Page 37 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

The air between us has a suffocating weight to it. His thumb taps against his flask. A habit I'd started noticing whenever he was thinking too hard about something.

I decide to break eye contact first, the only sensible move, looking for something else to move my attention to.

“Put in those orders, Maeve.” His voice returns to its usual register, gruff and even, like the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened. “And you're right about supporting the community. It's a good idea.”

I blink. Really wasn’t expecting zero pushbacks. He’s just trusting me. Handing me the reins and letting me run with it. No questions, no conditions.

That has genuinely caught me off guard.

I knew I was right. I’d checked the numbers a million times before I even dared to bring it to his attention. But there’s something different between knowing you’re right and having someone like Wade Carter believing in you. Someone who doesn't hand out trust or control easily. Someone who did not even want me here at first.

Well. How’s that for city-girl work!

I think it loudly enough that when Wade's body shifts slightly, I freeze for a second, genuinely concerned I'd said it out loud. Wouldn't be the first time my internal monologue made an unsolicited public appearance.

But he's just turning back to face the sunrise, both hands around his flask, shoulders easy. And then, without looking at me, he says, “More work like this, and it'll be hard to let you go back home.”

I keep my face neutral and look back at my e-reader like the words didn't just land somewhere deep in my chest.

But they did.

I push down the hope that rises up, the dangerous and irrational kind that I’ve had to teach myself not to trust. Whenever I have had hope in the past, whether it was about a new venture in my life, or my mum promising me things would be different, it all gets snuffed out one way or another. Hope and I are not the best of friends.

I try not to interpret Wade’s words as a promise to staying here for longer. They’re just words out of a man’s mouth, ones that are not guaranteed, nor should they be taken seriously.

I will just have to keep showing up. Keep proving that I'm more than someone passing through on a temporary visa and a return ticket. Keep showing everyone, and myself, that this place and I make sense.

Chapter Thirteen

Maeve

Maeve: Omg! Never in my life has my backside been so sore!!!

Maeve: Add to that my thighs and back.

Iris: YES FINALLY! Give me all the deets babe. LEAVE OUT NOTHING.

Maeve: Well, I did just spend hours riding. He was so big. 😏

Iris: I fear this is not going where I wanted it to go…

Maeve: You’d be correct, you sex fiend. I was horse riding with Colt. Remember? The lessons I am having.

Iris responds with our favourite gif, the Jeremy Corbin one where he shouts, “BORING.” An absolute new classic.

I type a quick message confirming I’ll call her tonight, then collapse onto the barn floor, waiting for Colt to put Merribell and Silas back in their designated pens.

Spread out like I’m about to start doing snow angels in the hay, I stare up into the abyss of the timbered roof, trying not to focus on my aching muscles.

Who would’ve thought horse riding was essentially another form of torture?

With only my fifth lesson complete, I think I’m getting the hang of it. A few months ago, I couldn't have told you the difference between a saddle and a stirrup. Now I can tack up without help, read a horse's mood before I approach, and, according to Colt, I have good instincts.

It's been good, using my spare time to build something rather than just exist through it. Especially something that might come in handy should I get to stay.

Some may call that delusion. I call it manifesting.

The crunch of hay announces someone’s approach. Probably Colt, but I am too tired to even lift my head to confirm.