“Miss Ella! Should we start training today?” she asks, breathless and bright-eyed.
Her excitement is so pure it almost knocks the air right out of me. I smile at her, the heaviness inside me dissolving just a little.
Ava looks at me questioningly, but I give her a reassuring smile, then turn to Aria. “We can try.”
Her grin widens. “I knew you’d say yes. Daddy said you were the best barrel racer ever before you got hurt.”
I blink. “He said that?”
“Uh-huh,” she chirps. “And Daddy never lies. Can we start right now? Please?”
Ava hops to her feet. “You two have fun, but you and I are due for a deeper talk later,” she demands, eyeing me.
“Yes, Mrs. Morgan,” I tease.
“I quite like that. Speaking of, I miss my Mr. Morgan, please excuse me while I seek him out.”
“Gross,” I fake gag.
“Pot calling kettle black,” she mocks before turning toward the house.
She floats back inside while Aria grabs my hand and tugs, and I let her lead me toward the arena. The closer we get, the more something inside me twists—old memories, pain, and fear. The thump of hooves in the distance hits something deep in my chest. I haven’t trained anyone since before the accident. I haven’t stepped back into this world with both feet since I was seventeen.
But Aria squeezes my hand once, unaware of the war happening inside me, and I remind myself that this moment isn’t about the past. It’s about now, about what I can give, and what I can reclaim for myself.
Aria is already familiar with the basics, which makes teaching her easier. I watched her during last year’s rodeo, and shewas good, but she can be better. So we start small—with introductions to her new mare, posture, and balance. I adjust her feet in the stirrups and correct her grip on the reins. She listens intently, nodding with the seriousness of someone preparing for battle.
“You’re really good at this,” she praises after I help her with Cinder, one of our gentlest mares.
I smile, a real one this time. “Thank you. I had a good teacher once.”
Beck was actually the one who taught me how to ride. He was a bareback rider himself, but his love for horses made him the best teacher I could have asked for.
“Can I be good too?” she asks.
“You can be amazing,” I answer. “But you have to be patient with yourself.”
She beams. “Ella?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“You make me brave.”
The words hit me like a soft punch. I look at her, really look at her, and realize that while I’ve been drowning in old hurt, she’s been seeing me as something entirely different: someone strong, steady, and worth trusting.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
We spend the next hour training. She’s eager, determined, and full of potential. Every time she completes a pattern, she pumps her little fist in the air, yelling “Yes!” loud enough for the horses in the next county to hear. And with each small victory she earns, something loosens inside me.
For the first time in years, being in the arena doesn’t feel like a punishment. It feels like coming home.
When Aria takes a break to drink water, I glance toward the cabin. Cole stands at a distance, arms crossed, watching us. Not interfering. Not approaching. Just watching.
Our eyes meet briefly. His expression is complicated—pride, longing, regret, fear, all tangled into something he can’t hide even if he wants to.
He looks away first.
Good, I think. Let him feel it, and realize what he’s pushing away.
