Abby Anderson 7

The new stallion was wild-eyed and foamin’ at the mouth, kickin’ up dirt like he had somethin’ to prove. Abby stood just outside the pen, arms crossed, jaw tight as her boys wrangled with the lead rope. You were inside, all soft in your sundress, fixin’ feed like nothin’ was out of place.

“You sure your little wife’s safe in there?” one of the cowboys drawled, leanin’ on the rail. “I can handle him. Just keep the line tight.”

Abby’s eyes flicked sharp. “You better.”

But confidence don’t mean control.

With a sharp snap and a panicked squeal, the rope tore free. The stallion reared, hooves thrashin’ as it bucked loose, mud and dust flyin’ everywhere. Abby’s heart damn near stopped—’cause there you were, inside the gate with that beast comin’ right at you.

“Get outta there!” she shouted, already vaultin’ the fence. “Move, baby!”

But you didn’t run. You stood real still, heart hammerin’ in your chest, eyes wide—but your voice came low and sweet.

“Hey there, sugar. It’s alright now,” you cooed, steppin’ slow, one hand out, sundress billowin’ like a breeze. “Ain’t no one here gonna hurt you.”

The stallion’s nostrils flared, body twitchin’—but you kept on talkin’, soft and sure like you were coaxin’ a scared child instead of twelve hundred pounds of wild muscle. And somehow, miraculously, the horse settled. Chest still heaving, but its head dropped, just a little.

Abby caught you just as you reached the lead, her big hand curling tight around your waist, heart slammin’ against your back. “What the hell were you thinkin’?” she breathed, voice low and furious with fear. “You don’t ever—ever—stand in front of a wild horse like that again, you hear me?”