It might be because I fell asleep at eight-thirty the night before. Or it might be the birdsong right outside my window. It’s not louder than city noise—I can usually hear traffic sounds or muffled thumps from the neighboring apartments in my building. But I’m used to that.

The birds are shrill and insistent. Not an unpleasant sound, but one that cuts right through my sleep because I haven’t heard anything like that before. Not right outside my window, first thing in the morning.

The sunlight seems different, too. Brighter and more direct. Not filtered through buildings. Pale yellow.

There’s a certain energy that comes from waking up in an unfamiliar place. I feel alert and curious. Wanting to see more of everything in full daylight.

I slip out of bed and put on some of the clothes that Bo lent me the night before. She’s almost as tall as me, and close to the same build. There’s definitely more muscle on her frame. The ranch is more strenuous than the gym, I guess.

I pull on Bo’s jeans, worn comfortable. Her shirt is likewise soft and clean, with that fresh laundry smell. I pull my hair into a ponytail. I don’t have any of my usual supplies—my four-hundred-dollar hair-straightener is probably a lump of melted metal now, so I can’t make my hair sleek and smooth like I usually do. In fact, in the humidity, it’s heading past wavy into almost curly.

I hate when my hair gets unruly. It makes me feel powerless. If I can’t control my own hair, then how can I control anything in my life?

It’s frustrating not to have any of my things here—clothes, underwear, eyeliner. I keep thinking that if I go back to Chicago it will all be there waiting for me, but I know that’s not true. It all burned up. The only thing waiting is the enormously daunting task of filing an insurance claim for everything I lost. Some of which can never be replaced.

At least I didn’t have anything truly priceless at my place. Nessa got grandmother’s ring when she married Mikolaj, instead of it going to me as the oldest daughter, as was tradition.

I don’t regret telling Mom to give it to her.

At the time I was certain I’d never get married. I mean I am still certain. And it always suited Nessa better. She loves things that are beautiful, vintage, and sentimental. Things that have history. That’s why she loves living in Mikolaj’s ancient mansion. I think the place is creepy as fuck, but she adores every inch of it.

Anyway, the ring was meant for her.

What would my perfect house look like?

I thought it was my condo. Because it was a space that belonged only to me.

Now the idea of buying another place like the one I just lost . . . it doesn’t excite me. In fact, it makes me feel a kind of empty dread that I don’t quite understand. I loved that apartment—why don’t I want another one? Am I afraid of being there alone? Afraid of someone pouring gasoline under my door again?

I don’t think that’s it. But I feel confused when I try to think what I want in the next month, or the next six months. Usually my path forward is so clear. I know exactly what I want to accomplish.

All of a sudden I’m strangely lost . . .

Finishing the messy ponytail, I brush my teeth and wash my face, and then head downstairs.

Raylan’s already sitting in the kitchen with a mug of coffee in front of him and another steaming mug in front of the empty chair next to him.

“Is that for me?” I ask him.

“Of course.”

I sit down and take a sip. The coffee is rich and dark.

Raylan looks more himself than ever. His scruff is almost becoming a beard. There’s something wild and animalistic about his hair, the way it springs up thick and black from his forehead, the way his dark brows look devilishly pointed above his bright blue eyes, and the way his facial hair outlines his lips and jaw like bold strokes of ink.

I can’t imagine him without that hair. It’s as much a part of him as the blue of his eyes, or his wolfish white teeth, or the shape of his hands resting on his blue-jeaned thighs. His hands are large, rough, calloused, and scarred in spots. A shiver runs up my spine, looking at them. One of his hands tenses slightly against his thigh, as if it can feel me looking at it.

I pull my eyes away, taking a sip of hot coffee so hasty that it burns my mouth.

“You want some breakfast, too?” Raylan asks me.

I can hear that he’s smiling, even before I look at his face.

“Did you already eat?” I ask him.

“Yup,” he says. “I’ve been up a while. There’s oatmeal on the stove, though.”

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

“Well,” he says, pushing back his chair from the table. “You want to come out for a ride still?”

“Of course,” I say.

I’m trying to sound confident, but I’m regretting what I committed to last night. I am curious what it’s like to ride a horse, but I’m also realizing how totally out of control I’m going to be, sitting on the back of an animal five times my size. Or more—fuck, I have no idea what a horse weighs.

I could ask Raylan, I’m sure he knows. But that will make me look even more ignorant.

All I can do is follow him out the back door, out into the sprawling grounds behind the house.

I see a large vegetable garden, and another garden full of fruit and flowers: raspberry canes, rose bushes, lilacs, and apple trees.

Then, beyond that, I see the stables, two barns, and several large paddocks.

Everything looks clean and well-maintained. The barns look freshly painted, and the fields are nicely mowed. No trash or tools lay out of place anywhere in sight.

I can see two horses standing next to the stable, already saddled and bridled. One is huge and dark gray—so dark he almost looks black. The other is a pretty caramel-colored horse with a black mane and tail. Her coat is so smooth and shiny that she almost looks metallic.

“The big one is Brutus,” Raylan says. “The other is Penny. She’s a sweetheart—the nicest horse we’ve got. So you’ll ride her, while I take Brutus. He’s not as nice, but he gets mad if Penny goes anywhere without him.”

“Alright,” I say, giving Brutus a wide berth. He looks over at me with his large black eye, on which I can’t see any white. He doesn’t seem friendly, but he’s not aggressive at least.

Penny, by contrast, eagerly puts her velvety nose into Raylan’s palm, then rubs the side of her head against his shoulder, making a gentle snuffing sound.

“You miss me, Penny?” Raylan says, in his low, husky voice.

I don’t know why, but hearing the tone he uses with the horses has an effect on me, too. It sends little prickles down my arms.

“Alright,” Raylan says to me, calm and confident as ever. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna get you set up on Penny first . . . you’re gonna put your left foot here in the stirrup, and you’re gonna grab this little knob here on the saddle, it’s called the pommel. And I’m gonna help you swing your right leg over the horse. I’ll kinda help boost you.”

Trying not to show how nervous I feel, I slip my left foot into the closest stirrup. Raylan is holding Penny steady, though I suspect she would have stood there patiently either way. Even though she radiates gentleness, and she isn’t nearly as massive as Brutus, she’s still much taller than I expected. I don’t quite see how I’m going to get my other leg over her back, when that back is higher than my shoulder.