“From this.”I gestured vaguely toward the community center, toward the mess I couldn’t explain.“From the rodeo.From the feud.From everything that’s?—”
“Complicated?”she finished.
“Yeah.”
“I’m not fragile, Dawson.”
“I know.”
“Then stop treating me like I need protecting and start treating me like I’m here.”
Her words cut clean and sharp, and I didn’t have a response that wouldn’t sound like an excuse.
So I kissed her instead.
It was desperate and heated, full of want and restraint tangled together, my hands sliding up her back, her fingers curling into my shirt.She tasted like wine and frustration, and I poured everything I couldn’t say into the kiss…the ledger, the marker, the fear that letting her all the way in would mean watching her leave.
When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing hard, she looked up at me with eyes that looked like they’d seen too much.
“Kissing me like that doesn’t fix everything,” she said, her voice soft.
“I’m trying, baby.”And I was.But I’d been set in my ways for so damn long.Letting someone in didn’t come naturally, especially someone who was hellbent on leaving.
CHAPTER8
LILAH
The bay maremoved beneath me like water, smooth and steady, her ears flicking back every few strides to check in.I shifted my weight, testing her response to lighter cues, and she adjusted without hesitation.Good horse.Smart horse.The kind that made trick riding feel less like performance and more like conversation.
I guided her through a figure eight, standing in the saddle now, my feet planted on either side of the horn, knees bent to absorb the rhythm.The cold February air burned my lungs, but my body felt warm, alive, grounded in a way it hadn't in months.This was what I'd been missing.Not just the riding, but the trust.The partnership.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Dawson leaning against the rail like always, his arms crossed, hat low.He'd been there since I'd started, watching without saying a word, tracking my movements the way he tracked stock he respected.
I dropped back into the saddle, brought the mare down to a walk, then a halt.Gave her a long rein and a pat on the neck.“Good girl.”
Dawson pushed off the rail and met me at the gate, water bottle already in hand.He passed it to me without a word, then moved to the mare’s head, steadying her while I dismounted.His hand brushed my hip as I stepped down, warm and solid, and he didn't apologize or pull away.
“She's ready,” I said, taking a drink.
“She is.”
I handed the bottle back and reached for the reins, but Dawson was already loosening the girth, his movements efficient and practiced.We fell into the rhythm of cooling the horse down together, walking her in slow circles, checking her legs, brushing out the saddle marks.
“Ruby's been on me about timelines,” Dawson said after a while.
“Rodeo pressure?”
“That, plus insurance and permits.”He paused, running a hand down Mesa’s shoulder.“Slade found something on his property last month.It’s an old marker.Nobody knows what it means yet, but it's raising questions about boundaries and ownership.”
I glanced at him, relieved that he trusted me enough to tell me.“Is it going to be a problem?”
“Could be.”
“For the rodeo?”
“For everything.”
The weight in his voice made me pause.I'd noticed the tension creeping back in over the past few days—the way his jaw would tighten when Ruby called, the distraction that settled over him when he thought I wasn't watching.But he hadn't pushed me away.Hadn't shut down.Just carried it quietly, the way he carried everything else.
