Page 138 of Deacon

The air is so pure. I take a deep breath of it and release it in a frosty cloud.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“Winter is my favorite season,” he says. “I like the quiet.”

“It’s always quiet here,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Not in the summer when we have buyers coming every day for the horses. You’ll see.”

Neither of us speak. Those two words hang in the air. He intends for me to be here when summer comes. I don’t rebel against the idea.

We move through the employee housing. Everything is still, and I assume the wranglers are out working. The houses are simple but well-built and comfortable. On the far side, about a half mile down, I see a portion of the ranch I’ve never encountered.

It’s a flat space with several paddocks and a huge barn. Bones recognizes it, clearly, because he breaks into a trot, prompting Silver Phantom to do the same. It takes me a moment to get the rhythm. I’m envious of Deacon, who posts easily, like he doesn’t have to think about it.

When we get to the barn, I feel like my brain is scrambled. He hits a button by the door and it rolls back. Inside is a fully heated barn with dozens of stalls. When we ride in, a few horses put their heads out and stare. Deacon dismounts and helps me down.

“These are all your horses?” I do a slow turn, taking in all the doors.

“I run a breeding and training operation,” he says. “These are the mares.”

“May I look at them?”

His dark eyes linger like a touch. “Sure, sweetheart. You look to your heart’s content.”

Every day, I like the way he calls me a sweetheart a little more. Butterflies in my stomach, I go to the nearest stall and look in. There’s a Paint horse standing on the other side. She lifts her head and snorts.

“That’s Mind Your Business,” Deacon says, leaning on the door.

“Why?”

“Why is that her name?” He puts finger and thumb in his mouth and whistles. The mare gives him a stony look and twitches her ear. “She’s got an attitude like she’s telling me to fuck off and mind my business.”

I laugh. “I like her.”

“Over here, we’ve got one of my favorites, Envy of the Angels,” Deacon says, crossing to the opposite end. I join him, peering under his arm.

There’s a stunning white horse standing just inside. She comes right up and nuzzles Deacon’s shoulder, knocking his hat askew. He rights it, taking something from his pocket and feeding it to her.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Dried apple,” he says. He steps back, walking a few doors down.

I follow, frowning. “What happens to them when they retire?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Most I sell off for hobby horses. Others just retire here until they keel over from old age.”

I lean over to look into the newest stall. Inside is a gangly chestnut horse, clearly not an adult yet. Deacon takes more dried apple out, and it comes over, nuzzling his palm.

“Who’s this?” I ask, reaching in to pet its head.

“Whoopsie Baby,” he says. “One of the stallions got out, didn’t know the dam was in heat. Bam, Whoopsie Baby.”

I laugh, unable to hold it back. Deacon is just so…well, he’s himself through and through. There’s a glitter in his eyes that tells me he likes it when he can make me laugh.

I love this, just being with him.

We get back to the house around five. I put a stew in the crock pot, and we eat it with bread. Then, Deacon says he has paperwork and disappears down the hall. I try to let him work, but after pacing the house for a while, a familiar restlessness seeps in.

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