Page 61 of Pretty Savage: Defy

We both freeze. Maximus gives an impatient toss of his head, as though he too has grown tired of being ignored.

Carrson lets out a low breath before stepping back.

I turn, my face burning.

A man in his fifties stands several feet away with a saddle thrown over one arm and an expression of determined professionalism that tells me he saw exactly enough to understand what he interrupted.

“Sorry,” he says, looking somewhere above my head. “Didn’t realize you were busy.”

Carrson reaches down for the brush, angling his body to hide the bulge in his pants. “You needed something?”

“Maximus should be saddled if you’re taking him out.” The man clears his throat. “And, ah, I brought a smaller horse for Miss Turner.”

Carrson glances at me, amusement alive in his eyes despite the color in his cheeks and neck. “Perfect. We’re ready to ride.”

He lets the last word linger just long enough that I know exactly what he means.

I pout and shove lightly at his arm, which only makes him laugh.

I step back while the men saddle and bridle the horses. Carrson doesn’t ask whether I know how to ride until he’s already bending in front of me, linking his fingers into a step.

“You do ride horses, don’t you?”

He asks as though it has just occurred to him that not everyone grew up with a stable behind the house.

“A little,” I say, thinking of summer camps with docile ponies and counselors who never let go of the reins as they led us around in slow circles.

I put my boot in his hands, and he hoists me up with ease. I swing my leg over my horse, a sleepy-looking mare with a coat the color of rust, then grab the pommel as I wobble in the seat.

Carrson grips my calf, steadying me. He mounts Maximus and moves several steps ahead, giving me room to follow. I shift in my saddle, unable to find a position that eases the lingering ache between my legs.

Carrson glances back over his shoulder and catches me. His smile turns wicked. “Enjoy the ride.” He winks.

He guides Maximus through the open stable doors, setting an easy pace that lets my mare fall in behind him.

We take a trail through the woods that curve along the lake, which is a dark mossy green on this November morning. The farther we ride from the stables, the less I think about the ache Carrson left in my body. The forest draws me in instead. Many trees have lost their leaves. They crunch under our hooves, but the magnolia and the pine cling stubbornly to dark leaves and spiked needles, refusing to shed their winter coats.

After a while, the trail narrows into two ruts before disappearing altogether.

A branch snaps somewhere to my right.

I look just in time to see a dark shape slip between the trees, tall and narrow enough that my mind turns it into a man. For an instant, I catch what might be the hook of a nose in profile. Then the branches shift, breaking the outline apart.

“Carrson,” I call ahead. “Did you see that?”

“What?” His head swivels toward the trees, his hand going toward the dagger he always keeps strapped to the inside of his ankle, but the woods are empty now.

“Probably a deer,” I say.

Carrson watches for several more seconds before facing forward. Maximus continues walking, but one black ear remains angled toward the trees behind us.

I twist in my saddle, searching the shadows as we move away. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” He tosses the words over his shoulder without looking back.

We ride deeper into the woods.

The first sign of anything man-made is a stone pillar half-swallowed by moss. A second stands several yards away, leaning toward the first as though it’s tired. Between them hangs the rusted skeleton of an iron gate, sagging open on broken hinges. Pavers appear beneath the fallen leaves. An old drive wide enough for carriages, though roots have shoved through and leaves have gathered in the low places.