Chapter 18 Unseen Competence
Instead of taking her lingering thought to another level, she used their argument to churn up all of her resentment for him. However, underneath those carefully curated feelings, the fleeting contact stirred something far more potent and disorienting, a betrayal of her carefully constructed animosity and a crack in the armor she’d worn for so long.
His words echoed in her mind, sharper than they’d seemed moments before. She could only see the auctioneer’s gavel and was grasping for money from whatever resource might be used. He was the geeky, gangly Ryder she’d known back then, but morphed into the man who had just stood too close, whose touch had sent a shiver through her. He was no longer just an obstacle, but a force of nature as tangible as the wind that carried the aroma of sage after a rain.
She decided that if she was going to paint Sage Ranch as an experience, a destination, then she needed to immerse herself in it, not just analyze it from a spreadsheet. And what was more quintessentially Sage Ranch than a ride?
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. She hadn’t ridden a horse since she’d left for college, trading the dusty trails for Manhattan’s concrete canyons. She remembered the exhilaration, the raw freedom of the wind whipping through her hair, the rhythm of a trusty mount beneath her. It was a sensation she’d buried deep, along with so much else from her childhood.
Slipping off the bench, she returned to the ranch house, the scent of the sage and dry earth filling her lungs. She returned her laptop to the desk in her room and exchanged her sweats and sneakers for a pair of jeans, boots and a comfortable cotton top. Her designer jeans, though ridiculously impractical for ranch work, were comfortable enough for a ride, and her Stuart Weitzman boots were really the only appropriate footwear in her closet for this impromptu mission.
Out in the corral, her eyes scanned the horses available in the churning group, searching for a suitable mount. When she saw the palomino gelding, his coat the color of spun gold, his mane and tail a flowing cascade of cream, she was instantly taken in. He moved with a restless energy and a spark of spirit that drew her to him. He looked like trouble, freedom, and exactly what she needed.
With somewhat rusty ease, she opened the gate and slipped into the corral, halter in hand. The gelding eyed her with intelligent curiosity, his ears pricked forward. She approached slowly, speaking in a low, calm tone, the kind she’d heard her father use countless times. The horse was skittish, prancing away from her initial reach, but she persisted, her movements fluid and unhurried. Finally, he allowed her to slip the halter over his head. A small victory.
Leading him back towards the barn, a surge of nostalgic confidence washed over her. She could do this. She could still connect with this place and this life. But as they neared the barn entrance, a sudden fright, a loud bang from a distant gate slamming shut, sent the palomino into a frenzy. He reared, eyes wide with panic, his powerful legs thrashing. Sierra’s grip tightened on the lead rope, her designer boots digging into the dirt as she fought to control him.
“Whoa there! Easy!” she murmured, her voice strained. The horse reared again, pulling violently, the halter slipping in her soft hands. She felt a moment of pure panic, the fragile confidence shattering. This was not what it used to be with Chip, the buckskin she had so fondly made her own at the age of ten. This was something unpredictable and dangerous.
Just as she felt the lead rope burning through her fingers, a strong hand landed on it, just above hers. It was Ryder's. He hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t announced his arrival. He’d simply appeared. He took the rope from her, his touch firm but steady, his movements economical and precise.
“Cream, you rascal,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to instantly soothe the agitated gelding. “Got spooked by that damn gate again, didn’t you?”
Sierra watched, mesmerized, as Ryder worked. He didn’t yank or pull. He simply stood there, a calming presence, letting the horse expend some of its energy in controlled movements. He murmured to Cream, rubbing a soothing hand along his muzzle and neck. The palomino began to relax, lowering his head, his breathing back to normal. Ryder’s strength was evident, not in brute force, but in a quiet, confident control that flowed from his intimate understanding of the animal. He moved with a grace she hadn’t seen in the gangly kid. This was a man at home in his skin and in this world.
When Cream was sufficiently calm, Ryder led him into a stall. “He’s a good horse,” he said, not looking at Sierra, his focus still on the animal, “but he’s got a bit of a nervous streak. Sensitive to sudden noises.”
He removed his hat and brushed the sweat away from his forehead, and then replaced it. He smelled of horses and sunshine and something uniquely him. There was no mockery in his eyes, no condescension. Just quiet competence.
“You have a good eye for horses,” he said, turning to face her. It wasn’t a compliment laced with sarcasm, but a simple observation, a nod to her unexpected ability to handle the initial approach. "What made you pick him?"
"He reminded me some of Chip." Sierra felt a flush creep up her neck. She suddenly felt inadequate in her designer boots. "That was my horse when I was a teen."
“I know,” Ryder said, a hint of surprise in his voice, but no judgment. He looked at her jeans, her boots, then back at her face. “You going out for a ride, now?”
She nodded, her resolve renewed. “I was planning to.”
He gestured towards the tack trunk. “Your saddle’s still here where you left it. I got it out and cleaned it up when I heard you were coming home.”
Together, in the quiet of the stable, they saddled Cream. Ryder’s movements were efficient, his knowledge evident in the way he checked the cinch, adjusted the stirrups. He didn’t hover, didn’t critique, just worked alongside her, a silent partner. The tension that had crackled between them earlier had softened, replaced by a shared, unspoken understanding of the task at hand.
Once Cream was ready, Sierra led him out of the barn and swung into the saddle. It wasn’t as easy as it had been ten years before, especially wearing the tighter jeans. The familiar weight of the reins in her hands, the slight sway of the horse beneath her, felt like coming home. She rode Cream out into the ranch yard, the golden light of midday bathing everything in a warm glow.