Chapter thirty-five
Hazel
The barn is awake before the sun is.
It's been four days since Eli told me he won't do this again. Four mornings of walking into this barn alone. And today is the day I have to give Denver my answer—accept the promotion or walk away for good.
The colt nickers when he hears my boots on the packed dirt, ears pricked forward, expecting the routine we've built together. Expecting both of us. I check my phone. 3:58am. No messages. Eli would already be here. Four days ago, he would've been leaning against the rail with coffee in hand, that quiet half-smile like we're sharing some private joke.
Now I'm alone in the barn aisle, trying to remember what that felt like.
I tighten the girth strap and lead the colt out to the round pen. He follows easy, trusting. I clip the lunge line and send him forward, watching his movement. He's good. Better than good. Ready for tomorrow. My eyes slide to the rail anyway—to the empty space where Eli should be.
Footsteps sound behind me. I turn, something lifting in my chest despite myself.
Addie. Helmet tucked under her arm, coffee thermos in hand. She pauses when she sees me, something careful in her expression.
"Morning," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
"Morning." She sets her thermos down, eyes tracking the colt as he moves. "How's he feeling?"
"Good. Ready."
She nods, jaw tight. The silence stretches, filled with all the questions she's not asking. Finally she says, "Fall Classic is tomorrow."
"I know. I feel really good about it"
She looks at me then, really looks at me. Takes in whatever's written on my face. "You okay?"
"Fine." The lie tastes bitter. "Let's just focus on the ride."
"Okay." She reaches for her helmet, fingers fumbling slightly with the chin strap. "Let's make sure we're ready then."
We work in silence after that. I call out adjustments, she corrects without argument. The colt performs beautifully—everytransition clean, every cue answered. It should feel like victory. Instead it feels like evidence of everything I'm about to lose.
By the time Addie leaves with a wave that's too cheerful, the sun has burned off the morning chill. I head to the tack room because my hands need something to do. There's always work, always something that needs attention.
I reach for a bridle hanging on the rack, start checking the stitching automatically. My hands are shaking badly enough that I have to set it down. I pick up another piece of tack. Set it down. Can't focus long enough to actually accomplish anything.
I end up just standing there, staring at the wall of leather and metal, not really seeing any of it.
That's how Mae finds me—motionless in the middle of the tack room, a bridle clutched uselessly in my hands.
"When's the last time you ate?" Mae's voice cuts through the quiet, gentle but firm.
I look up. She's in the doorway, arms crossed, worry lines deepening around her eyes. "I had breakfast."
"That was yesterday." She steps inside. "You came straight to the barn this morning."
She pulls a wrapped sandwich from her jacket pocket and holds it out. I take it automatically, the wax paper crinkling in my shaking hands.
Her gaze drops to my hands—the tremor I can't control, the raw red spot where the lead rope rubbed wrong, the dried sweat at my wrists. "You've said 'I'm fine' every day this week."
"I'mjust busy." I pick at the edges of the sandwich without really seeing it. "Fall Classic is tomorrow. Addie needs—"
"Fall Classic isn't why you're in here staring at walls." Mae's voice stays soft but steel edges underneath. "And we both know it."
I look up. She's watching me steadily, face serious.
