My dad died five years ago—sudden heart attack in the back field. After that, every fence post felt like his hands, every horselike his voice, every success like something I no longer deserved. I couldn't stay.
My mom left when I was five. Dad and Aunt Mae raised me after that, and this ranch became everything—until it wasn't anymore.
I pull back and wipe at my eyes. "Still handsome. Even if you're retired."
He bumps my shoulder gently, like he's arguing the point.
Movement catches my attention—a colt in the stall opposite Blaze. Three years old, maybe, just coming into himself. There's something in his build that makes me pause. Good bone structure, clean lines, intelligent eyes watching me with curiosity instead of fear.
This isn't just any colt.
"Well," I say softly, stepping toward him. "You look like trouble."
He tosses his head, clearly unimpressed by the assessment.
I smile despite myself and reach for the halter. "Let's see what you know."
***
The sun climbs quickly once I'm in the round pen. By the time I wipe my forearm across my brow, sweat clings to the back of my neck and my shirt sticks where fabric meets skin.
The colt tests me at first—crowding my space, tossing his head, all nervous energy and instinct. I stay calm, steady mybreathing the way I always have. I ask for small things. A step back. A turn. A pause.
Pressure on. Pressure off.
The language comes back like muscle memory—the timing, the patience, the quiet insistence that doesn't need to be loud to be heard. The things my daddy taught me.
The colt circles the pen, but his ears pin back when I step toward his shoulder. White shows around his eyes. His stride shortens, head high, looking for an exit. I've seen this before—a horse that learned handlers mean pain.
I hold my ground but soften my posture. Wait.
He bolts left, testing me. I don't chase. Just keep the pressure light and steady, asking without demanding. His ears flick back and forth, weighing whether I'm a threat. It takes three more circles before his head drops an inch. Four before his stride lengthens.
Patience, Hazelnut. That's all it takes.
I adjust my position, read his body language, give space when he needs it and step in when he pushes too far. He snorts once, tosses his head like he's shaking off old memories, then settles—just a fraction, but enough to matter.
I slow him to a stop and approach carefully, palm open. He tenses, but holds. I rest a hand against his neck, feeling the heat of him, the tremble beneath his skin that's finally starting to ease.
Underneath the fear, he moves with a natural grace that makes my chest tighten. Responsive when he trusts. Smartenough to learn fast. The kind of horse my dad would've been excited about. The kind worth fighting for.
"Good," I murmur. "That's good."
"Well shit."
I turn, startled, then can't help but laugh.
Chace leans against the fence, hat tipped back, grin wide and familiar. "Look at you, city girl. Guess you haven't forgotten how to be a cowgirl yet."
I wipe my hands on my jeans. "Careful. I might start charging for lessons."
Up close, I catch the subtle hitch in his movement—the way he favors his left shoulder when he shifts his weight. Shae told me last year about the accident, her voice quiet over the phone. Bad ride. His career stalled. Chace back in Ashford Ridge pretending he'd chosen it.
I never called him. The guilt sits heavy, but I don't know how to name it now.
The colt tosses his head and I adjust my position without thinking, reading his body language, giving pressure then releasing it. He settles, ears flicking back toward me.
"Damn," Chace says quietly. "You really haven't lost it."
