Page 30 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

I did as he’d shown me, holding my hand flat.

Pebbles was even gentler with me, and for a moment it was just the three of us—woman, man, horse—in perfect understanding.

I stroked her neck, amazed by the power and grace just under the surface.

I’d always loved horses, but this was different. This was real.

“She’s beautiful,” I said, not taking my eyes off the animal.

Ford nodded. “She’s already the best part of this place. Gets me outside, gives me something to care for.”

I looked at him, really looked, and saw the kid I’d heard stories about—the one who ran wild with his friends and dreamed of bigger things, but never forgot the rhythm of home.

Noah was busy patting Pebbles’ leg, squealing with every brush of her mane against his arm when she’d bend her head down to him. “She’s so soft!” he marveled, then ran back and forth along the fence, showing off for her.

Ford watched Noah, his eyes full of something I couldn’t quite name—longing, maybe, or hope. Or just the bone-deep satisfaction of seeing a kid happy.

I wanted to say something about it, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I leaned against the fence, shoulder to shoulder with Ford, and let the silence fill in the blanks.

We stayed like that until the last light faded, and the horse wandered off to graze. Noah started building a fort out of rocks and sticks, and for the first time in years, I didn’t care about the time or the mess or what came next.

I just let it be.

When Ford finally spoke, his voice was so low I almost missed it. “You ever think about what you’d do if you had all this space?”

I looked out at the sweep of pasture, the shadowed barn, the string of lights along the patio. “I’d let my kid run wild, and I’d probably learn how to ride a horse.”

He grinned. “Good answer.”

Back on the patio, Ford ducked inside to start dinner, leaving the glass door wide open to let in the breeze. I lingered by the railing, watching my son zigzag across the yard in the last of the daylight, his whole world expanded to a scale I’d nearly forgotten existed.

I gripped the wrought iron, the cool smoothness grounding me, and breathed deep.

I felt a swelling joy at the sight of Noah running wild, followed quickly by an ache—one that came from knowing how small our world usually was.

Our apartment was clean and safe, but it was also just three rooms and a shared hallway that always smelled like burned popcorn or chemical disinfectant.

Out here, Noah was a rocket ship, a cowboy, a king. He could be anything.

A wave of guilt caught me off guard. Was it selfish to want more than what we had? To want to keep this version of Noah, the one with grass stains and wind in his hair?

I closed my eyes and let out a shaky sigh.

A sound of footsteps behind me snapped me back. Ford poked his head out. “He’s a machine, isn’t he?”

“He’s something,” I said, smiling.

“You want to come in and keep me company? Otherwise, I’m going to burn the garlic bread and ruin my one chance at looking competent.”

I laughed, and it felt good—easy, even. “Come on, Noah, let’s wash up!” I called, and he came running.

The kitchen was chaos, but no different than I was used to. The island was covered with dishes and empty pasta boxes, the stove top already dotted with sauce splatters. Ford had swapped his flannel for a t-shirt, revealing his full sleeves of tattoos that I tried not to stare at.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said. “Didn’t plan ahead. I can order a pizza if this is a disaster.”

“Oh no, we love spaghetti,” I said. “You’re already a hero.”

He looked relieved, then fished out a colander from a lower cabinet. “You want to set the table? Plates are in that cupboard. Flatware is . . . somewhere.”

We moved around each other with a weird, immediate choreography, like we’d been doing this for longer than a day.

I got out plates (all mismatched, one with a faded cartoon cow on the rim), poured a fresh glass of wine, and wiped off a spot on the table where some sawdust had migrated from the construction.

Ford worked the stove, stirring with one hand, checking his phone for a recipe with the other.

After lingering on the patio, Noah burst in, dirt-streaked and pink-cheeked, and went straight for the kitchen sink. He washed his hands for once without being reminded again, then plopped into a chair and started swinging his legs.

“Ready for spaghetti, Freddy?” Ford called over his shoulder.

“Yeah!” Noah shouted. “I’m hungry.”

Ford drained the pasta, then spooned sauce over three enormous bowls. He carried them to the table, then set out a basket of garlic bread that was more butter than bread. He sat, gave me a sheepish smile, and waited.

I twirled a bite of spaghetti, took a bite, and tried not to make a face at how absurdly good it was. “This is amazing,” I said, honestly shocked.

He looked pleased, but also shy. “Not fancy, but this marinara sauce is one of like, three things I’ve got memorized. I probably eat this twice a week.”

“It might be the best sauce I’ve ever had. We just use the jarred stuff,” I said, and Ford laughed, cheeks turning pink.

Noah was already halfway through his bowl, sauce everywhere, humming a silly little song under his breath.

The kitchen was warm, the overhead lights cozy and yellow, the world outside turning black. There was a softness here—a sense that maybe it was possible to have something simple and good, even if it wasn’t what you planned for.

Ford refilled our wine, then sat back and just watched us eat. I caught him looking more than once—at me, at Noah, at the mess and noise and total lack of rules.

“Thanks for coming over,” he said, voice almost too soft to hear.

“Thanks for inviting us,” I said, just as quiet.

He held my gaze, steady and a little fierce, like he was daring me to look away. I didn’t.

After dinner, we cleaned up together. I washed, Ford dried, Noah stacked the forks in a wonky tower and declared himself “king of forks.” Ford offered dessert (store bought cookies, but only because he’d run out of time), and Noah devoured two before running out of energy and collapsing in my lap.

I tucked Noah’s hair behind his ear and felt the shape of his small, safe weight in my arms. It was the same as always, but different—like I’d found a version of the world where we didn’t have to fight for every scrap of happiness.

“I know this wasn’t anything fancy, but I wanted you to know you’re always welcome here.”

I looked at him, the light, the room, the sleeping boy in my lap. “This was wonderful. Perfect, really,” I said, and I meant it.

“Good. Because I’m just getting started.”