Morning came slow, a soft haze lifting over the pastures, dew clinging to every blade of grass like the land had been holding its breath all night. In the round pen, Delilah moved in steady circles under Ryder’s watch, her sorrel coat damp where the early sun caught it. He worked her light, voice low, hat brim tipped forward. Every now and then she’d test him—ears flicking, shoulder drifting in—and he’d bring her back with the ease of a man who knew the difference between a fight and a conversation.
Bootsteps crunched on gravel behind him.
“You’re workin’ her before breakfast?” Celeste’s voice floated in from the barn doors, warm but edged with that quiet knowing only a mother carried.
“Needed to get her mind right before the heat set in,” Ryder said, not taking his eyes off the mare.
