The line of magnificent animals stands before me—six in total, each one clearly well-cared for with glossy coats and alert expressions. They're saddled and ready, reins held by a ranch hand who'd greeted us upon arrival at the staging area approximately two miles from Sweetwater Falls proper.
This is happening.
This is actually happening.
I'm going horseback riding through the Montana wilderness with my pack.
My eyes track over each horse, cataloging details with attention usually reserved for tactical assessments. There's a stunning palomino with golden coat and white mane, a dark bay with kind eyes, a dappled gray that keeps pawing the groundwith barely contained energy, a chestnut mare that seems the calmest of the group, a massive black stallion that can only be Bear's mount, and a sleek sorrel that's clearly been claimed by someone with excellent taste.
Beautiful creatures.
Every single one of them.
Proof of care and attention that speaks to serious equestrian commitment.
Calder moves toward the chestnut mare with familiarity that suggests a long history, his hand finding her neck with practiced affection. The horse responds immediately—pressing into his touch, soft nicker of recognition that makes my chest feel tight with unexpected emotion.
Connection.
They have a genuine connection.
Years of a relationship are evident in a single gesture.
"Haven't seen you in years, girl," Calder murmurs, voice carrying warmth I rarely hear from him. "Sorry, I abandoned you for LA. Bet you've been living your best life without me, though."
The mare's response is enthusiastic—head bobbing like she's agreeing, attempting to nudge his pockets for treats she clearly knows he usually carries.
Smart horse.
Trained him well.
"Have you known this horse for a long time?" My question seeks confirmation of what body language already suggests.
Calder's laugh carries nostalgia—genuine affection mixed with bittersweet acknowledgment of time passed.
"Since I was young, actually. She was my first horse, a gift for my thirteenth birthday when I'd finally demonstrated enough responsibility and commitment to justify the investment."
Thirteen.
He's known this horse for over fifteen years.
That's longer than most human relationships.
He turns toward me, one hand still stroking the mare's neck with absent affection:
"Aidric's family comprises the lineage of well-known cowboys, actually. Multi-generational ranching operation, rodeo champions, the whole Montana cowboy legacy. It's only him and his father who shifted into careers in fire and rescue rather than continuing the agricultural tradition."
Cowboys.
Actual cowboys.
Not just aesthetic, but legitimate cultural heritage.
The revelation recontextualizes so much—Aidric's particular skill set, his comfort with physical labor, the way he moves with confidence in rural settings that seems incongruous with his fire captain persona.
"Aidric's dad actually rescued a woman from fire in Sweetwater Falls," Calder continues, warming to the story. "Major structure fire, extremely dangerous conditions, he went in when everyone else said it was a suicide mission. Pulled her out with minutes to spare before the building collapsed."
Heroic rescue.
