Page 43 of Tame Our Wild

I toe the dirt with my boot. I expect to have to wait a while for his response since he should be riding soon, but the second the three dots appear, my stomach lurches into my throat.

Colson: Just playing my part.

Colson: Do you think that was loud enough for Ariat to hear? Maybe they’ll give you that sponsorship now.

Me: You’re an ass.

Colson: As you’ve said. Glad to know I’m still living up to it.

EIGHTEEN | HARLOW

Asoft haze hovers over the fields in the distance. The sun overhead attempts to pierce through, creating an effect in which the blades of frozen grass sparkle.

It’s beautiful.

However, it would be more peaceful if the silence didn’t feel loaded between Colson and me after last weekend’s event. Colson placed fourth, and, as he said, it was another weekend when I secured my place at the bottom.

It’s my own damn fault.

Since we got back a few days ago, I’ve been pondering what happened to my rides. I’ve been sulking in uncomfortable silence with Colson when he isn’t training me on the mechanical bull in the barn or working out upstairs in the hayloft that was transformed into a gym. He’s been at this for sixteen years, and it shows in his setup.

I expected a man like Colson to be hard, not to let anything crack through his exterior that I thought was as solid as steel. I was wrong. My words were hurled into that impenetrable wall, and he felt it. He clearly took it to heart when I said we should still act like we hate each other on the road and when we are competing. I should’ve thought that request through.

Sure, avoiding each other is easy, but acting like we hate one another when he’s so generously offered to be my coach is another thing. I mean, he’s not getting anything out of this; I’m the one who will get to reap the rewards.

Hopefully.

An apology has almost escaped my mouth several times. Yet a part of me has a hard time letting those words slip off my tongue when he’s said more hurtful things to me than not.

We’re oil and water, stuck in the same bowl with nowhere to go but to float aimlessly around each other and endure the discomfort.

Colson and I are both hardheaded in our own way.

We’re messy.

Stubborn.

Trying to tame our wild enough to get past our differences seems impossible.

But if I consider why I’m here, the possible outcome outweighs the obnoxious negatives to this arrangement that my brain can’t get past. Which is why I’m making a peace offering, hoping it will loosen the strain between us and get us back on track.

In the distance, Colson picks up a bag of feed from a trailer bed, hefting it onto his shoulder. I’m too far away, and he’s in a navy Carhartt sweatshirt. Still, I imagine the way his muscles and tendons flex, tautening his skin in a way that could evaporate the blood in my veins. He’s so infuriatingly handsome that my insides burn enough to shrivel to a crisp—like those worms that wriggle out of the earth during a fresh rain, not expecting the sun to claim their souls. If worms even have souls.

Tearing myself away from the window, I take a few lemon-blueberry crumble muffins from the metal tin on the counter and place them in a container.

My mom told me when I was younger that food is always the best kind of apology for a man.

Sex is probably another, but that’s out of the question.

I learned my baking skills from her, and when I’m not riding and training, it’s one of my hobbies, along with working with horses. When my leg was healing, baking was the easiest way to stay active without boring me to death. I bake the best bread when I’m anxious and can knead all my stress into the dough, which reminds me to book a virtual appointment with my therapist, Brenna. I’ve been avoiding rescheduling my session with her due to my busy schedule.

I pick up the container of muffins and walk to the front door before putting on my boots that bunch up my sweats at my calves. I tug on my jacket and slip onto the porch, immediately noticing the cloud of breath that escapes my lungs when the warm air collides with the stillness of winter.

It’s not long before I’m approaching the stable. Besides training and eating together the last few days, Colson and I have been avoiding each other, which has been easy since he’s been diving into ranch work from the time the sun gets up until it dips below the mountains. Even before that, I hadn’t set foot in the stable. The second I do, I pause to take it all in.

Timber beams span the alley from one stall to the next, with modern black metal facades and gates forming the stalls. Above, skylights let in ample light, creating a bright and welcoming space. The loft above has feed, equipment, and various other items.

Horses hang their heads over the doors to greet me, and one look at them brings a bright, joyous smile to my face. Through the black metal bars fronting each stall, I count four.