A carriage was already waiting when I reached the front courtyard.
I certainly didn't remember asking for it.
The horses shifted impatiently, leather creaking, breath steaming softly into the morning air. Then I straightened my shoulders and stepped forward as though I belonged exactly there.
The The gate guards noticed immediately.
One of them moved first, hand lifting in a silent signal.
"Lady Anne," he said carefully, eyes sharp, respectful but suspicious. "Were we informed of your departure?"
I didn't slow down.
"Yes," I replied, calm enough that even I almost believed it. "Lord Lucian granted permission this morning."
A pause.
Another guard stepped closer, brows knitting. "My lady, Lord Lucian left orders—"
"He changed them," I cut in gently, turning to face him now. "Briefly. Before he left."
They exchanged glances. The kind that spoke of consequences. Or do you think I lie to you I said how glaring at the already panicked gentlemen..
No certainly not, my Lady just trying to confirm.
"Where are you headed?" the first guard asked.
"The stables beyond the south road," I said. "I won't be long."
Silence stretched. Then—
"We'll need to escort you."
My fingers tightened at my sides.
"There's no need," I said. "It's a short ride. And frankly, I'd rather prefer the privacy." I softened my tone, offered a small, practiced smile. "It's… overwhelming, being watched at every step. I'm sure Lord Lucian would understand."
That gave them pause.
"He's very clear about security," one of them said.
"And I'm very clear about returning before noon," I replied. "If I'm not back, you may report me missing. Until then, I take full responsibility."
That, apparently, was the line.
Reluctantly, the gate began to open. Metal groaned, slow and heavy, as if the house itself disapproved.
I didn't look back as I climbed into the carriage.
The driver hesitated. "My lady… are you certain?"
"Yes," I said, settling in, heart pounding now. "Take me out."
The gates parted fully, and the carriage rolled forward.
Only when the house disappeared behind the bend did I exhale.
I had lied.
To Lucian's men.
To his stupid rules.
And strangely—dangerously—I felt happy.
...
The carriage slowed before it came to a full stop, wheels crunching softly against gravel and dry earth.
I knew the place instantly even if I've been here only twice.
The stables hadn't changed—the low wooden fences, the scent of hay and warm animal skin, the quiet rhythm of a life lived patiently. My chest tightened, with loud excitement.
Before I could even step down properly, a voice cut through the air.
"Well I'll be—"
I barely had time to turn before arms wrapped around me.
Strong arms. Warm arms.
"Oh my dear girl," the elderly woman said, pulling back just enough to look at my face, her hands still holding my shoulders as if I might vanish. "I knew it was you the moment I saw that carriage."
I laughed, surprised, the sound slipping out of me before I could stop it. "You remember me?"
"Remember you?" she scoffed, eyes shining. "Child, you don't forget a young lady who looked at a horse like he was already family."
She hugged me again, firmer this time, smelling faintly of soap and straw and something sweet. It felt… grounding. Human. The kind of touch that asked for nothing.
"I'm glad you came back," she said softly, finally releasing me. "I wondered if you ever would."
"I wondered too," I admitted.
Her gaze flicked over me, assessing—not my clothes, not my status, but me. Then she smiled, wide and genuine. "You look different."
"I feel different," I said, though I wasn't entirely sure what that meant.
She gestured toward the stables. "Come. You shouldn't be standing out here like a visitor. You belong inside."
The word settled into me more deeply than it should have.
As we walked together, the sounds wrapped around us—the soft snort of horses, hooves shifting, the rustle of hay. My shoulders loosened without my permission.
"He's still here," she said, as if reading my thoughts.
My steps slowed. "Whiskey?"
She chuckled. "Where else would he be? That one hasn't let anyone replace you in his mind, if I'm being honest."
I stopped.
"That's not possible," I gasped in shock.
"Oh, it is," she replied gently. "Some creatures remember kindness the way people remember love."
She opened the stall door.
Whiskey lifted his head.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he stepped forward, slow and certain, dark eyes finding mine as if no time had passed at all.
I didn't realize I was crying until the woman squeezed my hand.
"There you are," she murmured, not to him—but to me.
I was just reaching out to Whiskey when a voice—too familiar, too careless—cut through the calm.
"Well I'll be damned."
My hand froze mid-air.
I turned.
Jack.
Leaning lazily against a post, straw between his fingers, that same roguish grin already stretching across his face. His eyes lit up the moment they landed on me, like he'd just stumbled on unexpected fortune.
"Thought I'd never see you again, my lady," he drawled, pushing himself upright. "You disappear like that and a man starts thinking he imagined you."
I didn't smile.
He took a step closer anyway, confidence blooming where it wasn't invited. "You look even better than last time," he added, gaze sweeping me in a way that made my skin prickle. "Marriage must be treating you kindly."
He reached out—too fast, too familiar—as if to take my hand.
I moved away. Making sure he saw the disgust in my face.
His hand hung in the air for half a second too long before he laughed it off. "Still sharp, I see."
"Still careless," I replied calmly, turning back to Whiskey.
That was the end of it.
I rested my palm against Whiskey's neck, feeling the warmth beneath his coat, the steady breath. He leaned into me without hesitation, and something in my chest settled.
"I'm here for him today," I said, not looking at Jack. "Nothing else."
The smile on Jack's face faltered—not completely, but enough.
"Oh," he said. "So it's like that."
"Yes," I answered simply.
The elderly woman watched from a distance, saying nothing, but there was approval in the way she nodded to herself.
Jack scratched the back of his neck, recalibrating, his tone lighter now but edged with something restrained. "Well… can't blame a man for trying."
"You can," I said quietly. "And you should." As you know jack I am now a married lady.
That did it.
He exhaled, then lifted his hands in a mock surrender. "Fair enough. Whiskey's all yours, Anne."
Hearing my name from him felt different now. Smaller. Powerless.
As he stepped back, Whiskey let out a soft huff, pressing his head closer to my shoulder.
I smiled then—just a little.
"I didn't forget you," I whispered to the horse.
The elderly woman clapped her hands once, brisk and satisfied. "Then let us not waste the morning," she said. "If it is Whiskey you've come for, we'll do this properly."
She led me toward a small wooden office tucked beside the stables. The air inside smelled of parchment, ink, and old wood—serious things, permanent things. My excitement dimmed into something steadier, heavier. This was real now.
A ledger was brought out, thick and worn at the edges. She flipped through pages with practiced ease, stopping where a red ribbon marked the place.
"Whiskey is not cheap," she said, not unkindly. "Strong bloodline. Good temperament. Loyal."
"I know," I replied. My fingers curled into my skirt. "That's why I want him."
She studied me for a moment, then nodded, as if satisfied with whatever she saw in my eyes.
The sum was written down.
I inhaled slowly.
It was more than I had ever spent on anything that breathed.
But I did not hesitate.
Coins were counted first—heavy, solid, clinking with finality—then notes, stamped and signed. My name looked strange on the parchment, too delicate for something so binding, yet when I pressed the seal, my hand did not shake.
The contract followed. Terms.Responsibilities. Ownership transferred in careful, merciless lines of ink.
"With this," the woman said, sliding the paper toward me, "Whiskey is yours. From this moment."
I signed.
The scratch of the quill sounded louder than it should have.
Somewhere behind me, I felt it before I saw it—the weight of a gaze.
I glanced up.
Jack stood by the doorway now, arms crossed, no grin this time. His eyes followed every movement of my hand, every shift of my posture, sharp and assessing. Not amused. Not flirtatious.
Watching.
When our eyes met, his mouth twitched, like he might say something.
I didn't give him the chance.
I looked back down and finished signing.
The elderly woman rolled the parchment carefully and tied it with twine. "He'll need a day or two before transport arrangements are finalized," she said. "Unless—"
"I'll come back," I said quickly. "As often as I'm allowed."
That earned me a small smile.
Outside, I returned to Whiskey. He snorted softly when he saw me, nudging my shoulder with his nose as if he already understood.
"I didn't abandon you," I murmured, pressing my forehead briefly to his. "I just took the long way back."
From the corner of my eye, I caught Jack again—still there, still staring.
This time, his expression was unreadable.
Not desire.
Not disrespect.
Just something different.
I straightened, hand still resting on Whiskey's neck, and finally turned fully toward him.
"This is done," I said evenly. "I hope you understand."
Jack exhaled, slow. "Yeah," he said. "I do."
But his eyes lingered a moment longer—on me, on the horse, on the choice I had made—before he looked away.
For the first time since I arrived, I felt it fully settle in my chest.
Whiskey was mine.
Jack cleared his throat behind me.
"Lady Anne."
I turned, one hand still resting on Whiskey's mane. "Yes?"
He shifted his weight, suddenly less sure of himself than he'd been minutes ago. His eyes didn't meet mine at first—instead, they went to the horse, tracing the line of Whiskey's neck, the strength in his frame.
"So," he said slowly, "now that he's yours…"
I waited.
He scratched the back of his neck, then finally looked at me. "Can I visit Whiskey sometime?"
The words hung there, carefully chosen.
Not you.
Not your place.
Just Whiskey.
I studied him for a moment, searching for the familiar arrogance, the careless tone from before. It wasn't there. What I saw instead was restraint—almost respect.
"Why?" you've sold a thousand horses do you always visit them. I asked.
Jack huffed out a small breath. "Because I helped raise him. Because I know his moods. And because—" he stopped himself, then shrugged. "Because I'd like to know he's doing, and you are quite new to all these house situations.
well."
I smiled despite myself, just a little.
"As long as it's about him," I said. "And you announce yourself."
Jack's lips curved, not into a smirk this time, but something softer. "That's fair."
He took a step back, giving me space. "I'll bring apples," he added, almost as an afterthought. "He likes the green ones."
"I know," I said.
That made him blink.
Then he nodded once, decisive. "I'll see him then."
Before he took his leave I called out once more if I perceive that this visit is not only about whiskey, I'll ask you to discontinue the visit.... I will not accept any other temperament behaviour Jack.
"I know," he murmured, rubbing his neck.
The elderly woman pressed Anne's hands between her own, her palms warm and steady.
"He'll be ready in two days," she said gently. "I'll make sure he's groomed, fed properly, and calm before the journey. Whiskey remembers kindness. He'll remember you."
Anne's chest tightened in the best way. "Thank you. Truly."
The woman smiled, the kind that came from years of watching people love and lose animals. "You chose him for the right reasons."
Outside, the carriage waited.
As Anne stepped out, the stable hands tipped their hats, Jack included—this time from a respectful distance. Their eyes followed her, but she felt no weight in it. Just acknowledgment.
Inside the carriage, the driver snapped the reins lightly.
"Home then, my lady?"
"Yes," Anne said, settling in. "And thank you for waiting."
The wheels rolled forward, the stables shrinking behind her. She watched until the gates disappeared, her fingers still tingling as if Whiskey's warmth lingered in her palms.
The road stretched long and quiet, bordered by fields that swayed lazily in the afternoon breeze. The carriage rocked in a rhythm that nearly lulled her to sleep.
Nearly.
A sudden jolt snapped her upright.
The carriage lurched to one side, wood groaning in protest before grinding to a halt.
"What is it?" Anne called.
The driver climbed down, muttering a curse word under his breath. After a moment, he appeared at the small window.
"One of the wheels caught a stone. Not broken—but loose. I'll need time to fix it."
"How long?" she asked, already sensing Lucian's warning echoing in her head.
"An hour. Maybe more, if I'm unlucky."
The driver crouched beside the wheel again, sleeves rolled, hands already darkened with dust and grease. He worked patiently, tapping the rim, adjusting the iron brace, testing it with slow, practiced movements.
Anne stepped back into the carriage, leaving the door open.
Time moved differently out there.
The sun dipped lower, no longer sharp and bright but soft, honeyed, spilling gold across the road. Shadows stretched lazily over the grass, long and thin, as if the earth itself was settling in for the evening.
She watched the driver work, the rhythm of it almost soothing—tighten, check, loosen, try again. Each motion deliberate, unhurried. No rush. Just care.
A breeze stirred, carrying the scent of dry earth and distant flowers. Birds flitted from branch to branch, their calls changing as the day leaned toward night. Somewhere farther off, crickets began to test their voices, one by one, until the sound wove itself into the quiet.
Anne rested her chin against the carriage window, thoughts drifting.
Whiskey.
She pictured him again—the way his ears had twitched when she first approached, the calm in his eyes despite everything. In two days, he would be hers. A living, breathing promise waiting for her at the gates.
The idea made her smile without realizing it.
The driver finally stood, wiping his hands on a cloth. He gave the wheel a firm kick, then another, listening closely, as if the carriage, might speak back to him.
"That should hold now," he said with a small nod. "Best to move before the light goes completely."
Anne stepped down briefly, stretching her legs, feeling the cool of the approaching evening on her skin. The sky had shifted to soft shades of amber and violet, clouds blushing faintly as the sun prepared to disappear.
She climbed back in, gathering her skirts.
The driver mounted his seat, flicked the reins gently, and the carriage rolled forward again—steadier this time, smoother, as though nothing had ever gone wrong.