Jake’s POV
Elijah naps in the nursery while I sit at the kitchen counter with my laptop open and the particular restlessness that comes from needing purpose I can't find within these walls.
Seven months in Manhattan. Seven months of concrete beneath my feet instead of dirt. Seven months of a skyline that doesn't breathe, doesn't ask anything of my hands except patience I'm running short on.
The search results blur together. Riding academies with waiting lists two years long. Equestrian clubs that cost more per month than some ranchers make in a quarter. Show barns where horses are investments and children are accessories.
None of it feels right.
I scroll past another advertisement for polo lessons and stop on something different. A therapeutic riding program in New Jersey. Kids from difficult backgrounds. Horses as teachers instead of trophies. Confidence through horsemanship.
I read their mission statement three times before picking up my phone.
"Steady Heart Stables, this is Margaret." The woman who answers sounds professionally skeptical. "How can I help you?"
"My name's Jake Sullivan." I keep my voice steady. "I'm calling about volunteer opportunities. Maybe instruction work, if you're taking on new people."
"I appreciate your interest, Mr. Sullivan." Her tone carries polished dismissal. "We have a thorough vetting process for anyone working with our students. May I ask about your background with horses?"
"Twenty years." I lean back in my chair. "I started competing in rodeo when I was nineteen. Bronc riding, mostly. Won a few championships before my body started suggesting I find a different line of work."
The silence shifts. Recalibrates.
"Rodeo." She says it like she's testing the word. "That's not typically the background we see from volunteers."
"I imagine not." I run my hand through my hair. "I also own a ranch in Texas. Have for years. Spent a good chunk of that time teaching young men who needed structure more than they needed kindness."
"Teaching young men how, exactly?"
"Ranch hands, mostly. Kids who showed up broken or angry or both." The memories surface with edges that still cut. "Taught them how to work. How to respect something bigger than themselves. How to earn trust from an animal that doesn't care about your excuses."
"And these were troubled youth? Or just inexperienced workers?"
"Both, usually." I stand, moving to the window. "Kid shows up at seventeen with a chip on his shoulder and nowhere else to go, you learn pretty quick that the chip matters more than the skills. Fix the attitude first. The competence follows."
"That's an interesting philosophy." Her voice has shifted. Warmer now. "How did you fix the attitude, as you put it?"
"Started them small. Mucking stalls. Filling water troughs. Work that matters but doesn't require trust yet." I press my palm against the cold glass. "Let them build confidence through competence before I ever put them near an animal that could hurt them."
"And when they were ready for the horses?"
"Matched them carefully. You watch how a kid moves. Whether they're scared or pretending not to be. Whether they need something gentle to build their confidence or something with spirit to match their own."
"The wrong match can set a student back significantly."
"Months, sometimes." I nod even though she can't see it. "But the right one can change everything. Had a kid once, sixteen years old, wouldn't look anyone in the eye. Angry at the world and everyone in it. Put him with a mare named Dusty who'd been mistreated before I bought her. Both of them scared, both of them defensive."
"What happened?"
"They taught each other." The memory loosens something in my chest. "Took six weeks before either of them trusted anyone. Took another six before that kid smiled for the first time since he arrived. By the end of summer, you couldn't separate them."
"Mr. Sullivan, you said you're in the area now?" Her tone has shifted completely. Professional skepticism replaced by genuine interest. "Are you relocating to New Jersey?"
"Manhattan, actually." The word tastes foreign even now. "My wife's work keeps us here. But I've got time, and I've got skills that are rotting in an apartment with no land."
"Manhattan." She laughs, surprised and genuine. "That must be quite an adjustment."
"You could say that."
"Tell me about your philosophy with children who've never touched an animal larger than a dog. How do you introduce them to horses without overwhelming them?"
"Same way you introduce anyone to something that could hurt them." I watch the city pulse beneath me. "Respect first. Let them observe. Let them see how the horse moves, how it breathes, how it responds to calm and chaos differently. Fear is useful when it teaches caution. It's only dangerous when it teaches avoidance."
"And the children who are already afraid? The ones who come to us after trauma?"
"Those are the ones who need horses most." My voice roughens with certainty I've earned. "A horse doesn't care about your history. Doesn't judge. Doesn't lie. Responds honestly to what you give it. For a kid who's been lied to by every adult they've trusted, that honesty is revolutionary."
Margaret's silence stretches as the papers shuffle.
"Mr. Sullivan, we don't typically bring on volunteers without an extensive interview process and background check." Her voice carries decision. "But I'd like to invite you to visit the facility. See what we do here. Meet some of our students and staff."
"I'd appreciate that."
"Would next Tuesday work? Around ten in the morning?"
"I'll be there."
"Wonderful." Warmth bleeds into her professional tone. "And Mr. Sullivan? Thank you for calling. We don't get many people with your experience reaching out."
"I'm not looking for impressive." I close my eyes. "I'm looking for useful."
"I think you'll fit right in."
After I hang up, I stand at the window for a long time.
Something in my chest loosens with each breath. Not the restlessness—that's still there, lodged beneath my ribs like something permanent. But layered over it now, the first thread of relief.
The relief of being valued for skills that have nothing to do with Adison's world.
Here, I'm her husband. The father of her child. Roles I chose and would choose again. But none of them require my hands to know what they're doing.
Margaret heard something different. Heard the rodeo years and the ranch work and the broken boys I helped put back together. Heard skills instead of history.
For the first time since Manhattan, I feel like someone I recognize.
The baby monitor crackles. Elijah's fussing pulls me back.
I close the laptop and head toward the nursery, carrying something new alongside the weight.
Hope, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it.