Page 51 of Colt

It’s dark by the time I head back to the stables. It’s a Saturday night, so the corral and surrounding areas are a ghost town.

Thank fuck. I don’t feel like talking to anyone right now.

I untack Big Brother, brush him down, and make sure he’s set for the evening. I’m digging in my saddlebag for my keys when I hear something.

A whisper. Then a dull creak, the kind leather makes when it moves.

My hands go still. Looking up, I duck my head out of the tack room and look down the aisle.

Not a soul in sight.

I turn back to the bag, but just as my fingers find my keys, I hear another whisper.

“Left foot first, in the stirrup. Yup. Okay.”

My stomach plunges into a bucket of ice. Sounds like Lainey.

But what the fuck would she be doing out here at this time of day? I hope she’s not getting into trouble. Girl doesn’t know her ass from her elbow when it comes to, well, anything on the ranch.

Tossing the saddlebag over my shoulder, I head down the aisle and turn the corner.

There, sitting upright in a saddle placed on the old wooden stand that’s been around longer than I’ve been alive, is none other than Princess Lainey.

She’s got earbuds in, and she’s looking down at her phone.

I notice she’s wearing a pair of sneakers tonight. Not as good as boots but better than those clogs she wore.

She’s also in leggings and a hoodie. Her hair is pulled up into a tiny, messy ponytail at the back of her head. Tendrils work their way loose and fall down the milky-white skin of her nape.

“Right. So I hold the reins”—she practices with both hands—“and I sit up straight, pressing my heels down into the stirrups. Don’t grip with my legs…”

My body seizes. Pulse goes haywire.

She’s teaching herself how to ride a horse, isn’t she?

She looks ridiculous sitting there on the stand, knees bunched up because the stirrups aren’t long enough for her legs.

But yeah, she’s also really fucking pretty. Especially when she furrows her brow and chews on her lip, deep in concentration.

The clueless, entitled waste of space I want her to be wouldn’t be interested in learning how to ride. But here Lainey is, sneaking out on a Saturday night not to hang with friends or get wasted but to try out something new.

Try out something I love.

Remember you hate her. She is entitled. She is wasting your family’s hard-earned dollars.

Lainey must hear me because she glances over her shoulder and her eyes go wide when they lock on mine.

She screams, dropping her phone. Then her body lurches to the left and she screams again. Her arms and legs flail as she falls and falls. And falls.

But she doesn’t hit the ground because I lunge forward, my saddlebag falling to the floor. I loop one arm around her waist. I grab her arm with my free hand. Then I use the bulk of my body to push her back upright in the saddle, her back to my front.

Searing awareness spreads through me at the sudden rush of contact. My other hand is splayed over her belly, and I can feel how hard she’s breathing.

She’s panicking. We both are.

My breath moves the hair tucked behind her ear. “I got you.”

“Jesus Christ, Colton.” She reaches up to pluck the earbud out of her ear, but I notice she doesn’t pull away from me. “What the hell are you⁠—”