I end the call before I have to listen to whatever pitying words of consolation he’s about to offer. I shove the phone back in my pocket and scrub a hand over my face, trying to breathe as if it doesn’t feel like I’ve been kicked in the balls by a fifteen-hand stallion. The excitement of the auction, the thrill of watching our colt take the ring—all of it is gone, sucked away by the weight of crushed hope.
I move back into the arena, my steps heavier than before, scanning the crowd for Izzy. She’s standing near the trainer in the white shirt who bought our colt. He’s smiling wide and I straighten my shoulders as I approach, ready to do my part—be polite, say thanks, and pull Izzy away so we can get out of here.
Her back is to me as I close the distance. I don’t cut in on their conversation but wait for an opening. That is until I catch the words leaving her mouth. “He might be able to catch a ball, but ranching? Let’s just say we’re still working on that one.”
The trainer laughs, a hearty sound that makes my fists clench. Her words burn through me. The air is suddenly hot and suffocating, but what really gets me is how my irritation twists with something sharper. It’s not like Izzy is saying something she hasn’t said to my face. Or something that isn’t true. But to hear her say it to someone else, to make a joke at my expense, stings more than I’m willing to admit.
Izzy turns, and her eyes widen like she knows damn well I just heard her. She opens her mouth to say something, but I’m already whirling around before I can retaliate with something I’ll regret. I shove my hands deep into my pockets and disappear into the crowd.
For a moment there, I thought maybe there was something in this life for me. The pride of our colt as he took to the ring. I was enjoying the way it felt almost like winning again. But Coach Allen’s call has pulled me back to reality. I don’t belong with the Stormhawks. I’m an embarrassment. A washed-up has-beenwho couldn’t let go, coming to every practice. But I don’t belong here either.
Football. Ranching. My whole damn life. I don’t belong anywhere.
I don’t know how much time has passed before I find myself leaning against the railing of the arena, watching the final run of auctions. The crowd has thinned to the die-hards and the curious. My head is still somewhere else, my mood dark, and I’m only half watching as the next handler enters the ring. The stallion with him is huge and strong, muscles rippling under a dark coat that gleams like polished obsidian. But it’s obvious from the first step that something is wrong. The stallion is straining against the lead rein, head tossing left and right, ears pinned flat. His hooves scrape the ground, kicking up dust like the only thing on his mind is escape.
His entire body sways one way then the other, and a second later, his hind slams into the arena’s frame with a clanging crash. There’s a yell of surprise from the crowd and the shuffle of people stepping back. Even the handler looks nervous, giving the stallion a wide berth as he tries to guide him around the circle.
The announcer’s voice carries from the speaker, his tone lacking his earlier enthusiasm. “Shadow’s Fury is a six-year-old stallion with strong lineage from champion reining horse Midnight Mirage. Shadow’s Fury showed exceptional promise last year in barrel racing until an accident during transport left him injured and unable to compete. While his injuries have healed, he’s since developed a nervous temperament and hasn’t taken a rider since.” He pauses, his next words already carrying defeat. “Let’s open the bidding.”
No hands rise as Shadow’s Fury continues his uneasy circuit around the ring, his every step coiled with tension. They’re halfway around when a crash of a railing nearby spooks the stallion. The handler stumbles back, losing his grip on the lead rein and landing hard in the dirt. Gasps ripple through the crowd as Shadow’s Fury rears up, powerful hooves slicing through the air, muscles rippling. His front hooves hit the ground with a resounding thud, and for a split second, his wild eyes lock with mine and it’s like I’m staring straight into his fear. It’s wild and raw and unsettlingly recognizable. The moment is gone in an instant. A second handler runs into the ring, helping the first to his feet, and between them they manage to stop the rearing stallion.
Beside me, a woman murmurs to her companion, “That horse will never take a rider again. Poor thing should’ve been destroyed already.”
“He will be after today,” comes the reply.
The words sink, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Shadow’s Fury. He’s skittish and unpredictable, but there’s a fight still burning inside him.
“Any bids?” the announcer calls again.
Before I can stop myself, before I can think, my hand shoots up, and I’m calling out, accepting the bid.
Heads turn my way. “Got money to burn, Sullivan?” someone shouts, causing a wave of laughter among the crowd.
And maybe it’s the sting of their laughter. Or maybe my head has caught up with what I’ve just done. Either way, dawning horror hits. I’ve just made another huge mistake, and this time, I don’t even have bourbon to blame.
My eyes dart around the crowd, willing someone else to bid.
Silence.
The announcer’s voice rings out loud and clear: “Sold to Oakwood Ranch.”
Shit!
I barely know what I’m doing with the horses I have, and I’ve just gone and bought another one. I remember Jake’s and Chase’s messages about llamas and hide my groan. No way am I giving this crowd the satisfaction of seeing my panic. I square my shoulders, lift my chin as I follow the handler to the back of the arena.
By the time I meet Izzy at the trailer, her expression is thunderous and she looks as pissed at me as I am at her. It takes her and three other handlers fifteen minutes, and a lot of cursing, to coax Shadow’s Fury into the trailer. He resists every step, nostrils flaring and hooves scraping the pavement. Every single minute of sweat and fight hammers home what I’ve done. I’ve just bought a rodeo stallion who doesn’t trust, doesn’t listen, and can’t take a rider. Izzy’s right—I’m nothing but a washed-up pro athlete playing at being a rancher. But I’m done hiding from my mistakes.
SEVENTEEN
IZZY
I draw in a deep breath as we take the final turn for Oakwood Ranch, letting the air out slowly as the smooth asphalt gives way to the dirt track. The drive home has felt endless, stretched out by a spiky silence I didn’t try to fill. Fighting with Dylan while towing a spooked horse wasn’t an option, no matter how many times I thought of something else I wanted to shout at him. The way he’s sat with his arms folded, face stormy, I’m guessing he’s just as pissed as I am. But what the hell does he have to be angry about?
Beneath my frustration, I know the answer. He heard the comment I made to the trainer. It wasn’t my finest moment—a throwaway remark made without thinking after the way Dylan rushed off to take that call I know was from his coach. Do I regret it? Sure, but regret isn’t a luxury I can afford right now. Not when I’m the one who’s left picking up the pieces of Dylan’s impulse buy. Again.
We round the turn and the ranch house comes into view. Not even the beauty of the horses grazing in the afternoon sun can calm my anger. I throw the truck into park, and before I’ve cut the engine, there’s a clang of hoof on metal from the trailer. I jump down from the truck, and a second later, I hear the thud ofDylan’s boots hitting the dirt. And of course, he makes straight for the back door of the ranch. Of course he’s going to hide from yet another mistake he’s made. To hell with thinking there might be more to Dylan.
“Hey!” The one word is bitten out, loud and sharp. “You planning to help me get your latest stroke of genius out of the trailer?”
