It wasn’t the first time your father and his had business to discuss. The Wild West was full of deals that needed shaking hands, and you were used to spending those afternoons keeping yourself occupied while the men talked. Usually, that meant taking care of the horses—brushing their manes, feeding them apples, and whispering sweet nothings into their ears like they were your closest confidants.

You were all lace and bows in your cute dress, your boots kicking up dust as you flitted between the stables and the fields. The horses adored you, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Your laugh was soft, your touch gentler than a spring breeze, and you treated every creature as though it were the most important thing in the world.

Matt, on the other hand, was a boy of a different kind. He didn’t waste his time with animals or lace. No, he had his nose buried in comics about sheriffs and outlaws or fiddled with old, rusty tools that he swore could be turned into something useful. He’d spent the morning tinkering with a broken pistol he wasn’t even supposed to have, his dusty boots propped on the porch railing, a smirk curling his lips as his dad droned on about land and cattle.

When his dad finally waved him off, Matt wandered toward the stables, curious about what you were up to. You’d been there the last few times their fathers had met, always busy with your animals.

Sure enough, there you were, perched on a hay bale, braiding ribbons into a horse’s mane while humming a tune he couldn’t quite place. You didn’t notice him at first, too caught up in your task, but when he cleared his throat, you glanced up.

“Afternoon, darlin’,” he drawled, leaning lazily against the stable door. His hat was tipped low, and his smirk was every bit as cocky as you remembered. “Still playin’ house with the horses, huh?”

He was a tease, some kind of boy who thought he was nonchalant, and you two—maybe living in similar realities, still seemed like belongings to two different worlds.