And as I rest my palm on his neck, something inside me shifts, like maybe I can find her again.
That fearless, reckless version of myself who wasn’t afraid of falling. I remember one summer night at the county fair, weaving through barrels under the stadium lights, the roar of the crowd drowning out every fear I’d ever had.
My dad had whooped from the stands, pride thick in his voice, and afterward, we’d celebrated with funnel cake and orange soda until midnight. I can still smell the fried sugar, still feel the sticky sweetness on my fingers as he’d told me I was born for this life.
That memory rushes back now like Dusty’s steady breath, familiar, grounding. Maybe that girl isn’t gone. Maybe she’s just been waiting for me to saddle up again.
“I used to be somebody,” I whisper to him, my throat tightening. “Someone who didn’t second-guess every damn thing. Someone who knew where she was going.”
Dusty nudges my shoulder like he understands, and maybe he does. Maybe he remembers those nights under the stars, just the two of us and the quiet ache of ambition.
I glance back at the barn, at the saddle, at the empty arena beyond the fence. It’s not much, not like the championship circuits I once dreamed of, but it’s enough.
I mount Dusty slowly, carefully, my muscles stretching in ways they haven’t in years. The leather creaks. The breeze lifts my hair. And for a moment, it’s like time rewinds, the weight of everything else slipping away.
I nudge him forward.
One loop. That’s all I want. Just one loop around the arena to prove I still can.
We move together, not fast, but steady. My hands remember the reins, my body remembers the cues. And when we round the final barrel, the rush hits me so hard I laugh, loud, wild, and real. The kind of laugh that cracks something open inside me.
Maybe I can’t go back to who I was. But maybe I don’t have to. Maybe I can be something new. Stronger. Wiser. Still a little broken, but not beaten.
When we come to a stop, Dusty snorts and paws the dirt like he’s ready to go again. And I smile, really smile, because for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m not running away from my past.
I’m riding straight through it.
Back at the barn, I’m all adrenaline and aching limbs, but I don’t stop. The rodeo’s coming up fast, and if I’m serious about entering, even just for fun, I need to shake the rust off and get back into the rhythm.
Just as I’m pulling out the practice barrels from the storage shed, a burst of hammering echoes from the other side of the house. The construction crew Cash hired must’ve shown up while I was in the arena.
Their voices carry over the paddock, mingled with the hum of drills and the occasional clang of wood against wood. They’re updating the whole place, replacing weathered siding with fresh cedar planks, new roof, adding insulation, fixing up the sagging wrap around porch, and the house, even gutting the old kitchen and rewiring the ancient electrical system.
It’s not just cosmetic, it’s like they’re rebuilding something that was on the verge of collapse. And standing here, hearing the walls of my childhood homebeing shored up and brought back to life, I can’t help but wonder if I’m doing the same thing.
Maybe these repairs aren’t just about the house. Maybe they’re about me too. About stitching together the frayed edges of a life I thought I’d left behind and seeing, for the first time, that I might still belong here.
Dusty flicks his ears at the racket, but doesn’t spook. He’s used to chaos. So am I.
There’s something soothing about it all, checking tack, looping reins, brushing out his mane while the sun climbs higher in the sky. Movement and focus, that’s what I need.
A distraction. Something to keep me from spiraling over Cash and his infuriating mix of charm and secrets.
Because the truth is, I don’t know where I stand with him. Not after yesterday. Not with that look in his eyes one moment and the cold distance the next.
So I bury it. I bury him. At least for today.
I take a few more slow loops around the barrels, refining angles, tightening turns, training my muscles to remember what winning felt like. Sweat trickles down my back, and my thighs burn from the strain, but it’s worth it. The old rhythm creeps back, faster, tighter, cleaner.
Each lap is a rebellion. A declaration.
I’m still here.
I dismount and lead Dusty to the fence line, letting him cool down while I sip from my water bottle. I stare out over the paddocks, the rising heat turning the horizon into a soft blur. And still, I don’t think of him. Not really. Not until I hear the crunch of boots behind me.
I don’t turn around.
I don’t have to.
