Deep down, I’m fighting the ridiculous urge to lean into him, to claim just one more touch in the open where anyone can see. His fingers brush my lower back—barely a touch, but enough that my breath catches. When our eyes meet, there’s a softness there, a knowing, the kind of silent intimacy that makes yesterday feel like the beginning of something instead of just a moment.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.
I know why he’s asking. He caught me in the most vulnerable state and helped me through it. I hate that he had to see me like that, but I’m also grateful for it, as it’s brought us closer. Now he’s no longer talking of keeping distance between us or throwing the word “professional” around as if we’re blind to our feelings for each other.
“I’m great,” I assure him.
He assesses me for a long beat before nodding after seeing that I’m not lying. That’s because I’m not. I’m used to recoveringfrom my nightmares on my own, but yesterday I had him, and that made it all better.
He clears his throat after a beat, slipping back into father mode, but the awareness lingers. “Call me if you need anything,” he says to me, but the look he gives is warmer, deeper, like he’s saying I’m here for you too, even when he’s walking away.
And there it is again, that pull in my chest that wants to chase him, reach for him, and drag him back into my arms. But I force myself to stay in instructor mode, focused on Aria, because that’s what I promised, and it’s supposed to be good for me too.
I take Aria’s hand as we walk toward the stables. “Today we’re going to work on your turns. Are you ready?”
“Yes!” She nods eagerly.
Her trust in me is immediate and total, and that tiny fact alone presses a knot of emotion into my throat.
Because training her, being on this dirt, walking these lines, hearing hoofbeats—it’s more than teaching. It’s stepping back into the version of myself I used to be, the girl who once lived and breathed barrel racing like it was her birthright. The girl who had dreams so bright they lit the inside of her ribcage.
Before they shattered.
Before I shattered.
But this—helping Aria chase her own magic—is healing in ways I didn’t expect.
After grooming and tack-up, we enter the arena again. I bring my mare, Juniper, so I can demonstrate the lines, but Aria is the one who does the practice. She mounts her horse with practiced ease, eyes sharp with focus.
“Okay, sweet girl, let’s start slow,” I call out. “Walk the pattern. Feel the rhythm.”
She moves the horse into a walk, guiding him around the barrels, posture straight, shoulders soft. It’s good. Really good. She has a natural talent she doesn’t even understand yet—the kind of balance and instinct that can’t be taught, only shaped.
I ride alongside to demonstrate a smoother turn. “See here?” I point out as I tip my horse around the barrel, close and tight. “Use your inside leg to push him out just a little. Don’t let him dive too early.”
“Like this?” Aria tries, and she nails it.
“Yes! Exactly like that!”
She beams, and pride blooms warm and full in my chest.
We run the pattern again, this time in a trot. She’s focused and confident. My heart lifts watching her, and for a few minutes, everything—the past, pain, and memories—quiet enough for joy to take up space inside me again.
But when we move to a canter, something shifts. Not wrong, just… different. Her horse becomes eager. A little too eager.
“Steady,” I shout. “Sit deep. Let him come to you.”
She tries, listens, and adjusts, but when she takes the second barrel turn, her outside foot slips too far out of the stirrup—a tiny mistake, barely a thing, but enough to tilt her weight at the wrong angle.
“No—Aria—inside leg—“
It happens in a blink.
Her horse clips the barrel. It wobbles, he panics as his front hooves scramble for purchase in the dirt, and in the next breath, Aria is airborne.
My world narrows to the shape of her small body, hitting the ground with a sickening thud, a cry bursting from her as she lands hard on her wrist before rolling into the dust.
“Aria!”
