Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
I do it because dressage is a partnership between horse and rider at the highest level of trust. No words are spoken. You’re not allowed to speak during a dressage test. No clicking, no whoas, no words of encouragement when your equine partner does it just right. The dressage horse is the only animal in the world that has learned to be fluent in a language where hands are syllables, and legs are words, and heels are sentences.
My mare's hooves stir dust that floats golden in the sunlight. My instructor, Madeline, nods approvingly from the center of the ring. "Beautiful extension, Savannah. Now collect her and prepare for the flying change."
I gather the reins, feeling Cassia's powerful muscles respond beneath me. This is the only honest conversation I have most days—between my body and hers, a language of pressure and release. No words needed. No lies possible.
The rhythm of her hooves against packed earth drowns out everything else until I spot him—Marcus—leaning against the black fence rail, arms crossed, watching. His pressed shirt looks ridiculous against the backdrop of working ranch buildings. His polished shoes already dusty.
"Let's take a break," Madeline suggests, noting my sudden tension.
I ignore her, asking Cassia for a flying change instead. Left to right, her legs switching mid-air with balletic precision. I want Marcus to see me controlling something this powerful, this beautiful. I want him to understand I'm not just a pretty face for his campaign posters.
"Savannah." His voice carries across the arena. "We need to talk."
Madeline looks between us, professional enough not to show curiosity. "Perhaps we should end early today?"
"That would be best," I say, patting Cassia's neck. "Thank you, Madeline."
I dismount in one fluid motion, my boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. Taking Cassia's reins, I lead her toward the barn without acknowledging Marcus. His footsteps follow behind me, crushing gravel.
"You've been avoiding me all day," he says, catching up.
"I've been busy."
"Too busy for your fiancé? After what happened last weekend?"
I keep walking, focusing on Cassia's dark mane turning copper in the sunlight. The barn door looms ahead, promising temporary sanctuary.
"Savannah." His hand catches my elbow. "My father is furious. Three donors pulled their support this morning."
I stop so abruptly that Cassia tosses her head in surprise. Turning to face Marcus, I drop my voice low enough that the stable hands can't hear.
"If you do not leave right now and stay away until I call you back, I will break things off publicly."
His eyes widen, then narrow. The political calculation happens instantly behind them—what it would cost him if I walked away. Millions of followers. The Ashby name. The land. The money.
"Is that a threat?" he asks, voice smooth as river stones.
I say nothing. Just stare at him with the emptiness I learned from my mother's camera lens. Sometimes silence is the only power we have.
He straightens his cuffs—a nervous habit I've cataloged along with all his other tells. "We'll talk when you're being reasonable."
I watch him walk away, his shoulders stiff under expensive fabric. Only when his car disappears down the drive do I exhale, pressing my forehead against Cassia's warm neck. She smells like sweat, and summer dust, and everything real.
Inside the barn's cool shadow, I untack her methodically. Each motion practiced until it feels like prayer. The leather saddle creaks as I lift it to the rack, and something in me creaks too—some weight I've been carrying too long.
I bathe Cassia until her coat gleams, speaking softly to her about nothing. The hose water runs cool over her legs, washing away arena dust. She stands patient, trusting, as I focus on her and only her. This fourteen-hundred-pound animal who could crush me, but chooses to be my ballet partner instead.
After grooming, I turn her out to graze in the east pasture. Watching her for longer than necessary. She lowers her head to the grass, peaceful and unburdened by expectations.
I don't make a conscious decision. My feet just carry me to the Range Rover, no need for keys, I leave them in glove box when I'm at home. I don't change out of my riding clothes—the white breeches, the tall boots still flecked with water from Cassia's bath. My hair is coming loose from its braid and I make no move to fix it.
The engine purrs to life, expensive and obedient. I back out too fast, gravel spittin’ under my tires. Cash's truck is by the main house. He'll know I've gone somewhere.
Let him wonder.
I drive without admitting where I'm going, even to myself. But my hands know. They turn the wheel toward the county road, away from town. Toward the creek bed that separates Ashby land from Kane land.
The road narrows, trees pressing closer on either side. My hands grip the wheel tighter. The diamond on my left hand catches the sunlight, throwing prisms across the dashboard. I should have taken it off. I should turn around. I should call Marcus and apologize.