Page 89 of Promised to the Cowboy

“Both of them?”

“Open it into one larger space. Some of the horses I work with can’t handle being boxed in. Give them room to move away without feeling trapped.”

I look at the dividing boards. “That wall’s been there since before I was born.”

“Then it’s had a good run.”

I glance at Falcon. He stands near Chance’s shoulder with the lead rope hanging loose from one hand. Not holding her in place. Just keeping the rope from dragging where she might step on it.

He studies the partition. “Not load-bearing.”

Evie smiles. “See? Falcon agrees with me.”

Chance turns one ear toward Evie’s voice. She has been doing that more often. Listening before deciding whether the sound means danger.

Evie notices every time.

“Could put a second door on the outside wall,” she says, moving deeper into the stall. “Something wide enough that a horse can come and go without turning in the aisle.”

I frown. “You planning to let them wander the ranch?”

“A small turnout paddock. Right outside.” She gestures toward the wall. “Safe fencing. No sharp corners. Somewhere they can choose whether to be in or out.”

Choose. Everything with Evie comes back to that word. A horse chooses to approach. Chooses to trust. Chooses to stay.

She’s been here for two weeks, and I’ve already started measuring every room in terms of how she might use it. The old barn for her horses. The small bedroom for our daughter. The stretch of pasture beyond it where a patient old pony might carry a little girl with Evie’s hazel eyes and my bad habit of going quiet when she’s thinking.

I’m planning a future. That’s the thing I can’t get over. Me. Making plans like a man who believes he’ll still be here when they come due.

“Gabe?”

I look up.

Evie is watching me from the middle of the stall.

“What?”

“You disappeared.”

“I’m standing right here.”

“Physically.”

Falcon looks away, granting us privacy while remaining six feet from both of us.

Evie comes closer. “What were you thinking about?”

“The wall.”

“Liar.”

I reach for her when she stops in front of me, settling my hands at her waist. The curve beneath her shirt presses lightly against me. Our daughter. Still difficult to think without my chest opening too wide.

“I was thinking you’ll need storage,” I say.

“For tack?”

“For whatever goes in a nursery.”