Page 30 of Chains and Vows

"I can't," she says. "Tell me he did not." It takes her a moment to catch her breath, that's how hard she's laughin'.

"What do ya mean?"

"This baby of a horse right here? He gave you this baby to ride out and fix a well pump?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"This is a three-year-old, Legion. Last week she'd never even seen a saddle. I literally watched her bronc in the round pen a couple days ago."

"Oh," I laugh. "I should've known she was a girl."

Savannah smiles. "You stuck, did ya?"

I straighten my shoulders. "What? Like it's hard?"

Which is a joke, because I took many a fall off her ponies and horses as a teenager. Fucked up my shoulder once too. Hurt for months.

"You're gonna fit in just fine around here, Demon."

"Yeah," I tell her, pullin' her close for a kiss. "I am." My hands start doin' hands-y things. Reachin’ for her. Wantin' more.

But Savannah stops me, taking one of my hands into hers. She starts pulling me down the aisle of stalls.

"Where we goin’?” I ask.

She peeks over her shoulder, that coy look again. "You said you wanted a tour. And I've got something to show you."

Savannah leads me through the barn's back door and down a narrow dirt path, her hand warm in mine. The trail snakes through a thicket of cottonwoods, their leaves whisperin' in the breeze, and then the trees part like they're openin' a damn curtain.

I laugh. "What the hell is this?"

"What does it look like?”

“It looks like a goddamn pioneer wagon. Like it came straight off the Oregon Trail."

"You've got a good eye there," she quips back.

It's parked permanent-like in a small clearing, the wooden wheels sunk slightly into the earth like it rolled in from 1850 and decided to stay.

The canvas top is weather-worn but clean, pulled tight over curved supports, glowing soft in the fadin' light.

"It's a guest house, of sorts," Savannah says.

She walks to the back where there's a set of wooden steps that definitely weren't part of the original design. She climbs them and pulls on a door built into the wagon's rear.

Turnin’ back to me, she extends her hand, an invitation. "I thought you might like to see it."

I take it and follow her up.

Then she clicks on the lanterns and the whole wagon fills with an amber glow that makes her skin look like honey.

Inside is... not what I expected. The space is small but not cramped. The canvas curves overhead like a tent, but the floor is solid wood, worn smooth by years. There's a narrow bed built into one side, piled with quilts and pillows. Lanterns hang from hooks, and a small wood stove squats in one corner. Shelves line the walls, holdin' books and little wooden carvings.

It feels like a little secret.

"This was my playhouse when I was a kid," Savannah says, runnin' her fingers along a shelf. "It used to have this ridiculous velvet couch in pastel pink and a tiny tea table. I'd spend whole days out here, readin' books and playin' with my Breyer horses."

I picture a little Savannah in here, hidin' from Eleanor's camera, makin' up her own stories instead of livin' the one she was given.