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Bolt should have been mad, should have continued stomping and snuffling. Instead, he shoved his head over the door, turning it sideways into Adam’s cupped palm.

Tears burst to Adam’s eyes. It’d been more than a year, but his boy remembered him. Why wasn’t he mad at him? Adam had been mad at his father for leaving them, and it hadn’t even been his fault. The road had given away without warning. Just hours ago, Adam had been mad at Thomas… and himself.

But here was Bolt, no understanding of why Adam had not seen him, and yet, he accepted him — no questions.

“Wanna ride, baby?”

Bolt stamped his hooves excitedly, so Adam hurried to the tack room. He only needed one item.

* * *

To Clara Mae’s and two of her ranch hands’ utter shock — based on their frightened expressions — Adam used only a lead rope to escort Bolt to the edge of the barn doors, then hopped onto his back, held onto the mane for dear life, and then squeezed his mustang’s sides, feeling ribs where he’d never felt them before.

Bolt took off.

Adam didn’t pretend he possessed any control over Bolt’s actions — because he didn’t.

Without a bridle, the powerful mustang was in charge.

But Adam trusted Bolt. Now that he knew Clara Mae had never been able to break Storm-Born Prince’s spirit, he imagined those fractured top rails on the fence could have been caused by his spirited horse.

“Are you mad, boy?” Clara Mae shouted from behind him.

Right now, Adam was anything but mad. He leaned forward, lifting his rear off Bolt’s back.

Cold air buffeted his cheeks, stung his eyes, but he felt exhilarated.

Yes, it was still the worst day of his life.

But this moment… here with Bolt… was pure medicine.

So many people wanted to get high , not knowing that this , doing what you love, not dope , was the ultimate rush.

Bolt charged toward one of the broken fences, thankfully missing any squirrel holes. He must have slipped away every chance he got.

As the mustang closed in on the fence, Adam readied himself. After all, this was the ultimate test.

Adam leaned farther forward, tightening his hold on the dark mane. “I know you want to, but not today, okay? If you want to ride again, you have to let me win.”

The fence loomed closer and closer. “Whoa, boy!”

Bolt slowed his sprint, but still galloped.

Adam tugged on the dark mane. “Whoa, boy!”

The fence was less than twenty yards away, and still he barreled forward, undeterred.

Adam yanked on only the left side of his mane. “Bolt!”

Bolt pulled his head slightly forward, but Adam returned the mustang’s defiance with another tug. “Not today, Bolt. Barn!” he said more forcibly.

Adam didn’t want to go into the woods, but Bolt had taken him for an off-ranch ride more times than he could count.

The first time he’d managed to stay on Bolt, the loving but wild mustang had jumped the fence and darted beneath the lowest branch.

Adam had been knocked off and out cold, landing flat on his back.

His father had been furious, threatening to put Bolt down, but Adam had begged — promising it would never happen again.

And it hadn’t. Adam had learned to duck and stay low.

Now, he gripped Bolt’s mane tight, bracing for a jump, praying there wouldn’t be one, and leaned his whole body into the pull.

At the last second, with only a few yards between Adam and the dangerous woods beyond the fence, Bolt followed Adam’s direction, turning so fast that clumps of mud sprayed the fence. His hooves pounded the moist ground as he moved into a full gallop again, sprinting along the length of the fence.

“You are a champion, Bolt!” Adam patted the side of his horse’s neck. “Never forget, you are Storm-Born Prince!”

The next turn was easy. Bolt had proven again that he was in charge, and Adam showed his spirited horse that he was okay with that.

Adam held on as Bolt led the way back to the barn.

As soon as they hit the dirt road, Adam felt Bolt’s muscles tighten.

“Whoa, boy… You know my one rule: never run to the barn. You know better. Let’s give our onlookers a show, okay? How ’bout prancing for these commoners!”

Adam held his head high as he loosened his grip, patting the side of Bolt’s neck.

Standing beside the ring, Clara Mae lifted her chin, arms crossed, acting unimpressed — but Adam caught the slight lift of her lips. She knew his secret — he was sure of it. But somehow, he was even more certain she’d take it to her grave if he asked.

The ranch hands’ expressions ranged from irritated to indifferent.

The grumpy one looked maybe in his forties, with a receding hairline and a long salt-and-pepper beard.

Next to him, a guy in his twenties — Native, probably Dena’ina or maybe Inuit — leaned back against the ring rail, nodding slightly.

On the other side of the ring, next to the dirt parking lot reserved for guests — if he remembered correctly from the last time he’d been there — a young woman hopped onto the lower railing.

She yanked off her hat with one hand, then shielded her eyes with the other like a sun visor, her gaze fixed on him.

As Adam rode closer, her features sharpened into focus — dark brows, olive skin, long dark-blond hair, braided down both sides of her head into two long braids.

Adam only knew one girl who wore her hair like that, and that girl knew his past.

The moment their eyes met, his stomach roiled — was that the third time today he felt like he might puke? There was no mistaking the fire in her glare. Yeah, she’d seen him. And she most definitely recognized him.

And she’s … angry , he realized. She’s definitely angry .

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Lala.