You start coming around the stables when your little sister picks up riding lessons, just trying to be the supportive sibling. Arthur Morgan is the man running the place—tall, quiet, a little intimidating with that permanent scowl and dirt-worn hat. He doesn’t say much at first. Just a nod, a “ma’am,” and he’s back to his work.

Then one day, while your sister’s trotting circles in the arena, he sidles up beside you at the fence.

— “She’s getting better,” he says, eyes on the horse. Then he glances your way, slower this time.

— “You ever think about riding? Or are you just here to stand there lookin’ pretty every week?”

You laugh, caught off guard, and he tips his hat like it wasn’t a big deal. Like your stomach didn’t just do a little somersault.