Fucking hell.
She’s not just beautiful, she’s dangerous.
And I’m so screwed.
Chapter Twenty
Mudding Ain’t For the Weak and Willful
Mudding sounds reckless, but it’s not.
It’s an easy ride through the back pasture after a good rain. No race. No rules. Just a bunch of horses kicking up mud like overgrown dogs. We only take the ones who love it. The ones that damn near vibrate when the gates swing open.
We don’t push them. They move if they want. Stop when they’re done. Then it’s baths, brushed coats, clean hooves, andpeppermints for good measure. Out here, horses carry our weight, our gear, and sometimes our goddamn grief.
There’s nothing like being back in Dusty’s saddle, the scent of Honey Bea and worn leather burning through my senses, my family and friend’s laughing and playing in the distance.
But watching Georgia Walker out here on the back of an Archer horse, braid flying, cheeks flushed, laughing and riding through the mud like an honest to God cowgirl withmyStetson on her head…
Now that’s a fucking religious experience.
“I’m so confused,” Hazy says, shooting me a look as she circles her Appaloosa, Orion, around me. “Thought you said your social worker was from New York.”
“Ididn’t say shit. Mom did,” I mutter, guiding Dusty toward the group. “And she’s not my social worker anymore.”
Pudding is prancing through the puddles with Colby and Clem’s horses at her side. The three girls are laughing, shrieking when the mud splashes too high, daring each other to race through the deepest ruts.
Georgia leans forward in the saddle, easy and loose, guiding Pudding like she was born to do it. Her braid snaps behind her in the wind, cheeks flushed, mouth open in a wild, unfiltered laugh that hits me straight in the fucking chest.
Colby lets out a whoop and kicks her horse into a canter, slicing through the mud, sending a wave of it toward Clem, who shrieks and tries to block it with her arm.
Georgia spins Pudding to the side just in time to avoid the splash, then looks over her shoulder and tips my hat at them like she’s a proper cowboy.
Dusty shifts under me, picking up on the energy, ears flicking as the other horses play.
He wants to join, and surprisingly, so do I.
Three young women I don’t recognize run through the muddy grass, laughing and covered in filth—shorts too short, shirts too see-through. Nevan and Vander—brothers, and ranch hands—are off their horses in a flash, chasing after them, hats high, laughter higher.
Vander’s horse doesn’t miss a beat of freedom. He drops to his knees and rolls right in a shallow mud puddle, legs flailing in the air, saddle and gear be damned.
“You’re cleaning that mess up, Van!” Hazel shouts, huffing like mud is beneath her. “And make sure you check his shoes!”
Vander tips his hat at her. “Of course, ma’am!”
“Ma’am.” Hazy shudders. “Gross.”
Georgia’s eyes find mine across the short distance, and I’m shocked when she smiles at me and gives me this small, awkward but adorable wave before quickly turning back to the twins.
“She fits in well here,” Hazel says quietly, pulling Orion up to my side. Her head turns, gaze off in the distance, where a few of the older ranchers are watching from a small hill, hats pulled low, mustaches even lower. “She looks happy.”
There’s a pained, longing note to her voice that pulls words from my chest I’m not quite ready for, but force out anyway. “I’m sorry, Hazy.”
Her throat bobs and she glances at me. “For what?”
“Leaving. Staying gone,” I say roughly with an awkward shrug, my eyes going straight back to Georgia.
For some reason, it’s easier to say the hard parts when she’s near, even if she’s not the one I’m telling.
