She leaned in, brushed her lips against my cheek—soft, warm, gone too fast—and then turned toward the hallway.
"Night, Beau."
"Night, Win."
When she disappeared into her room, the house felt quieter. But for the first time since the article dropped, the quiet didn't feel like a punishment.
It felt like a pause.
Two weeks. A board meeting. A choice.
And now, at least, I knew one thing for sure:
She was choosing me.
The question was whether I was brave enough to choose her back in front of the whole damn world.
WINNIE
Just a towel
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
Friday Morning, 6:45 AM
"The best conversations happen when words aren't needed." – Unknown
***
The sun hadn't fully crested the horizon when I found Elise in the barn, already dressed in riding gear—fitted jeans, boots worn soft with age, hair pulled back in a no-nonsense braid. She was checking the girth on Maple, her old barrel horse, a gorgeous bay mare she'd left here when she moved to Denver. The mare nickered softly, recognizing her rider even after three years.
"You're up early," I said, startling her.
Elise glanced over her shoulder, grinning. "Could say the same. Figured since I'm here, might as well see if I've still got it. Wanna watch?"
"Always."
I'd grown up watching Elise compete—she was a legend in these parts before tech money called her away. Her runs were surgical, precise, no wasted motion. She'd taught me everything I knew about reading a horse's body language, about trusting your instincts in the pocket.
We led the horses to the arena, the morning air cool and crisp, carrying the scent of dew-soaked hay. Bandit pranced beside me, energized by the early hour, while Maple moved with the calm confidence of a seasoned pro. Elise mounted up, settling into the saddle like she'd never left.
"Watch the approach on the first barrel," she called, walking Maple to the start. "It's all about the setup. If you're off by even a foot, the whole pattern falls apart."
She took off without warning—a blur of muscle and momentum. Maple surged forward, hooves pounding the dirt in perfect rhythm. The first turn was flawless, Elise's body fluid as water, leaning into the pocket with absolute trust. The second barrel came fast, and she pocketed it so tight I held my breath, but Maple's flank just kissed the edge without toppling it. By the third, they were poetry—speed and precision married into something beautiful.
When she pulled up, breathless and laughing, I was already checking my mental stopwatch. "Seventeen-two?"
"Seventeen-three. Close enough." She patted Maple's neck, the mare blowing hard. "Your turn. Show me what you and Bandit have been working on."
My heart kicked up. I'd been training hard for regionals, but having Elise here—watching, critiquing—added weight. I swung onto Bandit, feeling his readiness thrumming through the reins. He wanted this. So did I.
"Remember," Elise said, settling against the rail, "it's not about speed. It's about control within the speed. Trust him."
I lined up, took a breath, and gave Bandit his head.
We exploded forward. The first barrel rushed at us, and I felt the shift in his body, the way he anticipated the turn before I even cued it. We carved it clean, dirt spraying, my body melting into his as we whipped around. The second came faster—always does—but I trusted the pocket, let him take it tight. His shoulder brushed close enough to make me gasp, but he held. The third was ours—a perfect arc, speed unleashed as we rocketed to the finish.
I pulled up, chest heaving, and Elise was whooping, her face split in a grin.
