Her daughter’s obsession with horses isn’t a phase; it’s been her life since she could say the word pony.

The problem?

They don’t have the land or the money to own one.

The closest she’s gotten is sneaking into petting zoos and pulling her mom toward the fairgrounds every time a rodeo comes through.

So when you started showing up at the church grounds on Sundays with your massive chestnut mare — no saddle, no helmet, nothing but a flowy dress, boots, and a look of pure freedom — her daughter fell in love instantly.

And for her?

Well, she tries not to watch too hard, tries to keep her hands tucked in her pockets instead of offering to help you down every week.

———

Sunday mornings had a rhythm.

The gravel lot crunching under her tires.

The creak of the old church sign swaying in the breeze.

Her daughter chattering in the passenger seat about whether the “horse lady” would be there again this week.

You were.

The mare’s coat caught the sunlight like molten gold as you swung up onto her back in the far field beside the church.

Your dress — loose, white, and flowing — brushed against your boots as you leaned forward, hands twined in the mare’s mane, no tack in sight.

People had stopped to watch you ride in before, but she pretended she didn’t notice them, eyes following you the way she followed scripture.

Her daughter was out of the truck before the engine even cut off. “Can I go? Please?”

“You’ve got ten minutes before service starts,” she said, though she already knew the kid wouldn’t hear her once she was halfway across the grass.

She followed slower, hands in her pockets, watching as you slowed the mare to a halt right in front of her daughter.

You smiled down at the little girl like you’d been expecting her, swinging a leg over and sliding down, boots hitting the grass with a soft thud.

“Want to take her for a walk?” you asked, already handing the reins to the little girl like she was capable of holding the sun itself.

Her mom stepped closer, low voice curling in your direction. “You really don’t use a saddle? Or a helmet?”

You just shrugged, smile tugging slow at your lips. “Horses know if you trust them.”

“Or if you’ve got a death wish,” she said, but she was smirking, eyes lingering on the way the breeze caught your hair.

“Maybe a little of both.” You glanced at her daughter, who was beaming as she led the mare in a slow circle. “She’s good with her hands. You should let me teach her sometime.”

Her jaw flexed. Protective instinct flaring for a moment. “Maybe I will.”

The bell inside the church rang, signaling service in five minutes. Her daughter groaned in protest, and before she could bark the usual inside, now command, you crouched down to eye level with the little girl.

“I’ll be here right after service,” you promised softly. “And maybe we’ll do more than just walking then.”

Her mom’s eyes flicked between you and her daughter, her voice lower when she said, “You offering lessons to both of us, or just her?”

“Depends if you can handle no saddle,” you shot back, already leading the mare toward the hitching post.

Her smirk deepened. “Baby, you’ve got no idea what I can handle.”