He tested the stirrup with his boot. “Put your foot in and get on.”
I looked down and back up at him. “On the horse?”
“Trust me, Birdy.” He gathered the reins. “I just did this with my own campers and a couple of yours.”
My heart slowed a little hearing his nickname for me. As soon as I stuck my tennis shoe in the stirrup, Manning lifted me onto the horse by my waist. “Christ, Lake,” he said, adjusting my foot in the stirrup. His head came all the way to my shoulder. “You weigh the same as a ten-year-old.”
It wasn’t true, but it probably felt that way to Manning, who could lift a horse without a struggle.
Okay, maybe not a horse. But he was strong.
Manning turned to walk away, and panic gripped me. I reached out and grabbed the first thing I could, nearly toppling over as I latched onto his t-shirt. “Where are you going?”
He stopped in his tracks, mostly because I had him in a death grip. When he saw me lopsided in the saddle, he laughed. “You know animals can sense fear, right?”
He wasn’t helping. “That’s a myth.”
“Is it?” He engulfed my fisted hand with his, but didn’t pull me off. “I was just going to make sure everyone got on, but if you think you need me more . . .”
I did. I needed him. Why didn’t I get to be selfish every now and then like everyone else? He would stay if I asked him to. Most of the girls had ridden horses before, some had even taken lessons. But I hadn’t come here to be with Manning—I’d come for them. I loosened my fist, and he held my hand until I’d righted myself on the horse.
“Two minutes,” he said. “If she moves, pull on the reins and say ‘whoa.’”
Manning checked in with each of his boys and my girls, too. The way he made eye contact with each one and listened to whatever they said made me wonder why my dad wasn’t like this with me when I got scared. He would’ve just told me to get on and quit whining. Did Manning get that from his dad? Where was Mr. Sutter? What did he do for a living? How often did Manning see him? After he’d shut down my questions about his sister, I wasn’t sure I could ask. But if Manning had become the man he was because of his dad, I wanted to meet and thank him.
Betsy Senior neighed and took a few steps, jolting me back to reality. I tugged on the reins.
Manning looked over and mouthed, Whoa.
“Whoa,” I said. Betsy stamped a hoof and settled.
It took longer than two minutes, but Manning returned once it was time to go. “You want to drive?”
“No. Will you? Please.”
He scratched his chin. “I didn’t think this through. You might need to get off so I can get on first. Can you do it?”
If it meant I wouldn’t have to be in charge of this thing, then yes. He helped me down, hoisted himself onto the horse, and jerked his head for me to get on again. Tentatively, I put my foot in the stirrup again. I had no way of pulling myself up, so Manning offered his elbow. I used it to slide onto the saddle behind him.
“See?” he said. “You’re a natural. “Ready?”
But now, what was I supposed to do with my hands? His nearness robbed me of everything from sense to speech. His camp t-shirt, still creased, smelled like plastic and a hint of sweat.
“You might want to hold on,” he said.
There was only one way to hold on. He was asking me to put my arms around him—just like that? As if it wasn’t something I’d dreamed of a hundred times? It was impossible that he wouldn’t instantly know the depth of my feelings just by this simple hug. He’d feel the pounding of my heart against his back. My hairline began to sweat. I ached to do it, but I seriously couldn’t bring myself to move an inch. I was scared stiff.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“Suit yourself.” Manning clucked his tongue, squeezed Betsy’s sides with his feet, and she jolted forward. I seized onto his t-shirt to keep from falling. He pulled back on the reins, laughing. “Whoa, Betsy. Whoa,” he said. She steadied into a walk. “It might take a few tries.”
My hands might as well be on him now. I had the fabric of his shirt in two fists, and if I released it, I might fall. Probably. It was likely. I didn’t want to fall. I didn’t want to let go of Manning when I finally had him. I eased my grip and slowly, with appreciation for every detail, slid my arms around his middle. I clasped my hands together and scooted closer, my inner thighs pressing against his legs. My pulse beat everywhere, especially the places we touched. And I felt his, too. I couldn’t tell if the fast, rhythmic ba-boom against my palms was just the robust heartbeat of a healthy man or if he was feeling as euphoric and turned on and nervous as I was.