Money. It always came back to money.
The property taxes had jumped again this year. Pops didn't say it, but I saw the bills piled on the counter. We were rich in land and poor in cash, the eternal rancher's curse. And here I was, chasing a buckle and a title, draining resources we didn't have.
I sighed, reaching into the saddlebag to grab a hoof pick I usually kept there. My fingers brushed against something else. Something paper.
I frowned. I never used that pocket; the stitching was coming loose. I reached in deeper and pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope.
For Winnie, it read.
Elise.
My heart hammered a strange rhythm. I recognized that neat, looping handwriting instantly. My hands started shaking before I even opened it. I knew. Somehow, I already knew.
I tore the flap. A check slipped out, fluttering in the breeze. I caught it, staring at the numbers written in clean, precise black ink.
$15,000.
The air left my lungs in a rush. I blinked, sure I was seeing things. Fifteen. Thousand. Dollars.
There was a note tucked behind it.
For regionals. For you. For the entry fees, the new tack, and whatever else you need to kick ass. Don't you dare argue, and don't you dare return it. Consider it an investment in the future champion. Love, E.
The world tilted.
My knees buckled, and I sank down onto the grass, clutching the check like a lifeline. It was enough. It was more than enough. It covered the fees, the equipment, the travel, the taxes... everything I had been losing sleep over for months.
She had known. She had seen me struggling, seen the worn-out gear, and she’d done this quietly, hiding it where she knew I’d find it only after she was gone so I couldn't fight her on it.
The first sob ripped through my chest so hard it hurt physically.
Then another. And another.
I pressed the check to my chest and curled forward, forehead touching the grass, and just let go. The dam broke. Years of held-back emotion, of "staying strong," of pretending I didn't care about the money or the abandonment or the fear—it all poured out in ugly, gasping cries that echoed across the empty field.
Bandit shifted closer, lowering his head to blow warm breath into my hair, sensing the shift. I wrapped my arms around his foreleg, sobbing until my throat was raw.
I cried for the money—the sheer relief of it.
I cried for the privacy I’d lost.
I cried for the little girl named Naomie who was left on a porch, unwanted.
Why didn't they want me? The thought screamed in my head, louder than it had in years. What was wrong with me?
And underneath it all was the terrifying realization that everyone I loved left. Nana left—not by choice, but she was gone. Elise left, back to her high-rises. And Beau... Beau would leave too. Eventually, the guiltor the pressure or the pull of his legacy would be too much, and he’d go. And I’d be here, with my cracked boots and my broken heart.
"Why do they stare at me, Nana?"
The memory hit me, vivid as a photograph. I was ten. I’d come home from school with a scraped knee and a bruised ego after a boy called me a charity case.
Nana had been brushing Daisy in this very field. She’d stopped, turning those fierce, sharp eyes on me.
"Cause they don't understand you, baby girl. And folks 'round here, they fear what they don't understand. Always have, always will."
"But I'm not scary," I’d whispered. "I'm just... me."
"Exactly." She’d cupped my face, her hands rough with work but so warm. "You're you. Not who they think you oughta be. Not who they want you to be. Just Naomie Jameson—strong as an ox, stubborn as a mule, and full of more fight than any of those soft kids could dream of. Don't you ever let them make you small, you hear me? You were meant for big things, darlin'."
