too, more confident in those new boots, less like she's afraid the ground might crack beneath her feet. I should be glad. A confident financial consultant will do her job better, fix whatever issues Dad thinks we have, and leave all the sooner.
I should be glad.
So why does my chest feel tight, like I can't get quite enough air?
A flash of black and white movement catches my eye. Bandit, who's been lying in the shade near the stable door, suddenly perks up. His ears stand at attention, head swiveling toward Hailey. Before I can blink, he's on his feet, shooting across the yard like he's spotted a rabbit.
"Bandit," I call, the command sharper than intended. "Get back here."
