I ran my hand up his spine, stroking the length of his back, memorizing the shape of him.
His breathing deepened, slow and steady. I felt myself drifting, too.
I closed my eyes, letting the darkness settle around us, letting it be enough.
Tonight, I was home.
Tonight, I was wanted.
And for the first time in forever, I let myself believe it could last.
I kept my hand on Ford’s back, a promise and a comfort.
And then, finally, I slept.
Epilogue
Lily
Five months later
Iused to think the sun didn’t care about people like me. If anything, it tried to scorch you out, or else ignore you entirely, blanketing the earth with enough gray to match your mood. But on this afternoon, the light was determined to prove me wrong.
It found me astride Pebbles—the beautiful, fuzzy creature with the patience of a saint and the eyes of a grumpy librarian. It found me squinting into the gold, my hair (now with renewed streaks of blonde) fanned behind me like some kind of backwards comet tail.
I rode with my back straight. I rode with my heels down and my hands loose on the reins. I rode like a person who wanted to be seen, which was probably the strangest part of all.
Ford rode beside me. His horse, a rangy red gelding named Tater Tot (because of course it was), carried him with the bored swagger of a professional. Ford was more at ease in the saddle than I ever imagined, especially considering he spent two decades in Silicon Valley and was allergic to exercise unlessit involved moving a server rack. Now, he looked every bit the Montana cowboy again—boots muddy, hat pushed back, a worn flannel rolled to the elbows and sleeves peppered with sawdust and dog hair.
He watched me with the faintest of smirks. Not to judge. Just to marvel, maybe. Or to see if I’d eat dirt.
“Your heels,” he called, and I angled my toes down like a pro.
“Is that better?” I asked, fighting the urge to hunch into myself.
“Looks perfect from here,” he said, and he meant it.
Behind us, the yard was a symphony of animal drama. Chickens bustled in their newly upgraded coop, tripping over each other to get to the half-moon of seed Ford scattered that morning. Three cats sprawled on the patio in a tangle of fur, pointedly ignoring the cows that mooed from a distance. A stocky cattle dog—technically named Jerry, but mostly called “Dumbass”—trotted along beside the horses, tongue lolling, so happy in his own skin that you almost forgot he’d eaten an entire sock last week and survived to tell the tale.
From this vantage, the ranch seemed infinite. Pastures sloped away toward the river, where the grass met scrubby willow and the sky dropped down all around you. Beyond the back field, the mountains heaved themselves up in a mess of granite and snow. It was the kind of place where you could lose yourself and still find a better version waiting.
Pebbles flicked her ears and grunted, offended at being made to walk in a straight line. I patted her neck with the awkward confidence of a person who learned how to ride by watching Ford’s YouTube recommendations and then surviving three lessons with Walker and Ford both hollering directions over each other’s voice. Ford always said Pebbles was “anxious, but sweet, like a therapy dog for people with imposter syndrome.” Maybe that’s why we got along.
We rode toward the little rise Ford called the Lookout, because you could see all the way to downtown Whittier Falls if you craned your neck. I didn’t have to look back to know the old house was glowing in the late sun—white siding, windows open, laundry flapping on the line.
Pebbles huffed. The saddle creaked. Jerry zigged in front of us, then zagged, nearly tripping over his own paws. I laughed without meaning to, and Ford caught the sound with his eyes.
“You’re getting good,” he said.
I wanted to tell him that I never thought I’d make it this far. That I’d been so sure I’d fail at riding, just like I failed at all the things I was supposed to be. But today, the words didn’t come out as confessions. They came out as facts.
“Pebbles is the real pro,” I said. “I’m just here for the ride.”
Ford grinned, his face open and relaxed in a way I rarely saw with anyone else. “I’m just happy you gave her a chance,” he said, his hand resting easy on the horn of the saddle.
We kept riding. The grass was dotted with early wildflowers, tiny and purple and stubborn as hell. There were bees everywhere, but they left us alone. The cows chewed their cud and ignored our parade.
We made it to the top of the hill, where the sun dipped lower and cast everything in long shadows. Pebbles slowed to a stop, and Tater Tot did the same, nosing at the ground like he expected a treat for his troubles.
