Chapter 3 The Color of Somewhere Wilder

POV: Isobel

Outside the classroom, Tennessee late summer glows the way it always does—slow, gold, and bright enough to make even a school parking lot look like something worth painting. Isobel’s been trying to ignore it for twenty minutes. It isn’t easy when you’re the kind of person who notices light the way others notice sound.

She bends over her canvas instead, finishing the last brushstroke with care, taking her time because the painting is good and she doesn’t want to rush the ending. The colors stand out against the quiet classroom: crimson bleeding into gold, deep green sitting underneath like leaves after rain. Each stroke is careful, full of a kind of respect she’s never been able to explain to people who don’t paint. It’s as if the canvas listens, and you have to mean every move you make.

The walls around her are cinder block, painted the same beige they’ve been since she started teaching here three years ago. They’ll probably stay that way for as long as she’s here. She’s covered as much as she can with student art—lines and color and the fearless marks kids make before they learn to be shy about it. The result is a classroom that feels less like a room and more like a window, with a splash of wildness pressing in from every direction.

She reaches for a last tube of paint.

Boots echo in the hallway, stopping her hand in midair.

Not just any boots. That walk, slow and sure, belongs to one person. The kind of rhythm you get when you decide at fourteen that every room you enter belongs to you, and you never look back.

Isobel sets the paint down, smiling before the door even opens.

Bella Rose McAlister walks in like a change in the weather.

She moves with hips loose, chin up, boots hitting the linoleum with a beat that means business. It’s not something you learn from books or family; it’s something you grow into, and Rose has been growing into it for as long as Isobel’s known her. Rose doesn’t just enter a room, she claims it, eyes sweeping over the canvas, the paint on Isobel’s fingers, the half-eaten granola bar on the desk—taking it all in at a glance.

She sits on the edge of a student table like it’s her own porch swing, crosses her ankles, and grins.

“You ready to roll, girl?”

Her voice slips out smooth and sweet, slow like syrup with a bite underneath. It reminds you she’s got a sharp side.

Isobel gathers her brushes, letting the bristles slide softly through her fingers before dropping them in the rinse jar. The water clouds instantly, crimson and gold swirling together into something honest and muddy.

“What’s the plan again?” She glances sideways, letting her excitement show. She’s never managed to hide that look, not when Rose shows up with trouble brewing and a story to tell.

Rose’s grin grows sly. “Delilah’s pitching a fit like she’s been watching too much TV. Larry Hutchins says there’s a trainer over in Wears Valley who can work miracles.” She shrugs, one shoulder moving. “Or maybe exorcisms. Whatever gets the job done.”

Isobel knows Larry Hutchins the way everyone in a small Tennessee county does—the man who’s been down the road from someone’s cousin for forty years. If he says a trainer is worth the drive, he’s probably right.

She raises an eyebrow, hand on her hip, letting Rose know she’s not sold yet, but she’s listening.

“And why do I need to be part of this trip?” Her voice softens, picking up a hint of a drawl, the way it does when she’s asking something she already half knows the answer to.

Rose’s grin shifts, turning warmer, slower, a smile that wears innocence as a disguise.

“Because you love me,” she says. “And because I need my best girl riding shotgun.” She pauses just a heartbeat. “Moral support.”

The wink is classic Rose: part charm, part dare, part warning.

Isobel laughs before she really means to, warm and real, shaking her head as she grabs her purse. The strap slides onto her shoulder like it’s done a thousand times. Three years of friendship have turned a lot of things between them from awkward to easy, from polite to bone-deep.

She follows Rose into the parking lot, sunlight spilling over everything.

The heat is the first thing to hit her, thick and heavy, the kind of Tennessee August that settles on your shoulders and doesn’t let go. Then she sees the truck and gets a better idea of what she’s agreed to.

Rose’s Ford F-250 sits at the edge of the lot, white and dust-streaked, built to haul anything and proud of it. Behind it, a three-horse trailer glints in the sun, metal sides shining, steady as a ship at anchor. The whole setup waits, calm but ready.

From inside the trailer comes a thud, like a private earthquake.

Delilah, Rose’s buckskin mare, is not happy.

The mare’s hooves bang against the floor, sending vibrations through the hitch and the truck’s frame. Her breath fogs up the slats. The trailer rocks gently, unsettled by her anxiety.

They climb in, and Rose drives out of the lot like someone who’s spent her life hauling horses through Tennessee backroads and has the grip to prove it.

Isobel feels Delilah’s panic through the seat.

That’s the only way to put it—the mare’s nerves reach her through the metal, leather, and even the soles of her boots. She keeps glancing into the side mirror, watching for flashes of buckskin inside the dark trailer, catching glimpses of a creature who doesn’t know where she’s headed and has decided to treat the whole thing like a betrayal.

“Delilah’s not too happy about this trip,” Isobel says, keeping her tone light. Her fingers clench on the dashboard.

Rose’s mouth tightens, eyes fixed on the road. “She’s acting like a wild mustang back there. I’m surprised she hasn’t busted out yet.” She gives a low laugh, but it’s more tired than amused. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Another clang rattles up through the truck, and Isobel shifts in her seat. “It’s like she’s sending every bit of her panic right into my bones.”

Rose goes quiet, her face changing. The humor falls away, leaving something softer and more serious. This is the side of Rose not everyone gets to see.

“That’s why I had to buy her, Iz.” Her voice drops, rough around the edges. “I couldn’t let her end up in a kill buyer’s pen. Those folks’ll strip the soul right out of a horse and sell her for whatever they can—dog food, glue, anything.” She shakes her head, tight and sharp. “Breaks my heart every time.”

Isobel looks over, surprised. “I had no idea.”

She means it. After a lifetime in this county and three years teaching its kids, she never knew about this undercurrent—the ugly reality hiding under all the horse country she’s grown up with. It lands somewhere deep, in the part of her that aches for anything thrown away before its worth is ever noticed.

“It’s the dirtiest secret in the horse world,” Rose says, keeping her eyes on the road. “But this trainer, if he’s half as good as Larry says, maybe he can figure out what’s got Delilah so worked up. She’s got more spirit than most men I know.” A hint of a smile lifts the corner of her mouth.

Isobel reaches over, hand warm on Rose’s arm, squeezing once. “You’ll figure it out, Rose. You’re the horse whisperer, not him.”

That gets a real smile, quick and genuine, the kind Rose can’t fake.

“Thanks, Iz.” She clicks the turn signal, the steady tick filling the quiet. “That means more than I’ll say.” Her eyes dart over, bright, the mischief slipping back in. “You ought to ride with me more often. You’ve got a good seat, even if you don’t believe it.”

Isobel’s gaze drops to her lap, something honest in her voice. “I don’t know, Rose. Horses still scare me a little, if I’m being honest.”

The truck keeps rolling, trailer swaying behind, Delilah’s nerves vibrating up through everything.

Rose’s grip loosens on the wheel. Her voice is gentle, softer than most ever hear.

“I get it. They’re big, and strong, and they’ll test you at every turn. But you’ll get there, Iz. Just trust yourself. The rest will follow.”