"He is," I tell her. "You've done the work. He's ready."
She exhales, slow and deliberate. "You sure I am?"
I turn to face her fully. "You're ready. He's ready. Don't get inside your head today."
She nods, taking it in like instruction instead of reassurance. "Okay."
Headlights cut across the barn doors a moment later.
Chace pulls in with the hauling rig like it's any other morning. Efficient. Unhurried. He hops out, already focused on straps and angles and the practical work of getting us where we need to go.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning," I reply.
We load the colt smoothly, practiced movements falling into place without conversation. Chace checks the ramp, secures the latch, gives the divider a final tug. The colt steps in easy, calm as if he knows exactly where he's headed.
Mae appears at the edge of the barn as we finish, cardigan pulled tight against the chill, a travel mug in her hands.
She presses it into mine without a word.
Her eyes meet mine, steady and knowing. "You got this," she says quietly.
It's not about the competition.
I nod. "Thanks."
The drive to the arena is quiet.
Addie stares out the window, jaw set, replaying patterns in her head. Chace keeps his eyes on the road, radio low. I watch the landscape roll past, fences and fields slipping by in the growing light.
Every mile tightens the knot in my chest.
We're moving now.
Toward the arena. Toward the crowd. Toward my future.
And there's no turning back.
***
The arena parking lot is already chaos when we pull in.
Trailers lined up at odd angles. Horses nickering, pawing, calling to one another. People moving with purpose, voices raised over engines and slamming doors. The air smells like dust and coffee and anticipation.
I jump down from the truck and move automatically, hands busy, mind quiet in that narrow way it gets when I focus on logistics. Unlatch. Check straps. Walk the colt back a step so Chace can drop the ramp.
I don't mean to look for him.
I just… do.
My gaze sweeps the lot without conscious thought, skimming familiar trucks and faces, cataloging movement the way I always have. And then—
There.
His truck is parked on the far side of the lot, angled toward the arena. He's leaning against it, arms crossed, weight settled into one hip like he's been standing there a while.
He isn't watching the arena.
