“Well, I’m here now.” Camila smiles. “Might as well give them both a quick check.”
“Anyone want a coffee?” I ask.
I receive two enthusiastic nods that leave me grinning as I stride toward the ranch house. I glance back over my shoulder, watching Izzy as she leads Camila into the barn. Even now, exhausted and covered in sweat and hay, I can’t drag my eyes away. I know I’ve been a jerk. I’ve disappeared, been indecisive. And Izzy has called me out on it more than once. I know she wants to leave at the end of next week. She’s made that clear. There are other ranches that can offer her a lot more stability than I’ve shown her. I can’t blame her for wanting that. I won’t ask her to stay, but if she would only choose the ranch. Choose me…
In the kitchen, the coffee machine is already humming and the air is filled with the scent of roasted coffee beans. Mama is bythe counter, already dressed in overalls. She turns to greet me, face a patchwork of worry, reminding me that before she was Mama, before she was a sports agent with a life of meetings and schedules, she was a rancher’s wife. She knows better than most how close we came to heartbreak tonight. “Moonlight’s foal?”
“They’re both OK.” My voice cracks. I cough, trying to get hold of my emotions.
Mama sighs with relief. “Thank goodness for that. I’ll take these first coffees out to the barn. You take a minute.” She pours two cups, sets them on a tray, then pats my shoulder as she passes. Her voice is quieter when she adds, “Your dad would’ve been so proud of you, Dylan.”
And then I’m alone in the kitchen, sweat and dirt still clinging to my skin, a lump in my throat and moisture in my eyes. I think of my dad and the way he’d walk out of the back door to the ranch every morning, always ready for whatever the day would bring.
I think of Moonlight and her foal. Of Izzy’s confidence easing my own panic. That moment on the driveway when it felt as though we finally stopped fighting the pull—a tether drawing us closer.
When I stare out the window at the dawn breaking over the paddocks, I feel proud, too. But more than that—I finally feel like I belong.
TWENTY
IZZY
The late-afternoon sun beats down on my shoulders as I lean against the top rail of the fence, watching Dylan in the upper paddock with Fury. Buck is sitting by my feet, panting in the heat, and I reach down to rub his silky ears, not taking my eyes off of where Dylan is approaching Fury with a saddle. Each step slow and deliberate. The stallion’s coat is as black as ink, his muscles taut. Every inch of him says,Don’t trust, and yet he hasn’t bolted. He’s watching Dylan, ears flicked forward, alert. Ready.
It’s been three days since we saved Moonlight and her foal. Since I stood on the driveway with Dylan, the adrenaline still high and the world too still, and felt something shift between us. We haven’t talked about it, haven’t talked about anything beyond the day-to-day ranch work, but the tension between us is different now—charged and expectant. Our eyes meet and linger longer than they should. Our fingers brush when passing tools, and neither of us moves away.
Madison has been calling every day, begging for updates on Moonlight and her foal, already naming him Quicksilver, despite my repeated reminders that we don’t name foals destined for auction. Naming them just makes saying goodbye that muchharder. But Mad being Mad, she’s decided, and now every time I look at the little foal, the name feels like it fits.
Quicksilver is brave and cheeky, already darting out from under his mother’s legs before bounding back to her side. His coat is a beautiful shade of gray and black, like smoke and shadows stitched together, and every time I watch him, a wave of pride swells in my chest. He’s already carrying himself with a confidence that will make him a star. The thought of how close we came to losing him sends a chill up my spine, but I shake it off and carry on watching Fury.
It’s impossible not to notice the continual change in Dylan. How he’s not just more focused, but calmer. Like whatever silent battle he’s been having with himself since buying these horses, it’s over.
And when Jake and Harper came by to drop Buck at the ranch and collect Mama for the final Thursday night pre-season game, away to the Dallas Outlaws, Dylan didn’t grumble or retreat. He just clapped Jake on the back, hugged Mama tight, and turned back to grooming Rusty.
I should be happy. This is what I’ve wanted—proof that he cares about making this work. But instead, there’s a knot twisting in my stomach that won’t go away. Because the days are ticking down and he still hasn’t said a damn thing about what happens next. He still hasn’t asked me to stay.
Eight days. That’s all I have left.
The last time we spoke about me working here, it was after the auction when I said I was leaving when the six weeks were up. All Dylan said was,Good.Mad will be back from camp tomorrow. It’s our final weekend at Oakwood. All my warnings that our stay here is temporary suddenly don’t feel enough. I know the first thing she’s going to ask about after Quicksilver is the rope swing Dylan promised her he’d build. With Fury andthen Moonlight’s foaling, he’s forgotten. I can’t bring myself to remind him, even if I know Madison will be disappointed.
In the paddock, Fury shifts, hooves pawing at the ground, dragging my attention back to Dylan.
“Go steady,” I call softly.
Dylan glances my way and flashes the briefest smile before focusing again. Fury’s ears flick back; his body seems tense—coiled like a spring. But to my surprise, he doesn’t move away. Not yet.
Two more steps.
One more step.
Then Dylan is lifting the saddle slowly, positioning it over Fury’s back. For a heartbeat, Fury is still. Then, like a flipped switch, he bolts—exploding into motion, streaking across the paddock and only stopping when he’s in the far corner with his head high, eyes fierce.
The force of Fury’s sudden movement has thrown Dylan off balance, and he stumbles forward, landing hard in the dirt. Before I can stop it, a laugh bubbles up, bursts out. I clap a hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking.
“Are you OK?” I call out.
“Kinda ruins the question when you ask it while laughing, Brooks,” Dylan grumbles, picking himself up. The scowl on his face only makes me laugh harder. All those muscles—that hulking frame of his—doing nothing to help.
“You think this is funny?” he calls, brushing himself off as he stands.
