TWENTY-FOUR
DYLAN
DYLAN:Tell Mama I’m cooking tonight.
JAKE:Who are you and what have you done with our grumpy-ass brother?
CHASE:Ranch life mellowed him out. Next thing we know you’ll be joining a book club, Dyl.
DYLAN:I’ll have you know I’m currently reading The Nutritional Needs of Pregnant Mares.
DYLAN:Mad gave it to me. Says I need to “level up” if I want to earn my rancher badge.
CHASE:Smart kid!
JAKE:You need us to pick anything up, Dyl?
DYLAN:I’m good. Ranch is good.
Coach Allen’s name lights up my phone for the second time in an hour. My thumb hovers over the green button. There’s that pull to my old life—the ache to be part of the game, to feel the roar of the crowd and the adrenaline pumping through my blood. The same feeling I had last night, watching the game with Buck by my side.
For a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to answer, to hear Coach Allen tell me he was wrong. The team needs me. But it doesn’t. Like it or not, the Stormhawks aren’t my life anymore. Answering this call is opening a wound that’s barely starting to heal. He’ll only be calling to check in on me and I don’t want his pity.So I ignore it and shove the phone in my pocket as I cut through the spruce trees. The smell of damp earth and pine is sharp in the air. My boots crunch against the soft dirt until the trees thin out and I emerge onto the shore of the lake.
Last night’s rainstorm has cleared, leaving a cloudless, blue sky that reflects in the calm water, along with the blinding midday sun. I draw in a long breath, the air seeming fresher this time as I stripoff my tee, tossing it to the ground with my towel. The only sounds are the buzz of insects, the far-off call of a bird, and the gentle lap of water against the shore. This is the kind of peace that sinks into your bones. The kind of peace I’ve spent the last few years hating. Storming out here in snow and rain to do my knee exercises in the lake when I was injured. Ignoring the tranquility, willing away the calm in place of a roaring crowd, the slap of helmets, the rush of game day.
But everything feels different now.
I kick off my boots and socks and step forward until my toes skim the cold surface. My hand finds my left knee, rubbing at the ache that’s settled deep in the joint. There’s a fresh bruise from yesterday’s fall in Fury’s paddock, but the real soreness is from skipping the exercises the physical therapist set to keep my ACL strong.
The new bruise makes me smile. It feels like I earned it doing something that mattered.
This morning, Fury didn’t bolt when I stepped into the paddock. His ears didn’t flick back, and he didn’t bare his teeth. He stayed where he was, watching me warily but not running. That’s more than I ever expected when I raised my hand at the auction. That’s progress. And the feeling blooming in my chest as I think about it is pure pride.
I never felt like this playing football. I loved it. I loved the adrenaline rush, the intuitive way I could read the opposing team, break up plays, make a difference for my team. I loved the high of the win! But it was fleeting, always shoved aside by the next challenge, the next game. Out here, even the smallest things feel permanent. These horses started as a mistake. But the more time I spend with them, the less I want to leave. And even though the thought terrifies me, I don’t hate it.
I know what I want. I’ve known since the night of Moonlight’s foaling. Watching Izzy deliver that foal—the tension, the stakes, the way she moved with confidence and control—something shifted. That night, I felt what it means to belong in a way that’s different from a game plan or a tackle. And then Quicksilver took his first steps. That feeling? That was purpose. The kind I never felt playing football, even before my injury. It’s a feeling I haven’t felt since I was a kid, helping my dad.
I wade into the water. The contrast to the heat of the sun on my shoulders is sharp but welcome. I keep moving until the water’s at my waist, then dip my head beneath the surface. When I come up for air, water droplets slide down my face and my chest. I ground my feet in the sandy bed of the lake and start the rotation of my leg, going through the motions of the exercises. I’ve been doing them for so long my body knows the routine by heart and my mind driftsback to the ranch.
Fury isn’t showing interest in the other horses, still preferring to stay in the furthest corner of his paddock. I was too soon with the saddle yesterday. He might be the most stubborn horse in the world, but he’s got a hell of a lot of spirit too.Talking of stubborn, I smile again remembering last night and seeing Izzy on the roof of her trailer. I’ve barely managed two minutes without thinking of Izzy today.
I was done with interruptions and wondering what might happen. I wanted to kiss Izzy, and from the way her eyes were burning into mine, she wanted it too and a lot more. I wanted the kiss to be unforgettable. And it was. Every part of me burned for more, but inviting her into my home and then into my bed hadn’t felt right. So I walked away. Used what little willpower I had left.
Then, this morning, it was Izzy who pulled back. A reminder that there’s a clock on all of this. That in a week, she’s gone. I get it—Izzy’s independent as hell. She loves these horses and I think she loves this ranch, too, but she’s made it clear she doesn’t rely on anyone and has other offers lined up. And maybe she hasn’t brought up leaving again, but she hasn’t said she’s staying, either.
The truth is, she’s the best damn person to run Oakwood. She’s the only one I trust. The only one I want beside me. But I’m scared to ask her to stay. Scared she’ll say yes for the wrong reasons. Out of duty to the horses. Out of loyalty. Not because she wants to. And mixed up with those fears are my growing feelings for this woman and whether asking her to stay is just as much about me as it is this ranch. So I’ve been making calls, setting up a backup plan.
But I’ve also been avoiding the conversation Izzy and I need to have. Madison’s back today, and with Mama, Jake, and Chase arriving back from Dallas too, time’s slipping through my fingers. Maybe that’s what terrifies me most—not just screwingup the ranch, but losing Izzy. Watching her walk away without ever knowing if there could’ve been more. It’s not just about needing her here. I want her here. For the ranch. For me. If she doesn’t stay? Then I’ll figure it out. I’ll run this place on my own. But yeah—I want to build something real here. And I want her.
A noise from the shoreline drags me back to the lake and I catch Izzy striding toward me, those legs that go on forever and an expression on her face like she’s going to kill someone. And by the way her eyes blaze as they meet mine, I think I know who.
“Ron’s nephew, Travis, is barely out of high school. He can’t run your ranch.”
The words fire out before she even comes to a stop. Her fists are clenched by her sides, breath short like she sprinted here just to yell at me. I open my mouth to reply, but she barrels on.
“You think because you’ve been ranching for a month, you suddenly know all there is to know about these horses, but let me tell you, Sullivan—you don’t. Not even close. The day-to-day stuff? Fine. You can stumble your way through that. Feeding, fixing. Good for you! But you need to be thinking ahead. We’ve got three pregnant mares who are due next spring. Are you planning to have a late foaling season next summer too? Because if you are, then you’re already behind. And what about breeding decisions? Which mares are you putting to foal?”
She doesn’t give me a second to respond, ticking off items on her fingers, her movements so exaggerated they’d be funny if she wasn’t so angry. “You need to start lining up a vet check for the geldings, and Quicksilver is going to need breaking in before you know it?—”
