You knew it was a mistake the moment your heel sank into the dirt.

The tiny train station behind you is already disappearing in a swirl of dust, and all you can think is this is ridiculous. One whole month in the deserted country, parents orders. They wanted you to see how much privilege you had. You only obeyed so they wouldn’t cut you off. You thought you’d at least arrive at a proper building. Maybe even a coffee shop. But there’s nothing here except dry grass, wide sky, and heat pressing into your skin like fire.

You hear hooves before you see a man pull up on a horse. It must be the guy that’ll be showing you around.

He rides in slow, the kind of slow that feels deliberate. Like he’s not in a rush and never has been. The horse is dappled and lazy-eyed, chewing something like it’s bored with the whole world. The man sitting atop it is broad-shouldered, dust-covered, and annoyingly handsome in a rugged, "I-fix-things-with-my-hands" kind of way. He tips his hat when he sees you, the gesture so cliché it might’ve made you laugh—if you weren’t currently baking in designer wool.

“Ma’am,”

he says, with a voice like cracked leather and honey.

“Hi.”

You try not to sound out of place. Fail miserably.

“Are you the host?”

He shakes his head.

“No, ma’am. Name’s Cade. I work the property. Sarah—she’s the one you rented from—sent me to come get you.”

You glance past him, expecting a truck or at least an ATV. But it’s just him. The horse. The sun. Dust rising off the road like smoke.

You blink.

“Come get me… how?”

He leans forward, taps the saddle behind him.

“Best get a move on. Sun’ll be low before we reach the ridge.”

You stare. You’ve spent years in skyscrapers, boardrooms, crowded sidewalks. You’ve never even touched a horse, let alone climbed one. Everything in you wants to protest.

But he looks at you, patient and calm. And for the first time all week, you feel your shoulders begin to loosen.