Page 8

When she stepped back outside, Delaney was waiting right where she’d left her, arms wrapped tight around her thin cardigan. Claire dropped the boots and socks in the dirt at her feet.

“Put these on.”

Delaney looked at the scarred leather, then at her own clean shoes. She didn’t complain. She unlaced the canvas sneakers, slipped her feet into the thick wool socks, and stepped into the left boot.

Claire crouched in the dirt. Her bad knee gave a sharp, dry pop in the cold. She ignored it, caught the heel of the Ariat, and slid her index finger down inside the leather counter to guide Delaney’s foot home. The heel seated with a soft thud. Claire’s thumb brushed the sharp, fragile line of Delaney’s ankle bone through the wool.

Delaney pulled in a quiet breath. Her hand reached out instinctively and caught Claire’s shoulder to steady herself.

Claire pushed herself upright, using the full three inches she had on the actress. “Better,” she said. She refused to look at the shoulder she’d just stepped away from. “Let’s go.”

The round pen waited, the sixty-foot ring holding the last of the pre-dawn chill. Maple stood quiet at the center, her chestnut coat dull in the flat blue light, ears flicking lazily at the early morning stillness.

Claire snapped the lead to the halter and turned to Delaney. “Come around to her left side. Gather the reins in your left hand, grasp the horn with your right. Foot in the iron, lift, and swing over.” She kept her voice low, steady. “And don’t drop onto her back like a sack of oats. She’s a horse, not a couch.”

Delaney stepped forward, her fingers tightening around the leather horn. She planted her left boot in the stirrup, pushed up, then froze halfway, her body locking stiff as she wobbled on one leg, the other hovering uncertainly above Maple’s back.

Claire stepped right into her space. She planted her right palm flat against Delaney’s left hip, holding her flush against the saddle fender. “Keep going. Use your thigh.”

The muscle was tight under the denim, trembling slightly with the strain of holding her own weight. Heat radiated off Delaney’s leg. Then she swung her right leg over the cantle and sank into the seat with a heavy exhale.

Claire dropped her hand instantly and took two steps back into the loose sand.

“Sit up,” Claire said. “You’re slumping.”

Delaney straightened her spine, pulling her shoulders back. “Like this?”

“Lower.” Claire walked to the stirrup, reaching up to tap the back of Delaney’s waistband. “Drop your weight into your heels, not your tailbone. If Maple takes a sudden step right now, you’ll end up in the dirt.”

Delaney shifted, letting her hips loosen into the saddle. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me.” Claire looked up at her. “Maple only cares if you’re balanced.”

Delaney bit the inside of her lip. She didn’t snap back or make a defensive joke. Her hazel-green eyes just fixed on the space between Maple’s ears.

“Your hands are too high,” Claire said. “You’re holding the reins like dog leashes.”

Delaney pulled her hands back toward her chest, twisting the leather straps tight around her fingers. “I’m trying to keep them short.”

Claire let out a breath. She reached up with her left hand, caught the wrist of her right leather work glove in her teeth, and jerked it off. She shoved the heavy leather into her back pocket.

Bare-handed, she stepped up to the stirrup rail and laid her fingers over Delaney’s right hand.

Claire pressed her thumb firmly against the top of Delaney’s wrist, flattening the thick leather rein between their fingers.

“Thumb on top,” Claire said, her voice rougher than she meant it to be. The words came out low, almost swallowed by the quiet of the round pen. “Reins come in through the bottom of your fist, out over your index finger. Keep your wrist soft. Like you’re holding an egg.” She pressed her thumb a little harder, feeling the rein settle between their hands. “Break the shell, you lose the horse. Drop it, same thing.”

Under her thumb, Delaney’s pulse jumped, quick and light, like a spooked rabbit’s. The cardigan sleeve was soft against Claire’s skin, the wool worn thin in places. Neither of them moved. The air between them thickened, the only sounds the steady inhale and exhale of Maple’s breathing and the faint, warm puff of the mare’s nostrils as she exhaled.

Delaney’s gaze dropped to where Claire’s fingers covered hers, the leather rein sandwiched between their palms. Then, slow, like she was fighting the motion, she lifted her eyes. Those hazel-green irises locked onto Claire’s face, searching, too close, too intent. Claire didn’t flinch. Didn’t give her whatever the hell she was looking for.

She yanked her hand back like she’d been burned. The sudden absence of Delaney’s warmth left her fingers tingling. She fumbled the fleece-lined glove from her back pocket, the leather stiff and unyielding as she forced it back on. The seams bit into her palm, the familiar weight settling back into place. She flexed her fingers, ignoring the way the leather now felt foreign against her skin.

“Walk her out,” Claire said, turning sharply toward the center of the pen. “Left rein. Soft pressure.”

Maple stepped forward into a slow, rolling walk, hooves crunching the damp footing. Delaney sat higher now, hands low over the horn, elbows tucked in close.

“Keep your eyes up,” Claire called out. Her boots sank an inch into the track. “Look where you’re going, not at her neck. If you look at the ground, that’s where you’ll end up.”