That voice, low, rough, and so painfully familiar, twisted my stomach.
Lincoln.
I blinked against the blur of lights. The sun haloed around him, catching on the edges of his dark hair. He was already kneeling beside me, hat gone, eyes wild with worry, sweat running down his temples. His shirt clung to his shoulders, the rolled sleeves dusted with dirt.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was tight, strained, carrying the command of a man who expected an answer and hated that he needed one.
His hand hesitated for a moment before resting softly on my arm. Warm. Steady. Solid in a way that hit too close.
Every nerve in my body flared to life. Three years since I’d felt that touch, and it felt like no time had passed at all. The air between us shifted, heavy with memory, anger, and something else I refused to name.
“I’m fine,” I croaked, the words scraping raw out of my throat. I pushed at his chest with my good hand. He didn’t budge. His body might as well have been made of stone. “Get out of here. I don’t need you.”
“The hell you don’t.” His jaw clenched, voice low enough that only I could hear. His eyes locked on mine, the same dark, steady look that had once made me feel like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing. He brushed a strand of hair from my face with maddening tenderness.
I hated feeling the urge to lean into his hand. Hated that even now, covered in dirt and pain, my body still remembered him. The sound of the crowd faded into a distant hum, and all I could hear was the hammering of my own heartbeat.
I forced myself upright, teeth grinding against the pain that shot through my shoulder. My legs shook under me, but I stayed standing. Somewhere above us, the announcer said something about me being tough as nails, and the crowd cheered. I raised my hand, managed a smile that felt paper-thin.
When I turned back, Lincoln was still there. Solid. Unyielding. Too close.
“Go,” I hissed, voice sharp but quiet. “I don’t want you here.”
His gaze darkened, filled with everything we hadn’t spoken in three years: regret, anger, hunger. It pinned me tighter than his hands ever had.
“Maybe not,” he said, voice rough but calm. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
My knees nearly buckled. God help me, I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to kiss him.
Instead, I turned my back, ignoring the pain, and stalked toward the gate. My boots left faint prints in the dirt, the ache in my arm echoing with each step.
Behind me, I could feel him moving. His presence followed, heavy and constant.
Then came the sound of leather and hooves. I turned just in time to see Linc grab Lady’s reins, swing into the saddle with the same easy strength I remembered too well. Lady settled beneath him, as if she’d been waiting.
She knew him. Trusted him.
He guided her back into the arena, calm and deliberate, trotting her around the final barrel and through the alleyway. It wasn’t just about finishing the ride; it was about making sure she was okay.
And no matter how mad I was, no matter how hard I tried to hate him, he was still the only person besides Griff I’d ever trust on her back.
Linc’s easy control over Lady hit me like a punch straight to the gut. He guided her in a slow, looping trot, checking her gait with the reins loose in his hands. The crowd didn’t even realize what they were seeing; most of them thought it was just a cowboy helping out. But I knew better. I knew every move he made came from years of knowing her, knowing me.
He leaned forward, whispered something to her, and Lady flicked her ears back as if she understood. The sight of it burned my throat. She’d always listened to him, even when I didn’t.
He finished the circle, lifted his hand to the announcer, and trotted back to the gate. I stood there with my good hand pressed against my shoulder, the pain pulsing steadily under my palm. My heart pounded out of rhythm with the crowd’s cheers.
When he slid off her back, Lady turned her head to nuzzle his sleeve, searching for the sugar cubes he used to keep in his pocket. I wanted to hate that memory. I wanted to scrape it out of me and throw it in the dirt with the rest of the past. Instead, my chest just hurt.
He led her toward me, the reins draped over his arm, his walk steady. Even covered in dust, he looked like he’d stepped out of another time, hat in one hand, jaw set, the quiet kind of man who didn’t need to announce his strength. He’d always been that way.
“Looks like she’s fine,” he said, stopping just close enough for me to smell the sweat and dust on him. It was a smell I knew too well. It had once meant safety.
“She would’ve been fine without you,” I said. My voice sounded thin, half-angry, half-exhausted.
He nodded once, slow, as if he’d expected that. “Maybe. But you were down, and she needed a steady hand. Didn’t seem like anyone else was moving.”
The words weren’t cruel. They were simple, almost gentle, and that made it worse.
