Silhouettes in Dust

University of Britchester
Mossy Lane Campus Townhome

Brooding over a paper on “Performing Arts as a Language,” I found myself sinking deeper into melancholy. The irony wasn’t lost on me—the very topic I was supposed to explore seemed to amplify my current sadness. Jackson’s absence weighed heavily on my heart. I longed for the rough yet comforting texture of his bed sheets, the way they cradled me at day’s end. And I missed the warmth of his presence beside me. And all the laughter we had shared each time I tried to prove I could be a rancher too. I would love nothing more than to gloat about how I was a natural with all that, but to put it mildly: I sucked at it. Still, Jackson was a patient teacher and I had learned SO much about horses and ranching. Above all that this was NOT the kind of lifestyle I was born for, nor particularly enjoyed, but the kind of life I was willing to endure, for Jackson.

Now, instead of me sharing my nights with Jackson, it was my twin sister, Iris Marie, occupying the bunk below mine. She’d chosen that spot not out of sisterly kindness but to conceal her nightly escapades with Jasper. I didn’t bother caring about their clandestine rendezvous; Jasper resided in another room, tucked away in a one-person bunk, beneath another roommate, so presumably, that was not where they went either for their…well, you know. The ‘late-night-talks’ young couples like to have. I never asked either of them, because truthfully, I really didn’t want to know and if I did ask, I am pretty sure Jasper would be all too willing to give me all the details a girl really doesn’t want to hear about her twin sister’s shenanigans with her boyfriend, who was also one of my oldest and closest friends. Then again, this on-campus home owned by my grandfather had three rooms with bunks and two with double beds, which unfortunately had already been spoken for when we got our acceptance letters.
One of those rooms was occupied by my cousin Zoe Camore, who was engaged to Federico Rinaldi, the Crown Prince of Tartosa.

The other by my cousin Lord Jake Cameron, son of Lord Gavin and Lady Bianca Cameron. Hard to argue with nobility and future royalty about college dorm rooms, even for the children of former entertainment industry “royalty” such as my sister, Jasper and I.

Anyway, Jake went home to Henford-on-Bagley frequently, even outside of school holidays, for whatever obligations one has as a Lord, he was sweet, but sort of aloof and quiet, kinda like Zoe, both tight-lipped about what it meant to move in such circles. Like Jake, Zoe didn’t seem limited to school breaks to visit Tartosa often, the only place she could spend time with her royal fiancé while also learning how to act like a future princess. While the non-noble/royal other residents remained to live the regular lives of college students, albeit admittedly privileged, two often unoccupied rooms with double beds at a college campus house equal opportunity, so you know what I am thinking where my sister and Jasper had their nightly rendezvous, at least sometimes. I am gonna go as far to claim that their rightful occupants probably had no clue about this. Yikes. Then again, if Jackson were here, I am not even gonna pretend I wouldn’t try that myself. Especially now, after having lived with a boy for half a year, being without him was more than lonely. I was miserable and pretty sure so was Jackson. Before me he had lived with his dad, then it was his ex-Taylor always staying over, then Stryker lived with him for over a year after my brother offered to pay Jackson handsomely to help the man out with his rehab, and then me. Now he was alone for the first time in a long time. It was brutal on both of us.

My stay at Jackson’s ranch had been eye-opening. We shared wonderful moments, but it wasn’t all smooth sailing. Homesickness clung to me from day one until the very end. Jackson, equally determined, accompanied me on countless family trips, to help battle the ache of separation. I witnessed firsthand the relentless demands of ranch life—the daily chores that kept Jackson tethered to this place. While other residents willingly pitched in whenever he did go away for a few days, their help only doubled their own workload, meaning Jackson was mindful not to abuse their kindness.

Late Autumn of last year had marked my arrival at the ranch. We celebrated every holiday, including New Year’s, with my parents in Brindleton Bay. A handful of weekends had brought us to my brother Connor’s San Sequoia home, about 2-3 hours away from Jackson’s ranch, especially when Jackson’s father, his young wife Izzy, and their infant son Cody paid a visit.

In January during a visit back home with my parents, my ex, Bradford, had informed me of his impending shotgun-style wedding on account of him accidentally knocking up the girl after me, my old friend Molly. Brad downright begged me to attend his wedding, seeing how desperate he was, I agreed.

So, on a chilly, but sunny day in early February, holding Jackson’s hand tightly, I watched Brad marry Molly, one of my closest friends through high school, even though we somehow had lost touch even before graduation.

She even went to the same uni as I did, but had different majors and classes, so we rarely ran into each other. The ceremony tugged at my heart, odd emotions I couldn’t even understand, so I concealed them from Jackson. It was a beautiful wedding, albeit kinda modest by Brindleton Bay standards, especially considering the groom was heir to one of the largest, if not THE largest medical empires today, hastily arranged to hide any signs of Molly’s condition. Her parents were more conservative than mine, but usually pretty cool, however, like my family, they were first and second generation Brindleton Bay residents, and as beautiful as our hometown was, it was firmly in the hands of old money with roots back for dozens of generations. Like the Cunninghams, for example.

Just having enough cash to buy property here didn’t mean you’d be accepted into society and if not, it could be very rough going, as we knew from experience. Messy unwed mother type situations were completely unacceptable, so a quick conservative wedding before she started to show was the way things went. I knew Molly and Brad didn’t want to get married but obliged for all those reasons. Oddly, while venting my views on such silly outdated rules to Jackson, he told me that it was pretty much the same where he lived. Small town, old-fashioned views, he said he himself had been to his share of weddings due to overzealous stork visits. As I observed the vows exchanged, I reflected on my own imagined weddings with Brad, back in a time before Jackson—grand affairs in charming chapels lived in my mind, far removed from the simplicity of Molly’s nuptials in the local chapel. Don’t get me wrong, it was an event to behold, no costs had been spared and it showed, clearly only the best of everything, but not the huge dream wedding I had always thought of. And I honestly never thought of what would happen had I accidentally gotten knocked up, my fertility issues aside. Perhaps my mom was right—I’d dodged a bullet when his father broke our hearts by breaking us up relentlessly after cysts on my ovaries made me unsuitable to produce the heir old Dr. Cunningham so desperately wanted. Yes, I loved Jackson now, but I would never forgive Dr. Cunningham Sr. for what he had put Brad and me through. Jackson could tell how much the wedding tore at my emotions, so he made me laugh by any means necessary, including tickling me till I begged for mercy so I wouldn’t pee myself in the church pew. I swear I could not have made it through that wedding without him. And yes, I wore white. Oh, I so totally did!

Off-white with a green pattern, but yes, I so wore white to Brad and Molly’s wedding and yes, his parents saw and I could tell by their faces, they were dismayed, which gave me some strange satisfaction. I loved this dress, my old high school senior prom dress, the one I wore to my first ever official date with Jackson. Yes, I had brought a different dress, one I had borrowed from my sister-in-law Keira, but my dad nixed the number for being too revealing for a church wedding in a conservative town such as Brindleton Bay and when I tried to argue, mom gave me the mom-glare. The same glare that had already sent my sister and Jasper changing upstairs, cos mom didn’t feel their clothing was right for the event either. Dad said he’d much prefer me make a small faux pas with the debatable color choice over me looking like the stripper for Brad’s bachelor party arrived late and mom agreed. I felt awkward, knowing the rule not to wear white to a wedding, but Jackson just shrugged my concerns away.

“Darlin’ quit yer frettin’, yer covered and that’s all that matters,” he drawled, his voice as smooth as molasses. “It’s classy, yer purdy, and I love ya in it.” Jackson’s eyes crinkled at the corners, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Back home, women don’t have wardrobes full of fancy wear. When there’s a weddin’, they wear the best they got. If it’s white, it’s white, and nobody gives a rat’s rear about that.” 

My glee didn’t last too long. Following the ceremony, after standing in a long line for some admittedly exquisite cake, Jackson and I found a seat next to my cousin Donovan, so we joked and got caught up to the younger crowd gossip, until Jackson left to get us more drinks and none other than Brad’s dad, Dr. Jeffrey Cunningham took his seat. I kid you not, Donovan stopped laughing and talking, the bite of the delicious cake I had been so much looking forward to eating nearly got stuck in my throat, the birds quit chirping and the skies darkened. At least that is my story. Anyway, Dr. Cunningham told me all the things he always told me, how much he still likes me as a person, how happy he is that I can still manage to be friends with his son, but how things just now turned out the way they should be, blah blah blah. He tried to pry into my personal life, particularly the part about me living with Jackson for a semester, so I just told him I had to pee and ran off. Screw that man! I can only be fake-nice to that idiot for a very limited amount of time.

I wanted to speak to Brad, but there was no opportunity to say anything more than “congratulations”, he was constantly swarmed by people or being pulled away for something, photos, typical things done at weddings, so I decided to postpone that talk until my next visit home in Brindleton Bay, whenever that would be, as my time with Jackson was slowly coming to an end. In only a few weeks I would be back on campus, trying to make up for all that lost time. Cringe!

As an unseasonally hot Springtime sweltered on in Chestnut Ridge, the heat became unbearable. Jackson’s cabin lacked air conditioning, and power outages were frequent. Even a table fan provided little relief. My parents visited several times throughout my semester-long stay, as did my big brother with his wife and young son. Iris Marie and Jasper made a single appearance, and they despised every moment of it. Their pitiful glances as they drove away—looking deeply concerned about leaving me in this rustic wilderness—etched into my memory. To be fair, Jasper and Iris Marie were avid travelers, seizing every chance to explore the world. Once, during an adventurous hike in the jungles of Selvadorada, they’d gotten lost—a genuinely harrowing experience. No wonder they preferred the comforts of civilization.

We embarked on a trip to San Sequoia, where we’d spend a long weekend at my big brother Connor’s place for my nephew Chris’ sixth birthday. It was hard to believe he was already this grown up—six years old.

Keira had not even been pregnant yet when Connor and Jack became best friends. Maybe a year or so after their ‘bromance’ really blossomed, Connor helped Jack find the son he wasn’t even sure he had, helped him genetically confirm it and then get custody, when Jackson was 15, after having bounced around foster homes since the untimely death of his parents when he was 8. At one of Connor’s parties I eventually met Jackson for the first time. I was fourteen, he had just turned sixteen, had been living with his dad for a few months and was still trying to figure out how his life was changing back then. My pupils went heart-shaped over him instantly, he was aloof and distant, but clearly liked me too, and as time went on, as he and his bio-dad Jack bonded, so did we whenever there was a party at Connor’s we both could attend. Those memories felt like a lifetime ago now. Yeah, that’s me on that photo below, 14 years going on 40, thinking I knew everything, with my two braids there sitting on the floor, right by 16-year-old Jackson leg as he sprawled out. And yeah, that is Jasper with the glasses, which didn’t last long until he convinced his parents to let him have surgery. Some things never change, sweet Jas is still vain A.F. I can say that he’s not just my sister’s boyfriend, but also my best friend. I used to refer to him as brother from another mother, to which he would respond by calling me his sister from another Mister, but we quit that when he and Iris started dating cos that just sounded too cringe now. We were close. Jas was special to all of us, not just Iris.

I had always loved the lively gatherings with relatives and Connor’s friends. Oh boy, listen to me, I sound like an old woman on her deathbed, when I am only turning 20 this fall. Anyway, Connor and Keira’s parties were the very reason Jackson and I ever crossed paths. Our worlds would likely never have intersected otherwise. I was admittedly a bit melancholic and a lot more clingy during the more recent ones of those family get-togethers, ever since we all started college. Like a toddler I clung to Mom, Dad, Connor, and even my usually reserved twin sister, Iris. Colton and Maddie, Keira and Jasper’s parents, were a bit puzzled by my affectionate behavior—they hadn’t experienced such closeness with their own kids. But that was our family dynamic: my parents had always been the ones snuggling with Keira and Jasper just like they did with Connor, Iris and me, back when we all lived together in Brindleton Bay. Oh, the good old carefree days of childhood. Listen to me, sounding older than my years again. If I am like this before 20, what riot to be around will I be when one day I actually am old. Yikes.

Our stay in San Sequoia was more enjoyable than ever. Even Jackson seemed to embrace the upscale setting and casual fun, the not having to get up early to start the day’s chores. His dad Jack, young stepmom Izzy, and little infant brother Cody were there, adding to the fun. Connor’s welcoming nature made everyone feel at home. Stryker and Sophie, unfortunately, couldn’t join us due to their second oldest turning thirteen. Stryker was determined not to miss this milestone, having regretted it with their oldest. Now that their eldest was sixteen and driving, Stryker was teaching him—a fact that always led to some lighthearted jokes about his heart condition. But he wanted to be the dad his kids deserved, and we all understood that.

Then came the invitation to Brad and Molly’s baby shower and gender reveal. Part of me hesitated—I wasn’t sure why I was really THAT curious, but it certainly wasn’t about the baby’s gender. Jackson shared my lack of enthusiasm; to him, these events were the whims of bored rich people. He really didn’t care about gender, as long as a baby was healthy you just find out at the doctor and tell people the gender in normal conversation, or you figure it out at birth. Still, my parents, siblings and I attended, since we had known this family for such a long time. And that’s when the regret set in. Regret that I agreed to this, knowing it would be without Jackson this time who really was my rock, regret that I agreed for all the wrong reasons. I should have stayed with Jackson and not waste three days of our already so limited time together by coming here. Don’t get me wrong, the party itself was lovely, I had known all the attendees since I was a little girl. But the context was off for me. I loved Jackson, but there was this small voice inside of me screaming how unfair all this was, and that it was always supposed to be me here, not Molly.

Walking into Cunningham Estate, memories had immediately flooded back—the pool where Brad and I had spent countless hours, whenever I wasn’t grounded, which was often, I wasn’t a bad child, but I still managed to get myself into the weirdest troubles all the time. Brad’s face lighting up when he saw me was as sweet as it was cringe-worthy. His hug felt nice, maybe just a little too long to be the friendly type, until my eyes landed on Molly—his wife. WIFE. I pulled out of that hug and nearly darted away telling him I was being rude by not greeting others.

Throughout the party, I caught myself staring at Molly’s midsection several times, until one time, Connor’s voice snapped me out of it. He was not only my big brother, but also a chief of staff at a large hospital.

“She’s only a few months along, and it’s her first pregnancy. Plus, she’s so young—it’s still easy to hide, you little bump-obsessed stalker-ex!” he teased, nudging me.

I blushed, unable to deny it, and stuck my tongue out at him. He responded by shoving a chip with dip into my mouth.

The snack was undeniably delicious and it made me realize I was actually hungry, so I made my way over to the buffet. But instead of enjoying my treat, Jasper swooped in, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the separate poolhouse, dragging me inside, shutting the door. I protested, “You’ve got the wrong sister, you hornball!” while pointing at the bed.

Jasper scoffed. “Agh, as if anyone could confuse you and Iris, for realz now, Bri. Then again, that thing you are thinking of is how I stumbled upon this gem, was checking if anyone booked into this shed for the night or if Iris and I could use it for a little R&R of our own, cos honestly, turns out baby showers are just not our speed. But my mood went out the door quick. Look there!” He pointed behind me at a wall adorned with photos of me and Brad. Oh, brother! There had to be a good dozen all over the walls. Some the same in different settings, but it was us through the years.

While I stared, hoping it was all a mirage, Jasper continued his tirade. “I was looking for a place to have some adult fun with Iris, but after seeing this, I nearly pooped my own wiener. Who does this?! No offense, nothing personal, but this is mega-cringe. Our boy is married to another girl, who’s gonna have his kid before next semester starts, and he’s got a secret Bri-shrine in the guest house. Can you believe that shit? That fool was once my best friend! And you dated him! We had shit taste as teens, Bri. Jeez, girl, never thought I’d say this, but you’re SO much better off with your cowboy than this psycho!”

Before I could stop myself, I spun around to face Jasper, hissing, “Brad’s not psycho! He’s just confused. Remember, we didn’t break up for any reasons; his father tore us apart. We never got closure, Jas. And honestly, these pictures—while a bit weird—are harmless. Nice frames, too, that’s why he kept them. And for the record, we are STILL teens, at least for a few more months. And even then, I doubt just being at an age that then starts with a 2 is gonna suddenly mature us and instill us with all the wisdom of the world. We all make mistakes. I am sure Brad wasn’t thinking weird stuff, just looking for a place to store these that is not in Molly’s face, cos that would be cringe. I know these photos, they used to be up in the main house.”

“Yeah, whatever, defensive much? Bri, I don’t care if you snap at me or think I am an ass, but I know you still like to talk to Brad, so maybe next time you do, in between sips of coffee and him drooling over you, you could weave into the conversation that this kinda shit is super-inappropriate. For your sake, for his sake and for all of our sakes. If Jackson were to see this, what do you think would happen? Spoiler alert: nothing good.”

“Jas, you are making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s nothing. Harmless. Just nice-looking pictures, memories, they had to go somewhere. I would be more offended if we found them in their trash.”

“That’s what attics and basements are for, Bri, and I remember playing in both with Brad when he and I were kids, so I know they have both options. TALK TO THE MAN, Bri! Or I will, and you know how well that goes down these days.”

Jasper shot me a look that left no doubt about his thoughts, then shook his head and exited the room, while I took to talking to myself.

“Oh, Brad. What are you doing? If your dad finds this shrine, he’ll hand your ass to you. And Molly would just be so hurt and heartbroken. Jasper and Connor totally know we both never got closure and evidently have unresolved business. Yikes! Jas is right, we have to have a talk. Jackson would totally lose it if he were to see this.”

Well, I didn’t get talk to Brad that day, there was simply no occasion for it without eyes or ears on us and this convo was not something for public consumption. So, for now it was postponed, but it would come up, at the very latest when Brad and I were back on campus. Jasper was right, this wasn’t okay. We had to give each other closure for the choice that had been taken from us. Clearly, we both had moved on. At least partially. Time to move the rest onwards too.

First, I went onwards and westwards, back to Jackson’s ranch.

At first it was our familiar routine, but then came my introduction into rodeos. Knowing how I was prone to worrying, especially about him and the horses, Jackson had spared me for as long as he could, missing a great part of his usual season, until he felt I was ready to meet that side of him. I will never forget that day. The sun dipped low, casting a warm glow over the wooden bleachers. I sat there, gripping the edge of my seat, my heart pounding in rhythm with the distant drumming of hooves. The crowd buzzed with anticipation as the first rider burst from the chute, defying gravity for those precious seconds. My eyes were fixed on the bronc riders—the true daredevils of the rodeo. It made the preceding breathtaking roping and barrel racing with their many gasp-evoking moments suddenly seem like child’s play. The horses were wild, powerful and it looked rough. My eyes grew wide from the first moment and I never relaxed, watching cowboys and -girls get bounced off bucking broncos, landing hard in clouds of dust just inches from stomping hooves.

And then there he was—Jackson Kershaw—his rugged silhouette framed by the setting sun. His chiseled jaw clenched, eyes focused, he straddled the massive stallion named “Raging Inferno.” The beast’s hide rippled with muscle, its eyes wild and furious. It was a tempest of raw power, ready to explode into motion.

The announcer’s voice boomed, introducing each rider. The crowd hushed, collective breath held. Jackson nodded to the gatekeeper, and the chute swung open. “Raging Inferno” erupted, a fury of hooves and rage.

The wild stallion bucked, twisted, and spun, defying Jackson’s grip. He rode with the grace of a man who’d made a pact with danger, but the stallion was relentless.

Then it happened—the moment that froze time. “Raging Inferno” lunged, its head whipping side to side. Jackson fought to stay centered, muscles straining. But gravity had other plans. They crashed—a whirlwind of dust, sinew, and sheer force. The arena erupted in gasps and shouts. I watched them tumble, horse and rider entwined.

My breath caught. Panic surged. Jackson’s hat flew off, revealing his sweat-soaked hair. I glimpsed his determined eyes, locked onto the horse’s wild ones. They rolled, dust clinging to their bruised bodies. And then, miraculously, they untangled. Jackson staggered to his feet, limping but alive. “Raging Inferno” snorted, sides heaving, eyes still ablaze, glaring at an unfazed Jackson picking up his hat, shaking off the dust and putting it back on.

I should have felt relief, but terror gripped me. My hands shook, and tears blurred my vision. I’d seen rodeo riding on TV, the glorified versions in movies, but witnessing it live—the raw power, the danger—was overwhelming. I stumbled down the bleachers, ignoring the curious glances from other spectators. Jackson met me halfway, his face bruised, but his grin defiant.

“Briar Rose,” he rasped, pulling me into his arms. “I’m fine. He’s fine. Just a little rodeo tango. Just how it’s s’pposed to be. I made good time, might win this after all. Good prize money for us.”

But I couldn’t stop the tears, and couldn’t give less of a damn about wins and prize money if I tried. I know I should be the one comforting Jackson, instead it was him calming me as I lost it, sobbing, ugly crying into his shoulder. The worst scenarios played out in my mind—the broken bones, the lifeless eyes of a fallen cowboy, a horse getting shot for having done nothing that wasn’t natural to it. I buried my face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and sweat. “I thought—I thought you were—”

His lips pressed against my hair. “I’m tougher than a bull’s hide, darlin’. Ain’t no horse gonna take me down.”

The night after Jackson’s rodeo crash, I helped him undress. His skin bore the tapestry of impact—deep reds, purples and blues that whispered of danger. I wiped away dirt and dried blood, he was clearly in pain, no matter how hard he tried to hide it from me, my heart was aching. “You scare me sometimes,” I admitted.

His tortured expression softened as he caught my hand. “It’s in my blood, Bri. Rodeo, horses, ranching—it’s who I am. It’s how I make money. For us. And ridin’ ponies won’t be what kills me. Only losin’ ya would. This’ll heal, I’ll be fine,”

His lips brushed mine. “Bruises and all,” he promised.

In that moment, I understood. Love wasn’t just the easy days, the fun days, the romance, the butterflies—it was the nights spent tending to wounds, the shared dreams under star-studded skies, the rough moments, when you had to do something you didn’t want to do, didn’t feel like doing, something you weren’t comfortable with. It was acceptance, it was the good times, but also the hard times, just like they all said. Jackson was my cowboy, and this—bruises, dust, horses and all—was his life. And if I wanted him, it was going to be our life.

And so, my initiation into rodeo life had come with a crash—a cloud of dust, a bruised cowboy, my cowboy, and a heart that would never beat quite the same. Civilization seemed distant, unimportant, replaced by the primal rhythm of hooves and the fierce love that bound me to Jackson Kershaw. I sighed.

My twin sister Iris Marie’s voice now pulled me back into the here and now. The familiar scents of Chestnut Ridge were suddenly replaced by those of my sister’s signature perfume and the scented candle burning over on the chest of drawers. Spring was nearing its end, my time with Jackson was over, I was back on campus, it felt surreal knowing that an entire country was now separating him, his horses, his dog Millie, the little play-pretend ranch life we had built up together over my semester with him and me again. An instant pang of missing him washed over me.

“What smut are you writing about? You have been sighing and/or moaning like a nymphomaniac hooker with Tourette’s!” she informed me while snatching my notebook from me, looking over the mostly glaringly empty pages, before lowing it, to give me a pitiful look.

“Oh boy, here we go again. So, it is worse than just the typical horny you would expect from someone our age. You’re actually missing him. Look sis, if this is supposed to be a paper, I would do without the cutesy drawings and hearts and all that. I don’t know how your prof would read that, but either way there is just no good way that could go. This will be a LOOOONG semester for both of us. I have been through the Jackson withdrawals with you before. Might take up drinking or drugs, considering I am dating a future famous actor, it would fit in well.” she sighed theatrically, while tossing the notepad back onto my desk.

I just didn’t have any clever comebacks in me. She was right, I was in Jackson withdrawals. Ah, the familiar banter between twins—the kind that cuts through the mundane and dives straight into the heart of things. Iris Marie’s assertiveness was as unwavering as ever, and her knack for snatching my notebook at the most inconvenient moments remained unmatched.

I glanced at my notebook with its mostly empty pages but many frilly scribbles, clearly this was only a draft and nothing I would submit, that would be typed and electronic, but still, my cheeks flushing. ‘Smut’ was a bit of an exaggeration, but I couldn’t deny that what little writing I had accomplished so far had taken a passionate turn. Jackson’s absence had ignited a fire within me—a longing that spilled onto those blank sheets. Iris Marie’s theatrical sighs were a reminder that she’d weathered the same storm with me before, every time when Jackson and I were apart. She’d witnessed my “Jackson withdrawals” firsthand many times before, even long before he and I were ever a couple, and her empathy was both comforting and exasperating.

But it wasn’t just Jackson I missed; it was Prairie Rose too. The mare he’d officially given me, with the unspoken promise that her home would always be his ranch. Prairie Rose possessed an otherworldly beauty—a shade of bay that defied easy description. Not too light, not too dark, but a reddish hue that caught the sun’s rays just right. When I rode her into town, strangers approached us—compliments flowed, and inquiries about breeding followed suit. Prairie Rose moved with a natural grace, her agility a testament to the bond we shared. Iris’ next words to me made me realize that I hadn’t just thought the aforementioned, but evidently swooned out aloud, unless she suddenly could read minds.

Iris Marie raised an eyebrow. “You’re mooning over a horse now? Bri, you’re a hopeless romantic. You’re in love with a cowboy AND his horse. Good night, all! How can we be twins and yet nothing alike at all?! I said it before and I’ll say it again: I really should have absorbed you in womb and nobody would have been the wiser.”

I chuckled, well aware that she didn’t mean it, as I was wiping away an unexpected tear. “Maybe so, but Prairie Rose isn’t just any horse. She’s a piece of Jackson—the wildness, the strength, the untamed spirit. When I ride her, it’s like he’s there with me, whispering secrets in the wind.”

My twin rolled her eyes. “For a second I was afraid you’d say when you ride that horse it’s as if you were riding Jackson. Hahaha. So, secrets, huh? I can imagine what you are imagining while riding her if you put it that way. Reminds you of Jackson, my foot, I bet it does, especially the rough bouncing, huh?! We need to buy you a personal massager, you can name it Jackson, has less of a cringe aftertaste, gurl! Well, if you’re going to pine away on your paper, at least make it interesting. Write about love, adventure, and maybe throw in a few pirates. You know, something worthy of Prairie Rose.”

And just like that, my notepad beckoned again. Maybe Iris Marie was onto something. Perhaps my next entry would be less about pining and frilly heart doodles and more about the epic tale of a cowboy, his fiery mare, and the love that bridged worlds. After all, what’s a semester without a little literary escapade? I just had to turn down the heat or our poor old professor would have a heart attack reading this, I thought to myself, giggling, then realizing that Iris had left, but accomplished exactly what she wanted to. I was smiling and writing my paper now.