Giselle’s brown eyes flutter open, a small smile on her face as she stretches beneath the thin quilt. She loves this part—the quiet darkness before dawn, when the ranch still sleeps and the only sound is the occasional shuffle of hooves outside her window. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cool hardwood floor. The chill doesn’t bother her; she’s used to it.
“Damn, you’re one sexy woman,” Giselle murmurs to herself, twisting slightly to admire the swell of her firm breasts and curve of her waist in the mirror. The morning air is crisp against her bare skin as she rolls her shoulders back, muscles flexing under taut, sun-warmed flesh. She reaches overhead, fingers interlacing as she arches her spine—a slow, satisfying crack running up her vertebrae. The mirror reflects every inch of her: the lean definition of her stomach, the swell of her hips where her jeans will sit snug, the faint dusting of freckles across her collarbones from summers spent working under an unforgiving sky.
Giselle’s fingers trace the familiar contours of her leather belt before pulling it snug around her waist, the bronze buckle—engraved with a rearing stallion—clicking into place with practiced ease. She tugs the hem of her button-down shirt down just enough to tease her toned stomach before rolling the sleeves up past her elbows, exposing forearms dusted with faint golden hairs that catch the dim light. The fabric strains slightly over her breasts as she fastens the last button, leaving just enough undone to hint at the swell of cleavage beneath.
Giselle reaches for the worn leather jacket hanging on the bedpost, her fingers tracing the familiar scars and scuffs along the sleeves—each mark a story from summers spent breaking horses and winters hauling feed through icy pastures. She shrugs into it with a fluid motion, the weight settling comfortably across her shoulders like a second skin. The jacket smells of saddle soap and woodsmoke, clinging stubbornly to the leather no matter how many times she airs it out.
Giselle’s fingers brush against the brim of her cowboy hat, the worn felt smooth under her touch as she lifts it from the bedpost with a practiced flick of her wrist. She settles it low over her forehead—just enough to cast a shadow over her eyes without obscuring the determined set of her jaw. The floorboards creak under her bare feet as she pads toward the doorway, her steps light but purposeful, like a cat stalking through tall grass.
The screen door slaps shut behind her with a familiar wooden groan as Giselle steps onto the porch, her boots—left waiting by the step—still warm from yesterday’s dust. Flint’s already there, his back to her as he hefts a bale of hay onto the flatbed with a grunt, his shoulders straining against the thin cotton of his shirt. Her father’s voice carries from the other side of the carriage, gruff and steady as he tightens the harness on the draft horses. “Are we ready?” Flint tosses over his shoulder, but there’s no bite to it—just the easy rhythm of years working side by side.
Giselle’s breath caught as she remembered—today was the monthly supply run into town. The one trip one of her brothers and her father always made without her, claiming it was “no place for a girl.” She’d heard the stories: the dust-choked streets, the clatter of wagons, the barkeep at the Silver Spur who poured whiskey like it was water. Her fingers tightened around the porch railing, knuckles whitening.
“Hey—can I come this time?” Giselle’s voice cut through the morning quiet, sharper than she intended. Flint froze mid-motion, hay bale suspended in his arms, while her father’s grizzled face turned slowly from the harness he was adjusting. The question hung there, raw as a fresh branding iron.
The silence stretched a heartbeat too long, thick as molasses in winter. Flint lowered the hay bale slowly, his calloused hands flexing around the twine like he was weighing his next words. Their father—thick-shouldered and sun-leathered—just stared at her, his eyes narrowed beneath the shadow of his own battered hat. Giselle held her breath, willing her pulse to steady, but it hammered against her ribs like a spooked colt kicking at stall doors.
“Sorry my darling girl, but not this time.” Her father’s voice was softer than she expected, but the words still landed like a lash. Giselle felt her jaw tighten, her teeth pressing together until her molars ached. The old man turned back to the harness without another glance, as if the matter were settled—as if she were still ten years old, begging to ride fence lines with her brothers instead of stirring pots in the kitchen.
The wagon wheels groaned against the hard-packed dirt as the sun crept over the horizon, painting the eastern sky in streaks of burnt orange and dusty pink. Giselle stood on the porch, arms crossed tight over her chest, watching the flatbed lurch forward with her father at the reins and Flint perched on the edge like some damn statue—both of them refusing to so much as glance back at her. Dust curled up from the horses’ hooves, clinging to the hem of her jeans as she kicked at a loose board with her boot. The screen door slapped shut again behind her, but she didn’t turn around.
“Hey, don’t worry, he just wants to keep you safe. There’s a lot of bad out there.” The voice was warm, familiar, carrying the scent of cinnamon and fresh-baked bread as Giselle’s mother leaned against the porch railing beside her. The woman’s hands—roughened from years of kneading dough and mending fences—brushed a loose strand of hair behind Giselle’s ear with a gentleness that belied their strength. “Town’s no place for a girl alone,” she murmured, but the words tasted stale, rehearsed, like lines from a script they’d both heard too many times before.
“I know but, I wish he’d stop treating me like a child.” Giselle pouted, kicking at the porch railing hard enough to send a splinter of wood skittering into the dirt below. Her mother’s sigh was softer than the morning breeze, but it still made Giselle’s stomach twist. She hated that sound—the one that meant patience was wearing thin, that this conversation had happened before, would happen again, and nothing would change. “I can rope a steer better than Flint on his best day,” Giselle muttered, fingers tightening around the leather strap of her hat. “I’ve mended fences in hailstorms, dragged calves out of mud holes. What more do I have to do?”
Giselle’s mother reached out, her work-worn fingers catching her daughter’s chin with surprising firmness. “It’s not about what you can do, girl. It’s about what they think you can’t.” Her dark eyes flicked toward the vanishing dust cloud where the wagon had disappeared. “Your father…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “Men see danger where they don’t understand control. And you—well, you’re a storm they can’t lasso.”
Giselle exhaled sharply through her nose, the anger in her shoulders softening just a fraction as her mother’s fingers lingered on her chin. It was infuriating, how she could unravel her frustration with nothing but a touch and those quiet, knowing words—words that settled like warm honey over the raw edges of Giselle’s pride. “A storm they can’t lasso,” she repeated under her breath, rolling the phrase over her tongue. It didn’t taste like surrender. It tasted like a challenge.
Giselle didn’t bother with the porch steps—she vaulted over the railing instead, boots hitting the dirt with a thud that sent a puff of dust curling around her ankles. The stable loomed ahead, its weathered boards creaking in the morning breeze like an old man’s joints. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of hay and horse sweat, the occasional snort or stamp of a hoof echoing in the dim light.
Giselle’s fingers curled around the worn leather of Bullet’s bridle, the familiar grooves of the reins pressing into her palm as she stepped into his stall. The gelding snorted softly, his dark eyes rolling toward her with recognition—and what might have been amusement. “Don’t give me that look,” she muttered, hauling the heavy saddle onto his back with a grunt. The leather creaked as it settled between his shoulder blades, still warm from yesterday’s ride. Bullet sidestepped once, just enough to make her adjust her grip, but she knew his games by now—knew the way he’d test her before resigning himself to the day’s work.
Bullet flicked his head, grunting at her softly through flared nostrils—the equine equivalent of an eye roll. His ears twitched backward just enough to let her know he wasn’t thrilled about the early start, but not so far as to suggest outright rebellion. Yet. Giselle smirked, running a hand down the gelding’s sleek neck. “Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she murmured, her fingers catching a burr tangled in his mane. She worked it free with a quick twist, tossing it into the straw at their feet. Bullet exhaled loudly, his breath warm against her forearm as she tightened the girth strap.
Bullet grunted again. “Hey, don’t take that tone with me,” Giselle shot back, narrowing her eyes at Bullet as the gelding pinned his ears flat against his skull. He stomped one hoof hard enough to send a clod of dirt skittering against the stall wall—a deliberate challenge if she’d ever seen one. She yanked the girth strap tighter in response, earning a disgruntled snort. “Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” she muttered, leaning into his shoulder as he tried to sidestep again. “Act all pissy so I’ll scratch your withers like some damn princess.” Bullet huffed, but when her fingers found that itchy spot behind his saddle pad, his resistance melted into a grudging stillness.
Giselle swung onto Bullet’s back without hesitation, her thighs clamping tight against the saddle as the gelding surged forward before she’d even settled fully. The stable doors blurred past in a streak of weathered wood and morning light, the sudden burst of speed pressing her back against the cantle for one breathless second before she leaned into it. Dust kicked up behind them in a roiling cloud, the drum of Bullet’s hooves against hard-packed earth echoing like gunshots across the empty yard.
Giselle leaned low over Bullet’s neck as they tore across the western pasture, the wind whipping strands of hair free from her braid. The gelding’s hooves pounded a furious rhythm against the earth, matching the tempo of her own heartbeat—fast and reckless and alive. The oak loomed ahead, its gnarled branches stretching like skeletal fingers against the dawn sky. It was the kind of tree that had seen generations of her family pass beneath its shade, its roots dug deep into secrets she wasn’t supposed to know.
Bullet skidded to a stop beneath the oak’s sprawling branches, his hooves digging furrows into the damp earth as Giselle swung down with the fluid grace of someone who’d done it a thousand times before. She reached into the saddlebag, her fingers brushing against cool leather before closing around the worn spine of her book—*The Lawless Frontier*, its pages dog-eared from being stuffed into coat pockets and read by lantern light when the ranch slept. The gelding snorted, nudging her shoulder with his velvety muzzle as if to remind her he existed. “Patience,” she chided, rubbing his forehead before dropping cross-legged into the hollow between the tree’s roots, where the bark formed a natural cradle against her back.
The oak’s gnarled branches sprawled overhead like a living canopy, their leaves filtering the morning sun into dappled patterns that danced across Giselle’s leather jacket. She tilted her head back, letting the shade lick at her throat where the shirt buttons gaped open—a small mercy against the heat that would soon turn the prairie into a skillet. Bullet’s shadow fell across the book in her lap as he lipped at a clump of grass nearby, his tail flicking lazily at a persistent fly.
The sound sliced through the quiet like a whip crack—two sets of hooves hitting the hard earth in uneven rhythm, too fast for a working gait, too purposeful for wandering cattle. Giselle’s fingers froze on the page, her head snapping up as Bullet’s ears pricked forward, his nostrils flaring. Dust rose in a thin plume over the ridge, backlit by the climbing sun, and her pulse kicked hard against her ribs. No one should be cutting across thr pasture. No one sane, anyway.
It was Beau and Jai—Giselle would recognize the lopsided way they rode anywhere, Jai listing to the left like a half-sprung hinge, Beau sitting ramrod straight even when dead tired. Their horses looked worse for wear, coats matted with sweat and dust, but they themselves were grinning like fools as they reined up under the oak’s shadow. Beau’s shirt was ripped clean across one shoulder, revealing a fresh scrape still glistening with salve, while Jai’s left boot was missing its spur—likely sacrificed to whatever mess they’d stumbled into this time.
Giselle shot up so fast her book tumbled into the dirt, pages splayed like a wounded bird. She barely noticed—her boots were already carrying her forward before her brain caught up, legs eating the distance between them in three long strides. Beau barely had time to swing down from his horse before she barreled into him, her arms locking around his ribs with enough force to knock the wind out of a lesser man. The familiar scent of him—leather, gunpowder, and that stupid lavender soap he swore wasn’t for girls—flooded her senses as she buried her face against his torn shirt. “You idiot,” she muttered into his collarbone, voice thick with relief she’d never admit aloud. His heartbeat thudded steady against her cheek, and that was enough.
Beau’s chuckle rumbled against her ear, the vibration familiar and warm as he ruffled her hair with rough affection. “Mischief? Us?” He feigned innocence, pulling back just enough to grin down at her—that same damn grin that had gotten them both into trouble since they were kids knee-high in creek mud. Jai swung down beside them, favoring his right leg with a wince before tossing her book back into her hands. “Just a little disagreement with some fellas over at the Spur,” he drawled, thumbing the fresh split in his lower lip. “Turns out, they don’t take kindly to losing at cards. Especially not when the deck’s stacked.”
Jai had been born with a deck of cards in one hand and trouble in the other—his fingers always itching to shuffle, deal, or palm an ace when no one was looking. It was why Giselle loved him and why she’d punched him in the jaw twice before they’d turned sixteen. Some lessons needed teaching with fists, and Jai had a way of forgetting them unless they left marks. Beau used to say Jai could sweet-talk the devil out of his own pitchfork, then lose it all on a bad hand before sundown.
Jai flashed his teeth—split lip and all—in a grin that was equal parts charm and recklessness. “Oh come on, sis,” he said, thumbing the fresh bruise blooming along his jawline like it was a badge of honor. “We walked away with triple what we sat down with. Mostly.” His fingers twitched toward his vest pocket out of habit, but the bulge there was suspiciously flat. Giselle didn’t need to ask; the missing spur and Beau’s torn shirt told the story well enough. Jai’s hustles always started with smooth words and ended with flying fists—usually someone else’s, but not always.
Beau’s hand settled warm and heavy across her back, fingers pressing just enough into the curve of her spine to ground her. “Why are you all the way out here?” he asked, voice low with that same rough concern he’d used when she was twelve and hiding in the hayloft after breaking her first colt.
“Flint and Father went to town,” Giselle muttered, kicking a pebble hard enough to send it skittering into the dry creek bed. “Kept me behind again.” The words tasted bitter, like chewing on a willow twig. She could still see the wagon’s dust trail hanging in the air like a taunt, could still hear that damn screen door slapping shut behind her—a punctuation mark to another morning of being treated like china in a gunsmith’s shop.
Beau’s grin widened, the sun catching the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes as he nudged Giselle’s shoulder. “Well, we’re back now,” he said, jerking his chin toward the horizon where the ranch house crouched low against the scrubland, “so we can have some fun. Like old times.” The way he said it—like it was a promise, not just words—sent a jolt through her, the same reckless thrill that used to race through her veins when they’d sneak out past midnight to skinny-dip in the creek.
“So how about race back to the house, see if your stallion is as good as you claim.” A clear challenge.
Giselle’s grin was sharp as a skinning knife as she shoved Beau toward his horse. “Oh, you’re on,” she drawled, already swinging onto Bullet’s back with one fluid motion. The gelding danced beneath her, sensing the challenge in the air like storm scent on the wind. Jai groaned, rubbing at his bruised ribs, but the spark in his eyes betrayed him—he’d never been able to resist a race, even when it meant eating dust.
Bullet surged forward like a bullet from a gun—fitting, given his name—and Giselle leaned low over his neck, her braid whipping behind her like a battle flag. The gelding’s hooves tore up clods of dirt as he stretched into a full gallop, his powerful haunches driving them past Beau’s bay within seconds. Jai’s mare was already flagging, her sides heaving from whatever reckless ride they’d taken to get here, but Bullet? Bullet was fresh, hungry, and damn near grinning as he left them choking on dust.
“What took you so long?” Giselle said cheekily, twisting in the saddle to watch Beau’s bay finally skid to a stop behind Bullet. Dust curled around her boots as she swung down, patting Bullet’s sweat-streaked neck with exaggerated sympathy. “Poor Beau. Maybe next time don’t bet against a horse who outran coyotes at six months.”
Beau’s boots hit the dirt with a thud, his breath coming hard as he swiped a forearm across his sweat-slick brow. “Damn horse cheats,” he muttered, but the spark in his eyes betrayed his pride. Jai limped up behind them, favoring his bruised leg, and promptly collapsed onto a hay bale with a theatrical groan.
The adrenaline rush was just what she needed—the burn in her thighs, the wind tearing at her braid, the way Bullet had flattened his ears and given her everything he had. Now, as they unburdened the horses in the stables, Giselle hung back, her fingers lingering on Bullet’s girth strap longer than necessary. She watched Beau toss a saddle blanket over his bay’s back with that same easy rhythm he did everything, while Jai leaned against a post, still wheezing dramatically. The familiar sounds of leather creaking and hooves shifting on straw filled the air, but her pulse hadn’t quite settled yet.
Giselle lingered in the stable shadows, her fingers idly twisting a loose strap on Bullet’s bridle until the others’ footsteps faded into the yard. Jai’s exaggerated groans about his bruises and Beau’s half-hearted threats to hose him down for being dramatic dissolved into the morning air. Only when the stable door creaked shut behind them did she exhale, the tightness in her shoulders uncoiling like a released spring.
The ladder groaned under Giselle’s weight as she climbed, each creak of the weathered wood a familiar protest. She knew exactly which rung would sigh loudest—the third from the top, where the nail had worked loose years ago. Dust motes swirled in the slanted sunlight filtering through the cracks in the stable roof as she hauled herself into the hayloft, the scent of dry grass and old leather wrapping around her like a second skin. This was hers. The only place where the ranch’s rules didn’t reach.
The empty feed bags slumped against the loft wall like drunkards at a saloon, their frayed edges whispering against the weathered wood as Giselle tossed them aside. Old saddle blankets—stiff with years of sweat and rain—formed a makeshift nest where she’d spent countless afternoons watching the ranch through knotholes in the boards, memorizing the rhythm of men who thought they knew better. She smoothed one blanket with her bootheel, revealing the ghostly outline of a brand long faded: Lazy K, the ranch her grandfather lost in a poker game before she was born.
Giselle’s fingers brushed against the rough cotton of the feed sack, her pulse quickening as she pushed it aside to reveal the slim volume tucked beneath. The book’s cover was worn soft at the edges, the gold foil lettering faded to near illegibility—*The Outlaw’s Wanton Bride* by some anonymous scribbler who clearly knew their way around a saddle and a willing stablehand. She huffed a quiet laugh, flipping it open to where the spine naturally fell apart—page 143, the scene where the blacksmith’s daughter gets “properly acquainted” with the new ranch hand behind the livery. The corner was dog-eared into submission, the paper slightly puckered from where she’d gripped it too hard last time.
The adrenaline still buzzed under Giselle’s skin like a nest of hornets, her fingers trembling slightly as she traced the dog-eared page. The book’s cheap paper smelled of hay and stolen moments, but the words blurred before her eyes—her pulse too loud, too insistent, still galloping in time with Bullet’s phantom hoofbeats. She pressed her thighs together instinctively, the rough fabric of her jeans rubbing against the sensitive skin still humming from the race.
Giselle’s thumb brushed the well-worn page, tracing the sentence where the blacksmith’s daughter loosened her corset laces with one hand while the ranch hand’s calloused fingers slid up her stocking. Her own fingers mirrored the motion unconsciously, drifting from the hollow of her throat down to the undone buttons of her shirt. The summer heat pooled between her breasts, sticky and insistent, as she read the next line—*his mouth was hot as branding iron where he kissed her inner thigh*—and her breath hitched when her fingertips grazed the sensitive skin above her waistband.
Giselle’s fingers didn’t hesitate—the buttons gave way beneath her touch like they’d been waiting all morning for this moment. The shirt fell open, revealing skin still flushed from the race, her breasts rising with each quickened breath. The morning air was cool against her nipples, already peaked and aching, and she arched instinctively into the sensation, her back pressing against the rough hay bale. A shudder ran through her as she palmed one breast, her thumb brushing over the tight bud—too light, not nearly enough.
But this was only the start. The book slipped from her fingers, landing facedown in the hay with a soft thump as Giselle shrugged out of her leather jacket. The worn fabric slid down her arms like a second skin reluctantly peeling away, leaving the smell of saddle oil and summer heat clinging to her bare shoulders. Her shirt followed—buttons popping open with impatient tugs until the faded cotton hung loose around her waist. The morning light filtering through the loft’s cracks painted golden stripes across her torso, catching on the sweat still glistening between her breasts from the race.
Giselle snatched the book back from the hay, her fingers trembling slightly as she found her place again—right where the blacksmith’s daughter was dragging the ranch hand’s calloused palm down to her wetness. The words blurred for a second before snapping into focus, the cheap paper warm against her fingertips. She read the same line three times—*his teeth scraped the inside of her knee*—before her breath caught in her throat, her own knees pressing together instinctively. The hay prickled through her shirt where it had ridden up, every shift of her hips sending another wave of heat through her.
Her hand slid from her breasts, down her toned stomach, and beneath the waistband of her jeans—fingers catching on the damp fabric of her panties before pushing past. The breath she’d been holding escaped in a shuddering gasp as her fingertips brushed the wiry curls below, already slick with want. The angle was awkward, her wrist straining against denim, but the first tentative stroke along her folds sent sparks up her spine nonetheless. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, her hips jerking involuntarily as her middle finger circled the swollen bud at her apex.
Her need grew immeasurably—a wildfire fed by the friction of denim against her inner thighs, by the phantom pressure of words on a page describing fingers that weren’t hers tracing paths she ached to follow. The loft’s heat pressed against her bare shoulders like an impatient lover, the hay prickling at her back in sharp counterpoint to the liquid fire pooling between her legs. She pressed her palm harder against herself, her breath hitching as two fingers slid through slick folds—too slow, too tentative, when what she wanted was the reckless abandon of Bullet at full gallop.
Giselle kicked off her jeans with a frustrated grunt, the denim catching on one bootheel before finally surrendering to gravity. The hay scratched at her bare thighs as she sprawled back, the only thing left on her body being the damn hat—its brim casting a shadow over her flushed face like some ridiculous badge of modesty. She snorted at the thought, tipping it lower just to feel the roughness against her forehead where the sweat still clung. The hat smelled of dust and stubbornness, same as her.
Giselle was two fingers deep within herself, completely lost in a world of pleasure where the hayloft’s dust motes hung suspended in golden light and the distant sounds of ranch life faded into irrelevance. Her breath came in ragged bursts, each exhale stirring the loose strands of hair stuck to her damp forehead. The heel of her palm ground against her clit in rough, urgent circles while her fingers curled inside just shy of where she needed them most—teasing that sweet spot with agonizing restraint. Bullet whinnied softly in his stall below, but the sound barely registered over the blood roaring in her ears.
The hay prickled against her naked back as she arched up, her fingers moving with the same relentless rhythm as Bullet’s gallop. The hat tumbled off, forgotten, as she bit down on her own forearm to stifle the sounds clawing up her throat—somewhere between a curse and a prayer. Her hips jerked in time with the circling pressure of her palm, the heel of her hand grinding against her clit with the same stubborn persistence she used to break wild colts. Close. So damn close.
The cry tore from Giselle’s throat like a wounded animal—raw, unrestrained, and entirely beyond her control. Her hips snapped forward with such force that her shoulder blades dug into the hay bale, the rough fibers scratching at her sweat-slick skin as her back arched off the ground. Her thighs clamped around her wrist like a vice, trapping her own fingers against her throbbing core as wave after wave of white-hot pleasure ripped through her. Every muscle in her body locked tight, from her curled toes to her clenched jaw, while her free hand clawed at the saddle blanket beneath her, twisting the fabric until seams popped.
Giselle’s chest heaved like a runaway stallion fighting its bit, her lungs burning with each ragged inhale that tasted of hay dust and her own sweat. The aftershocks still pulsed through her in lazy waves, leaving her fingers trembling against her flushed skin where they’d fallen limp. Above her, the loft’s rafters spun in slow, drunken circles, sunlight fracturing through the gaps where the roof bowed under years of neglect—just like her, coming apart at the seams.
Giselle lay sprawled like a discarded doll in the hay, her limbs loose and heavy as if someone had cut her strings. The occasional tremor still skittered through her—a knee jerking, toes curling—little aftershocks of pleasure that made her breath hitch. Dust motes drifted lazily in the slanting sunlight above her, their dance slower now, like the world itself was catching its breath with her. A bead of sweat trickled between her breasts, tracing the same path her fingers had taken minutes before, and she didn’t bother to wipe it away.
The first thing Giselle noticed was the hay. Not the scratch of it—she was long accustomed to that—but the way individual strands stuck to her sweat-damp skin like golden accusations. Her thighs twitched as she lifted a hand to brush them off, and that’s when the second realization hit: her fingers were still glistening. She stared at them, momentarily transfixed by the way the sunlight caught the slickness, before a hot flush crawled up her neck.
Giselle wiped her fingers on the saddle blanket with deliberate roughness—the kind that scrubbed away more than just sweat and slickness. The worn fabric drank in her shame greedily, leaving behind only the ghost of her touch and the faintest sheen where the sunlight caught it just right. She buttoned her shirt with methodical precision, each snap of the fasteners a quiet rebuke to the trembling that still lingered in her fingertips. By the time she tugged her leather jacket back on, only the faintest tremble in her knees betrayed what had happened. The hat, of course, went last—crown dented, brim slightly warped from where her fingers had gripped it too hard. Just another battle scar.
Giselle’s fingers worked the buttons with practiced efficiency, but the last one slipped through her grasp twice before catching—her hands still humming with leftover electricity. She rubbed her palms against her thighs as if to erase the memory, then winced when the rough denim scraped over sensitized skin. The hay clung to her like conspirators, strands trapped in the waistband of her jeans and tangled in the loose threads of her shirt cuffs. She plucked them away one by one, each golden filament a tiny betrayal.
Giselle spat hay from her mouth and brushed the last stubborn strands from her shirt collar with the brisk efficiency of someone erasing evidence. She straightened her hat with a sharp tug—the same motion she’d use to correct a wayward colt—and rolled her shoulders back until her spine clicked into place. The loft smelled of sweat and stolen moments now, the air thick with the ghost of what she’d done. She exhaled through her nose, scattering dust motes like startled birds, then descended the ladder with deliberate silence, each creak of the wood a quiet rebellion against the morning’s earlier humiliation.
