The man Jack believed in when he handed me the keys to this place. And the man I started trying to become the night he died, when the weight of responsibility landed square on my chest, crushing every excuse I’d ever used to coast through life.
But that all changed that night. Standing by his hospital bed, hearing him rasp out one final wish for someone to take care of the place, and her, it gutted me.
Not just because he was the closest thing to a father I ever had. But because I realized how small my life hadbecome. All swagger and no substance. No roots. No one who looked at me and saw more than a good time.
That night, I swore I'd be done chasing the easy way out. Quit the late nights, the one-time flings, the walls I built to keep people from seeing I didn’t think I was worth more.
I started working longer hours, showing up sober, trying, really trying, to become the kind of man who earned respect, not just attention.
But now, looking back at the mess it’s made and the woman I might lose because of it, all I feel is disgust. Not at them. At me.
If I could scrub it all clean, I would. Start fresh. Just be the man Avery sees when she lets her guard down, the one she could trust.
But I’m not sure Wilder Creek will ever let me be anything else.
And maybe that’s what I regret most of all.
Because I’ve spent years trying to outrun who I was, but this town, this damn town, won’t let me forget it. And now, it’s not just my name they’re dragging through the dirt. It’s hers too.
Well, screw that.
They want Casanova Cash? They can keep him. I’ve got better things to fight for now.
Starting with Avery.
Chapter ten
Barrel Racing Dreams & Broken Trust
Avery
The smell hits me first, saddle soap, warm leather, and the faintest trace of dust and horse sweat clinging to the air like a memory that refuses to fade.
It’s the same scent that used to cling to my hair after every race, after every long night in the barn whispering secrets to a mare who knew me better than anyone else.
I run my fingers along the worn leather of the saddle, the familiar creases fitting against my skin like an old glove.
This was the first saddle my dad ever let me pick out on my own, mahogany brown with silver conchos that caught the sunlight like tiny stars.
I used to sit for hours in it, even when I wasn’t riding, pretending I was at Nationals or galloping across open fields. Every scratch, every scuff tells a story, and pressing my hand against it now feels like touching a piece of him.
Of us. The one that’s been tucked away in the corner of the barn for years.
My dad never got rid of it, even after I left. He couldn’t. Maybe because he believed I’d come back one day. Or maybe because letting go of it would’ve meant letting go of me.
The leather creaks as I lift it onto the saddle stand, my muscles remembering the motion even if it’s been nearly a decade since the last time I competed. Back then, I was fast, faster than most of the boys.
I had grit, drive, and a hunger to prove I could make something of myself, not just in the arena but beyond it.
And then everything changed.
Life, they say, has a funny way of yanking dreams out from under your boots. One bad fall. One torn ligament. A handful of doctors shaking their heads.
And suddenly, I was no longer Avery Blake, rising barrel racing star. I was just another girl with a limp and a resume full of what-could-have-beens.
But right now, in this dusty barn, surrounded by the ghosts of who I used to be, I feel her, the girl who used to chase barrels like they were finish lines to a better life. I miss her. I miss her fire.
I step out into the paddock where Dusty waits, his ears flicking toward me as I approach. I don’t even need a lead rope. He knows me. Always has.
