"And I'm not ready to leave you." She said it straight out with no hesitation. No dressing it up.
I reached across and covered her hand with mine.
She turned her palm up and held on.
Around us, the Merc continued its low Sunday night rhythm—coffee and conversation, Ruby's voice weaving through the tables, the hum of the cooler unit and the distant sound of a truck passing on the main road. The kind of ordinary that this town had built itself around for generations, all while sitting on top of a story it had never quite been willing to finish.
Claire wasn't walking away from it. And neither was I.
TANNER
The sun was barely up when I moved Juniper through the barrel pattern for the third time that morning. She was young, only three years old and still figuring out the difference between power and precision, but her instincts were solid. She made it clean around the first barrel, maybe a half-stride too wide on the second. I brought her back to a walk and circled toward the center of the arena, giving her time to settle before we ran it again.
The air was sharp and cool, the kind of early spring cold that made the horses blow steam with every breath. I liked working them at this hour. There were no distractions and no audience. Just the horse, the pattern, and the quiet repetition that turned potential into performance.
The sound of tires on gravel pulled my attention to the lot. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting one of the local riders who sometimes dropped in to use the arena. Instead, a white truck rolled to a stop near the fence line, a two-horse trailer hitched behind it.
I didn't recognize the rig. Then I saw the brand on the trailer door.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Juniper shifted beneath me, picking up on the tension that tightened through my shoulders. I walked her toward the rail, my eyes on the truck. The driver's door opened and a woman stepped out.
She moved with a quiet confidence that didn't need to announce itself. Dark auburn hair fell down her back in a loose braid, though a few strands had escaped and curled around her face. She wore faded jeans that clung to her curves, boots that had seen plenty of work, and a fitted jacket that didn't hide the fact she was built more like a competitor than a spectator.
She walked straight toward the arena fence.
I stayed on Juniper and waited.
When she reached the rail, she rested one boot on the lowest board and looked up at me with sharp green eyes that didn't waste time on pleasantries.
"Tanner Hollister?" she asked.
"That's right."
"I’m Waverly Kincaid." She said it like she expected the name to land heavy, and it did. "I'm looking for a new barrel horse and heard you're the best trainer in the valley."
I stared at her for a long beat, weighing whether she was serious or testing me.
"You're on the wrong side of the valley," I said.
"Am I?"
"Kincaids don't come to Hollisters for horses."
"Maybe they should."
Her tone was even, with no challenge in it, but no apology either.
I leaned forward slightly in the saddle, resting one hand on the horn. "I don't train horses for Kincaids."
"Why not?"
"You know why not."
"Do I?"
I exhaled through my nose and gathered Juniper's reins. "You've got plenty of trainers on your side of the ridge. Use one of them."
