Page 72 of Forever To Me

Instead, he nods toward a deep chestnut mare in the nearest stall.

“This is Winnie,” he says. “She’s Mack’s horse, and she’s gentle. Unlike Maximus who can be a brat sometimes.”

He runs his hand over her and pats her side.

I step closer, running a hand down her sleek chestnut colored neck, the warmth of her velvet fur on my fingertips.

She exhales, soft and steady, and something in me untangles.

Walker watches me carefully.

“You’re good with them,” he murmurs.

I glance at him, raising a brow. “Surprised?”

He shrugs, tightening a strap on his saddle. “A little.”

I smirk, but I don’t push.

“I didn’t know you grew up on a farm,” he says softly.

“A dairy farm,” I admit. “But we had horses, too. We actually had all kinds of animals. My dad could never say no. Kind of like someone else I know.”

The rhythm of the horse beneath my fingers matches my breathing, steady and even.

"What was it like?" he asks.

"Hard work, but fun. My sister and I had chores, and we learned a lot about hard work. We lived about an hour from the nearest town, so we found ways to entertain ourselves. For me it was music. For my sister, it was writing. She's a romance author now," I add with a smile.

Walker focuses on his task, but the way he looks over and his eyes meet mine show me that he's listening. That’s one of the things that I love about him. He is a good listener.

After the horses are ready, we swing up into the saddles, and already I feel at home. There’s something about riding horses that is so relaxing. Takes me back to the farm. Where lifewas simple. Maybe that's why I love Bridger Falls so much. It reminds me of home.

Walker rides beside me. His posture is relaxed, but his watchful gaze never strays far.

I don’t know if he’s looking at me or looking out for me.

Maybe both.

The land stretches out, vast, endless golden fields rolling toward the tree line. It’s beautiful.

I exhale, tilting my face toward the sky, feeling the sun on my face.

“You don’t talk about it,” Walker says suddenly.

I glance at him. “Talk about what?”

He doesn’t look at me. “What you’re running from.”

My stomach tightens and I focus on the horizon, the weight of the reins in my hands.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He exhales through his nose. “Bullshit.”

I huff out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, so you can shut down every time I ask about that guitar, but I have to spill my guts?”

His jaw flexes, and I know I hit a nerve. But I don’t regret it.

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