Page 97 of That Rush

“Anything else on the practical-skills test?” she asks as I ride through.

“You keep assuming I’m testing you.”

“You picked a horse before asking whether I could ride.”

She closes and chains the gate, then returns to my side.

“I made one assumption,” I say.

“How painful was admitting that?”

“I’ll recover.”

“Good. I’d hate for sunrise to lose its famous healing powers.”

The lower trail follows grass still silver with dew. I point out a washout near the fence and the pasture we cleared after the last storm. Paige asks why we rotate the cattle, then listens so closely her next question about water access is smarter than my first answer.

Most visitors comment on the view. Paige wants to know how it works, and I keep giving her more detail than she asked for.

The quiet loop and mountain view were meant to impress her. But ten minutes in, all I want is for her to see this land the way I do: not as scenery, but as a map of a hundred small decisions—a broken fence, a patch of dry grass, a slow line of cattle moving toward water.

At the creek, the trail narrows between the water and a stand of aspen. I bring my horse alongside hers to show her the firmer crossing.

Our knees brush.

Paige glances down at the contact. “Are you hovering?”

“You said you would tell me if you needed help.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then I’m enjoying the view.”

Her gaze drops to my lap with deliberate slowness. “The horse seems adequately trained.”

“I wasn’t looking at the horse.”

“Neither was I.”

She nudges her mare forward through the shallow water, leaving me to follow with my cock hard inside my jeans—a problem of my own making.

On the other side, Paige ducks beneath a branch and gives the mare enough rein to choose solid ground around slick mud without surrendering control.

Confidence looks good on Paige everywhere. With sunlight catching the loose hair beneath her hat and her body moving so easily with the saddle, it felt like I was watching something I wasn't supposed to see.

The trail climbs to a ridge above the working pastures. Long fences, dark cattle, weathered barns, and the cluster of houses farther west spread across the valley below. Paige stops beside me.

“You grew up looking at this?” she asks.

“Most mornings.”

“Then you ran the Texas operation.”

“For years.”

Her gaze follows the fence line toward the houses. “Which part is yours?”

“The whole place belongs to the family.”