Chapter five
Eli
Istand near the edge of the fairgrounds with my hands hooked in my back pockets, boots planted in dirt I've known my whole life.
The rodeo is already alive around me—music spilling from tinny speakers, laughter rising and falling, the smell of fried food and dust hanging thick in the warm evening air. Familiar sounds, familiar chaos.
I barely notice any of it.
Because Hazel Clark has just stepped through the gates, and my eyes find her before I can stop them. Before I even realize I'm looking.
Damn it.
She walks in like she belongs here, like she never left. Jeans that hug every curve, boots worn smooth from real use, whiteblouse catching the breeze just enough to remind me of skin I'm not supposed to think about. Her hair pulled back just enough to expose the line of her neck - the same spot I kissed that night, right below her ear where she gasped.
Heat rushes through me—want and fury tangled so tight I can't separate them.
I drag my gaze away, jaw tightening.
This is the problem. Five years and she still gets under my skin like this. Five years of telling myself I'm over it, that I've moved on, that what happened between us was just one night born out of grief and bad timing.
Five years of lying to myself. She walked back through those gates and undid all of it in about ten seconds.
Because the truth is, I wanted her then. I want her now. And I’m a damn fool for it.
I let out a quiet breath through my nose and stare toward the pens, anywhere but at her. My chest feels tight, irritated, familiar in a way I don't appreciate.
When I saw her the other night at the bar, my eyes found her across the room and the air left my lungs like I'd been hit.
My Hazel. But different.
Older, sharper around the edges, less open. More contained.
Not mine.
The thought makes me laugh under my breath, short and bitter. She was mine, once. For one night. In the dark, when her decision to leave made us reckless and desperate and honestin ways we'd never been before. I laid myself bare that night. Thought it would matter. She left anyway.
So no. Not mine. Not anymore. Maybe never was in a way that mattered anyway.
And that's part of what makes the anger sit so heavy in my gut. It isn't just that she left—it's how she left. How she ran without looking back, not just on me, but on everyone. On our friends, on the life we'd built in quiet pieces, on her aunt, on the ranch she loved like it was part of her own blood.
I understood at first. God, I did. Her dad's death ripped something out of all of us, but it hollowed Hazel. I watched her go quiet, watched the light dim, watched her carry grief like a weight she refused to set down.
So I gave her space. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
I told myself she needed time, that she'd call when she couldbreathe again.
And Mae—stubborn as hell—tried to hold it together alone. I watched fences sag, watched the boarding operation dry up, watched her work herself to the bone and refuse to tell Hazel how bad things had gotten.
Mae called her every week and lied through her teeth about everything being fine.
I wanted to call Hazel myself a hundred times, tell her the truth Mae wouldn't say. I told myself I was respecting Mae's choice. But maybe I was just as much of a coward as Hazel, afraid of what calling her would mean.
So I kept my mouth shut and worked harder. And resented Hazel a little more with every fence I fixed that she should've been here to see falling apart.
Not long after she left, I offered to come on full-time. Mae resisted at first—said she didn't want charity. I told her it wasn't charity. I'd grown up on this land as much as my own, learned half of what I knew about ranching from her brother. The place mattered.
So I stayed.
