“My horses are at the livery,” he said. “We’ve got a ride.”
As they moved through the street, Clara felt eyes on her like hot nails. Women looked away quickly, as if pity might be contagious. Men watched with the same curiosity they gave a new tool. The collar was a flag. It told a story without words, and people believed the flag more than the face beneath it.
Luke walked beside her, not in front like an owner, not behind like a threat, simply beside.
At the livery, two horses waited. A sturdy chestnut gelding and a smaller bay mare. Luke nodded at the mare. “You can ride her,” he said.
Clara hesitated. Ownership had always come with orders, not offers.
“Up you go,” Luke added, not impatient, just practical. He helped her mount with hands that were impersonal and efficient, the way you might assist someone up onto a wagon. Then he swung onto his own horse.
They rode out of Sagebrush Crossing toward a horizon that looked too wide to be real. Wyoming spread around them in rolling sage and wild grass, distant mountains standing like quiet witnesses. The sky felt enormous, almost rude in its openness.
Clara’s mind, trained to look for corners and locks, didn’t know what to do with so much space.
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