Page 84 of Kane

“You sure, Luke?”

Luke shakes his head. “No. Can’t ride in sneakers, boy, you know that.” He finishes his eggs, one last piece of bacon, and then washes his hands. “I’ll rustle ‘em up.”

With that, he exits the kitchen for the stairs down to the cellar.

Anjalee looks to me, then drops her head. “I do not wish to cause any further pain.”

Lilly slides over a stool and reaches past me to touch Anjalee’s hand, the way she did mine. “You’re not. You’re causing healing, honey. I promise. It’s just sometimes…healing hurts a little, is all.”

Anjalee nods. “I will believe you.”

“Good, ’cause I know what I’m talking about, both as a licensed therapist with thirty years experience, and as Luke’s wife of five years.”

Anjalee finishes eating. “Thank you for the wonderful breakfast, Lilly. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated.” She slides off of her stool, pausing to lean into me; she ate the eggs and toast but tactfully ignored the bacon without calling attention to her dietary preference. “I am going to get dressed now.”

“I’ll be here, honey,” I tell her, palming the taut round firmness of her ass cheek as I kiss her.

I don’t miss the way her eyes fly wide at my touch, or how she leans into my kiss, wanting to deepen it, not caring that Lilly is here, watching.

My girl wants it.

I squeeze her butt. “Pants, darlin’. Then we ride horses.”

She grins at me, teasing. “I cannot go if you do not let go of my backside.”

“And I can’t let go if you don’t go, so where’s that leave us?”

Lilly snorts. “Oh, for goodness sake. You two are so adorable it’s ridiculous.”

Anjalee moves away then, and I watch her go, refusing to miss a single moment of that cute little ass shimmying in those panties, soaking in each little jiggle until she’s out of sight in the guest room.

Lilly sighs. “Young love.”

I smirk at her. “That kiss when Luke came down wasn’t any different.”

She blushes, shrugs. “Well, love is love, regardless of age.”

* * *

Not long after breakfast,I’m accepting the reins to Gutsy, the paint gelding I rode most frequently when I was a ranch hand here. He recognizes me, nuzzling my hands as I scratch his nose and ears, murmuring my hellos to him and then swinging into the saddle. For all the years it’s been since I’ve ridden, the moment my foot hits the stirrup, the years melt away.

Lilly is already mounted on a fine young mare, new to me, and Luke is holding the reins to his personal mount, Cocoa, an intact stallion who’ll only behave for Luke. Another young hand is, at that moment, walking Patsy over to us—Patsy is a bay and white mare, and she was old when I was here, and now she’s even older, but still in good shape, with great lines and an easy step. Mellow, a pleasure to ride, taking direction as well from knees as reins, Patsy has always been the go-to choice for a new rider.

Anjalee watches the hand approach, eager, excited, and nervous. The hand holds the reins to Anjalee, who takes them with a hesitant look at me.

“Hold the reins and get close,” I tell her, keeping Gutsy’s reins in one hand. “Rub her nose, talk to her. Tone matters more than the words, so don’t even have to talk to her in English. Just quiet and calm, let her smell you, let her get to know your feel.”

She glances at me. “My feel?”

I nod. “Horses are empathetic, means they can feel your emotions. You’re scared, they’ll pick up on it and be scared. You’re calm, they’ll be calm. Patsy here, she’s the sweetest horse there’s ever been. She’ll take great care of you. She’ll know you’re new, and unlike some other horses, she won’t try any shit with you.”

I watch as Anjalee acquaints herself with Patsy, rubbing her nose, her long strong neck, her ears. For her part, Patsy seems to like her, going so far as to nibble at Anjalee’s braid where it hangs over her shoulder.

“No, silly horse, you cannot eat my hair!”

I laugh. “She’s just saying hi. Means she likes you.” As I say that, Patsy gives Anjalee’s face a solid nudge, whickering, leaving a wet spot. “Yeah, she likes you. Now, put your left foot in the stirrup, grab the horn there at the front of the saddle, and haul yourself up. Throw your leg over like you’re swinging onto my bike.”

Anjalee sets a boot into the stirrup, and my stomach does a harsh flip, seeing those boots again. Della-Marie’s boots. They’re faded, because they were the boots she wore everywhere, all the time. They’re light brown lowers with glossy blue leather uppers, daisies stitched over the toe boxes. I notice Luke’s eyes on the boots, same as me, and I figure he’s thinking something along the same lines as me—namely, that it hurts in a beautiful kind of way, seeing those boots on Anjalee’s feet.