Page 11 of Shadows of Obsession

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and looked up at him, unable to keep the smile from my face despite the tears. "Thank you—for taking care of him. For all of this."

Connor just nodded, his own eyes suspiciously bright. Then his expression shifted into something mischievous. "Do you want to try putting a saddle on him?"

I blinked. "What?"

"A saddle," Connor repeated, smirking now. "Think you can still ride?"

The question brought a rush of excitement mixed with doubt. It had been months. I'd been away from horses, from this life, for so long. But looking at Choco, feeling that familiar connection humming between us... a confident feeling surged up.

"Do you have an English saddle here?" I asked, curiosity winning out over doubt.

Connor's smirk widened into a full grin, a glint of mischief lighting his eyes. "Oh, we've got more than just an English saddle. I have all of it."

My stomach dropped as understanding hit me. "All of it?"

The mischief faded from his face, replaced by something softer, more serious. "Everything," he said quietly.

Everything. Sam's saddles, her bridles, her carefully organized tack room that she'd spent years curating. All of it, here.

"Thank you," I whispered again, the words feeling inadequate for the magnitude of what he'd done, what he'd preserved.

Connor only nodded and turned back toward the side-by-side. "Come on. Let's get you set up."

As we drove back toward the old barn, Choco and his companions trailed behind us, drawn by curiosity, or maybe just by the novelty of the vehicle. Every few seconds, I glanced back to make sure Choco was still there, still following. I felt a need to keep checking, as if I worried that if I looked away too long, he might disappear.

He's real. This is real.

Stepping into the older barn was like stepping back in time. The scent of hay and leather hit me immediately, mingling with the faint aroma of horse and sawdust. It wasn't as pristine as Connor's main barn, but it had character. History.

Denny emerged from one of the stalls, wiping his hands on his jeans. He paused when he saw us, stepping into the aisle.

"Connor, I need to speak with you about that sale earlier," he began, his voice carrying a note of urgency.

Connor nodded but turned to me first. "Denny, this is Anna Franklin."

I extended my hand, and Denny took it. His grip was firm, his palm calloused from years of ranch work. "It's a pleasure to meet you," I said, and I meant it.

Denny looked slightly embarrassed as he returned the handshake. "I'm sorry about earlier," he said. "Yesterday, I mean. In the barn. I didn't know—"

"It's fine," I cut him off gently. "Really. You were just doing your job."

He nodded, looking relieved, then turned his attention back to Connor. They headed toward the office, leaving me standing in the aisle.

"The tack room's through there," Connor called over his shoulder, gesturing to a door on the left. "Fair warning, it's a mess. We just unloaded everything from the trailer and haven't organized it yet. Take your time. I'll be in the office if you need anything."

I watched them disappear, then turned toward the tack room. My hand hesitated on the doorknob.

Sam's things are in there.

I took a breath and pushed the door open.

The room was cluttered. Totes stacked haphazardly against the walls, saddle racks empty and waiting. Connor had opened a window, and fresh air drifted through the space, chasing away the stale, closed-up smell. A small fan whirred quietly in the corner.

And there, on each tote, pieces of duct tape marked in black Sharpie: "Jasper – bridles," "Molly – leg wraps," "Misc. grooming supplies."

My throat tightened. This was Sam's handwriting. Her system. Her meticulous organization that she always insisted on because "a messy tack room is a messy mind, Anna."

My eyes closed briefly, a fresh wave of grief for Sam washing over me.