Page 127 of Chasing the Wild
You really are something else.
I’m going to bed.
Sweet dreams, bish.
Love you. Can’t wait to see your freckles.
Love you too, Sergeant.
Before I setmy phone aside, I do the one thing I know I really shouldn’t do.
I open the Devil’s Peak Ranch Instagram page.
Call it an addiction, call it pathetic, whatever… I can’t help myself from tapping on the account name perennially at the top of my search results.
The familiar sight of the iron lettering set against the cedar wood planks above the barn doors fills the profile photo. Scattered across the page are shots of the Peak, pine trees dripping with golden hour sunlight, and images of all the horses who I can’t help but smile over when I zoom in on their sweet faces. As I do so, I can even hear them stamp and snort in their own unique patterns.
Unsurprisingly, the ranch social media page hasn’t been updated all summer.
In fact, the last post was added a year ago, and looks like it must have been Kayce who posted it based on the fact it’s taken from an elevated angle in the saddle, looking down on the arched neck and pointed ear tips of Peaches.
Blowing out a breath, my thumb hovers over the tab I definitely do not need to click into.
The place where I know there will beregularupdates waiting for me to stalk. Not my proudest moment, but I’ve become more than a little obsessed with checking the tagged photos of the ranch. It’s usually cute group photos of the visitors who have booked summer trail rides. There are a couple of familiar spots around the ranch that I recognize—even though the scenery is no longer shrouded in a thick coat of snow—and that hook insidemy stomach tugs as I gaze wistfully through the assortment of recently tagged photos.
The ranch has been busy this summer, judging by the volume of images being added. There are usually a handful of new still shots and videos each day.
But I’m not interested in all the strangers smiling and apparently having the time of their life.
Each time I open this tab, there is only one figure I’m scanning for, and yet I never see him. His presence is there, however, even if it is an invisible one. Almost certainly, Colt is the person responsible for taking the photos I’m scrolling through, which makes me bite my lip with a tiny smile, imagining how scowly he must be at the prospect of having to handle phones and cameras on behalf of these people coming to the ranch for their dose of theoutdoors.
I imagine his calloused fingers jabbing at smartphone screens, and the thought seems so ridiculous. Colt is exceedingly capable at so many things, but technology and cell phones just seem totally alien to try and picture in his big hands.
Tonight though, there is a cluster of freshly uploaded tags, and my heart lurches as I take in the photos with eyes bouncing quickly across the array of thumbnails.
There’s a group of gorgeous, blonde, leggy girls who look like they’re similar to my age, and most certainly could all be models. Each of their photos shows them laughing and pulling peace signs at the camera with their tongues sticking out. They’ve all had their photo taken with their horse, which immediately makes me grow possessive at the sight of them planting kisses on their graceful, long necks.
Not only that, but I can see from the progression of the images, this group have been one of the trail rides to spend a night at the cabin.
Colt’s sweet spot.
Our cabin.
Fuck, tears prick the backs of my eyes, and my throat closes over.
I hadn’t contemplated what seeing young women at the ranch would do to me. So far, it has mostly been families, older retired couples, or honeymooners.
But this—seeing half a dozen lithe, tanned, stunning creatures flooding the ranch’s Instagram with their posts—is torture.
I’m a woman possessed. Scrolling and zooming in to examine every detail.
And that’s when I gasp.
Colt.
I see him. Well, I see his profile and unruly hair in one of the photos, and tears begin to well up. God, he looks so good. Beard a little longer than I remember. Tanned forearms. Wearing one of his blueish-green flannel shirts rolled at the elbows, he’s carrying a saddle as he crosses the background behind the two blonde bombshells who are laughing in the center of frame.
If my heart had ached before with missing him, catching this tiniest of glimpses is far worse than I could have ever anticipated.
