The morning of Aria’s competition feels like electricity under my skin. Not the painful kind—more like the crackling hum before a storm breaks—charged, alive, and impossible to ignore. I’ve been up since sunrise, double-checking tack, brushing down the horses, running Aria and Daisy through last-minute stretch drills even though they know the routine better than I do at this point.
Aria is buzzing with excitement; Daisy is too, while I’m pretending to be the exact opposite.
“Miss Ella,” Aria calls out as she tightens her helmet strap, “are you nervous?”
“No,” I lie. “Just excited.”
She squints at me. “Your excited voice sounds a lot like Mr. Beck when he’s pretending not to cry.”
I groan. “He cried once—“
“He cried at my spelling bee, and my recital, when we watched Frozen 2, and when Luella said her first word,” Daisy adds cheerfully from behind me.
I point at both of them. “Okay, okay, I get it. Beck is a crier. Not another word of this. We don’t want word getting back to him.”
They giggle and race off toward the warm-up ring, their horses trotting behind them on lead ropes carried by Cole and Jace.
The entire Morgan family has taken up what looks like a whole section of the arena stands. Ava is bouncing Luella on her hip, Beck is feeding Oliver something that definitely looks like contraband candy, Quinn is trying—and failing—to pretend she doesn’t see it. Zane is giving unsolicited advice to every passing rider like he’s been appointed unofficial rodeo president.
And then there’s Flora.
She’s sitting gracefully on a foldable chair she brought from home, sunhat positioned perfectly, hands folded over her lap in that polite, controlled way she carries herself. But her eyes—deep, soft brown—are laser-locked on her granddaughter with protective tension simmering beneath every breath.
She catches me looking and gives me a warm nod. “She looks ready.”
My chest warms. “She is. She’s been working so hard.”
“I know,” Flora says softly, a quiet pride in her tone. “Thank you for giving her something good to hold onto.”
I don’t know how to respond, not without getting emotional, so I smile and squeeze her hand before hurrying to join Cole near the arena fence.
He’s got one hand on Aria’s reins, the other on his hip, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. He’s wearing his competition-day look: jeans, boots, clean button-up, jaw set like he’s personally responsible for the ground staying under Aria’s horse.
It’s been a month since Calista’s slap, a month since she and Toby skulked around our peace, and he’s still watching the world like they might come back through the crowd any second.
I stop beside him, close enough that our arms brush. Not enough to look suspicious, but enough to feel him.
“She’s going to do great,” I assure him.
He exhales. “I know. I’m proud of her. And…” His eyes flick to mine.
He’s proud of me, too. I see it in the way he looks at Aria’s form, her posture, the way she handles the reins. He sees myhandprints all over her progress, and the knowledge makes my chest ache in a warm, fragile way.
The announcer calls for the junior warm-ups. Aria swings into the saddle with that little spark in her eye she gets when she feels brave. Daisy climbs onto her horse too, determined as ever, Tessa giving her a proud pat on the leg.
Cole’s hand finds the small of my back, just briefly—a ghost of a touch, but it’s enough to ground me.
Everything is perfect. Everything is exactly where it should be.
Until it isn’t.
I hear it before I see them. That sharp, sneering voice that coils like barbed wire. “Well, isn’t this adorable?”
Cole goes rigid beside me.
I turn slowly, and there they are—Calista and Toby, walking through the crowd like they own it. Calista looks pristine—hair curled, lips glossed, wearing white like she’s desperate to look pure. Toby is in his usual too-tight shirt, wearing sunglasses like he’s some sort of VIP.
My stomach drops. Please, not here, not today of all days.
