Iris
The ranch feels different in winter. The rolling hills that were once lush and green are now gray, but somehow even more beautiful. The stables are quiet, the horses tucked away in their warm stalls. The cold air smells like woodfire smoke and pine.
I stand on the porch of the cabin, wrapped in one of Arthur’s thick sweaters, watching as my mate and son make their way toward the line of trees at the edge of the property. Miles is running ahead, full of boundless energy despite a day spent flying.
For a moment, I linger behind, just taking it all in. I watch Arthur and Miles laugh and run together, smell the sweet winter air, listen to the breeze rustling through the trees. This is exactly what we needed.
And soon, I think with a small smile, placing my hand on my stom
