Page 26 of Broken Cedar

“It was one time. I fell off once.”

“Twice. The second time was into the mud puddle by the barn.”

“Oh, god.” I groan and cover my face with my gloved hands. “I’d forgotten about that. I was covered head to toe.”

“You cried.”

“I did not cry.” I shove him again, harder this time, but he’s solid muscle and doesn’t move an inch.

We move along the fence line. Telling stories. Remembering things I hadn’t thought about in years. The time Colt tried to teach me to skip rocks and I nearly concussed myself. The time I hid his favorite hat for a week and he didn’t speak to me until I gave it back.

We’re cutting across the east paddock on our way back to the house when I hear it—a nicker. Soft. Familiar in a way that makes my skin prickle before my brain catches up.

I stop walking.

Colt stops beside me. Doesn’t ask why, just waits.

The sound comes again. From the far paddock, near the old shed where we used to store tack. I turn toward it without deciding to, my boots carrying me across the hard-packed dirt before my mind has fully processed what I’m doing.

He’s there.

Standing in the shade beneath the old cottonwood, head lowered. A bay gelding with a white star on his forehead that’s gone mostly gray. His muzzle is frosted white. He’s older. So much older than the last time I saw him.

“Copper,” I say. The name comes out cracked. For a second, I’m sixteen again. My hands are smaller. My boots are too big. Colt is laughing somewhere behind me, telling me I’m overthinking everything.

The horse’s ears flick forward. His head lifts. And then—I swear to God—he looks at me. His nostrils flare. Recognition flickers across his face. Or maybe I’m imagining it.

I’m at the fence now. My hands on the top rail, leaning over. Copper reaches me. Presses his nose against my chest, exactly where he used to, exactly the way he did when he was six years old and I was sixteen and we spent every afternoon together.

“Hey, buddy,” I whisper, my eyes burning. “Hey. It’s me. It’s Hallie.”

He nickers. Then he nudges me, hard enough that I stumble back a step, and the gesture is so him, so exactly Copper, that I laugh through the tears I didn’t realize were forming.

I climb through the fence rails and drop to the dirt on the other side. Copper follows, his nose at my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck. I press my forehead to his and close my eyes. He smells like hay and dust and that particular horse-smell that’s been etched into my memory since childhood.

“You’re still here,” I say to him like he can answer.

I stay there for a long time. My arms around his neck. His weight solid against me. When I finally turn around, Colt is leaning against the top rail, watching. His hat is pushed back. His expression is unreadable.

“You kept him.”

Colt shrugs. “Someone had to.”

“Jesus.” I run my hand down Copper’s neck, feeling the ridge of his spine beneath the skin. “He should be retired. Gone to pasture somewhere. Not here doing—what does he even do anymore?”

“Nothing.” Colt mutters. “He eats. Sleeps. Gets brushed sometimes. That’s about it.”

“Why keep him, then? He’s not earning his keep. He’s not—” I stop. Because I know why. I know exactly why, and the knowing sits in my chest like a stone.

Colt looks at the horse. Then at me. “Wasn’t going to sell him. Wasn’t going to give him away.” He pauses. “Wasn’t for you,” he adds, a fraction too quickly. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Bullshit,” I say, smiling.

Copper nudges my shoulder again, demanding attention. I scratch behind his ears the way he likes, and he leans into it, his eyes half-closing in pleasure.

“He’s a good horse,” Colt says.

“He’s the best horse,” I say, scratching the white blaze between his eyes.