Two weeks later, June cornered me in the tack room. She was holding a riding crop, but not for the horses.

“You’ve been watching us,” she said, untying her flannel from her waist.

I sold the Audi. I bought a pickup truck. I learned to ride, to shoot, to fix a tractor with baling wire and spite.

I looked at Daisy, holding a foal in the barn. I looked at Savannah, skipping stones across the pond. I looked at June, laughing on a galloping horse, her hair a wildfire streak across the green hills.

“You taste like sunshine,” she murmured against my neck.

She stepped into my space. I could smell rain, hay, and something sweeter—honeysuckle. She put a calloused hand on my chest, right over my heart, which was hammering like a jackhammer.

We stayed in that pond until the fireflies came out. I felt like Adam in the Garden, and I had just bitten every apple on the tree. I thought I could keep them separate. I was a fool.

“You’re late, city boy,” she drawled, not even looking up. “And you’re lost. That’s a German car. It’ll last a week out here.”