The air was thick with heat and dust, that kind of Southern warmth that clung to the skin and slowed the world to a crawl. The Carter ranch sat a few miles outside of town—modest land, weathered fences, and a barn that smelled of hay, saddle oil, and sunlight on old wood.

Samuel Carter was sixteen, lean and sharp-eyed, his hair the color of summer wheat. The second son of a man who’d worn a gray officer’s coat before Texas ever joined the Confederacy he’d been raised on discipline, honor, and the quiet expectation of duty. His father’s voice still echoed in his mind whenever he slouched: “Stand tall, boy. A man earns respect by the way he carries himself.”

His mother, by contrast, had a softer kind of strength. She ran the family’s horse trading business with a clear head and an open heart, keeping the books, the animals, and her husband in order all at once. From her, Jasper inherited patience—the gift of calm hands and a steady tone when dealing with both horses and people, but she was taken by sickness too soon.

He preferred the company of the former. Horses never lied.

That afternoon, the air shimmered with heat as Jasper moved through the barn, brushing down a restless colt. The rhythm soothed him. He could feel the animal’s unease like a hum beneath his skin—anticipation, hunger, a flicker of fear. He didn’t have a name for it then, but even as a boy, Samuel felt things stronger than most. He could read moods in silence, feel when his father’s temper was rising before a word was spoken, or when his mother was smiling behind him even without looking up.

Outside, the faint whistle of a train carried on the wind. Houston was changing—new trade routes, new money, talk of politics and pride. The men in town spoke with fire in their voices, arguing about states’ rights and honor and lines on maps. Samuel didn’t understand all of it yet, but he could feel it—the way the air itself seemed to tighten around those words. Something was coming.

“Samuel!” His father’s voice cut through the hum of flies and summer. “There’s a young lady here lookin’ for a horse. Go on and help her. Now!"

He wiped his hands on his trousers, pushed his hair back, and stepped into the light.

The girl waiting by the gate was maybe a year younger than him—barefoot, bonnet in hand, her dress plain but clean. Her eyes followed him with the kind of confidence you only saw in people who worked hard for everything they had.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” Samuel said, with a polite nod that made his mother proud every time. “What are you lookin’ for?”

As they walked down the row of stalls, Samuel found himself talking more than usual—about the horses, about the ranch, about not much at all. She listened like it mattered, like she saw more in him than just a boy covered in dust and hay.

He didn’t have the words for it then—for that pull between beings, the way emotions moved like currents if you paid close enough attention. He only knew that sometimes he just knew.

As the sun dropped low over the fields and his mother called them in for supper, Samuel lingered for a moment in the doorway of the barn. He watched the girl ride off down the dirt road, dust curling up behind her, and felt the faint tug of something deep and inevitable.

He didn’t know it yet, but this was the last summer of peace he’d ever have. Soon the men in town would start talking louder, the trains would carry soldiers instead of traders, and the boy who could calm horses with a touch would learn how to kill men with the same steady hands.