Outside, the evening sky burned orange across the wide Wyoming hills. The air felt cooler. Cleaner.
A wagon waited near the fence.
The cowboy climbed onto the bench, gathered the reins. He didn’t look back.
“You coming?” he asked.
The question — not command, not demand — nearly undid her.
She climbed up beside him.
The wagon creaked forward.
Behind them, the barn shrank against the horizon.
They rode in near silence. Hooves thudded steady against hard earth. Somewhere distant, thunder rolled over the mountains.
Allora flinched.
The cowboy slowed the team without comment.
After a while, he spoke. “You can sleep soon. There’s a cabin ahead.”
His voice was low, even. No edge. No expectation tucked inside it.
“What’s your name?” she asked finally, staring ahead.
“Cole Jarrett.”
“I’m Allora.”
“Good name.”
That was it. No teasing. No mocking.
Just good.
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