Page 89 of At First Dance
Then he nods once. “Okay.”
I slide out of bed, feeling the soreness bloom across my thighs and lower back—a delicious reminder of the night before—and pad to the bathroom.
Behind me, I hear Rowan sigh. And I don’t know what that sigh means yet, but I want to.
And that’s the most terrifying part of all.
We walk in silence toward the barn, our boots pounding over the gravel. The late morning sun climbs higher, warming the world around us, heating the tops of my shoulders through the thin cotton of my shirt. The scent of hay and horses fills the air—familiar, grounding.
Rowan walks a few steps ahead of me, his cowboy hat pulled low, shoulders tense beneath a gray T-shirt that clings to his back with every shift of muscle. He hasn’t said much since we left the house.
But as we crossed the yard, his hand brushed against mine. It wasn’t much, but it counts for something.
Inside the barn, the horses nicker softly, their hooves shifting on straw as they poke their heads over stall doors. Rowan whistles low under his breath, the sound soothing. He grabs a pitchfork from the wall and starts tossing hay into the feeders with practiced ease.
I lean my elbows on the wooden rail, watching him. The man is made of muscle and grit and quiet competence, and for a long second, I just let myself look at him.
“Hey,” I say, nudging his elbow with mine. “You’re doing that thing where you take care of everything except what’s going on in your own head.”
His mouth tips. “Guilty.” He threads his fingers through mine on the tailgate, thumb skating over my knuckles. “It’s not nothing. I’m just… pacing myself.”
“How’s the pacing going?” I tease, softly.
He exhales, eyes finding mine. “Little worried about the weather, little worried about the fence on the north line.” He inhales. “Mostly thinking about you.”
My chest loosens. “I’m here,” I say, squeezing once.
“I know.” His shoulders drop like he believes it. “That’s why I’m okay.”
“Have you thought more about the camp?”
He pauses mid-movement for a second, then continues working.
“Some.”
I smile. “Is that Rowan-speak for ‘I haven’t stopped thinking about it’?”
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. “It’s Rowan-speak for ‘it’s a good idea… and it scares the shit out of me.’”
I step off the rail and cross to where he’s working. I pick up a stray lead rope from the floor and slowly coil it between my hands.
“You could do it,” I say softly.
He glances over at me, brow furrowed beneath the brim of his cap. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” I step closer. “I saw it yesterday. You care. You’re patient. You’re stubborn—in a good way. Kids trust you. Their parents trust you.”
His throat works as he swallows, and I see it—for a moment—that flicker of hope he’s too afraid to admit to.
“Maybe,” he murmurs.
I reach for his free hand, wrapping my fingers around it.
“Maybe it's a good start.”
And then, from outside, a sharp whistle cuts through the air.
Rowan turns toward the barn door just as someone steps into the sunlight.
