He doesn't look at me.
Not once.
The announcer's voice cuts through the noise, and the crowd quiets in a rush.
"And in first place—"
Everything stops.
"Addie Dawson."
The arena explodes.
Mae's arms are around me before I even process the words, crushing me into a hug that knocks the breath from my lungs. Chace lets out a shout so loud it echoes off the rafters. People clap and cheer and surge toward us in a wave of celebration.
Addie stares at the scoreboard like she doesn't quite believe it, then breaks, laughing and crying at the same time as she buries her face in the colt's neck.
"I can't believe it," she keeps saying. "I can't believe it."
Hands reach in from everywhere—patting the colt, clapping Addie on the back, voices layering over each other with congratulations and disbelief.
People surge toward us—not just friends, but other ranchers too. Faces I recognize from the circuit, competitors, trainers. A woman I don't know shakes Mae's hand, her expression warm.
"Heard you were shutting down," she says. "Glad to see that wasn't true. You taking on any more boarders?"
Mae's eyes light up. "We might have room for the right horse."
"I'll call you next week."
Another man approaches, older, weathered. "That's some quality training. You do outside clients?"
"We do now," Mae says, and I hear the satisfaction in her voice.
This is what winning does. Not just proves the colt is good—proves Clark Ranch is back.
I catch snippets of conversation around me—people asking about Mae's training methods, about boarding rates, about whether we're taking new clients for spring. The win isn't just Addie's. It's advertising. Proof of concept. Validation that the business model works.
This is it—proof the ranch works. Proof the training works. Proof that everything we poured into this mattered.
I should be flying.
I am—almost.
But even as the celebration swirls around me, my eyes keep scanning the crowd, searching instinctively.
Looking for him.
Because none of this means what it should until I know he's still there.
The celebration continues around me—Addie accepting congratulations, Mae beaming with pride, people already talking about next season. I'm scanning the crowd for Eli when I notice Mae step away from the group, moving toward the rail with that deliberate walk that means she's handling something.
I follow her gaze.
Cole Maddox.
He's approaching from the parking area, dressed too nice for the venue—pressed shirt, expensive boots that have never seen real work. That opportunistic smile firmly in place.
I start moving toward them, but Mae's already turning to face him. Her posture shifts—shoulders back, chin up. Ready.
