God, I want her.
Not just the physical pull, though there's plenty of that. I wanther. The girl who raced me across open fields. The woman asking me to trust her again even though she broke me the first time.
I’ve wanted her for years. Through the anger. Through the silence. Through every moment she was gone and every moment since she came back.
And that's exactly why I can't do this.
Because wanting Hazel Clark has only ever led to one place—watching her leave.
The temptation hits hard and fast. To close the last few inches between us. To remind both of us how easy it once was to fit together. To kiss her the way I've wanted to since the moment she stepped into that bar and back into my life.
It takes everything in me not to reach for her.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. My jaw locks. I force myself to memorize this moment—the way she's looking at me, the way her body leans toward mine without seeming to realize it, the way the air between us feels charged and fragile all at once.
Then I step back.
The movement costs me. But I do it anyway. I put space between us deliberately, anchoring myself in practicality, in work, in anything that isn't the way she makes me feel.
"Fine," I say, the word firm. Controlled. "Tomorrow we're moving stock to the upper pasture. Rotation's overdue." I hold her gaze. "Be here and ready by four. It's going to be a long day."
Her eyes widen slightly, surprise cutting through the tension.
She nods once. No argument. No pushback. Just acceptance.
"Okay," she says.
I stand there long after she's gone, hands clenched, chest tight, heart pounding.
Letting Hazel Clark back into my orbit is a mistake. One that could cost me everything.
Chapter eleven
Hazel
The ranch wakes up in pieces. Lantern light cuts through the dark, yellow halos drifting across the corral. Horses shift and stamp, breath fogging, leather creaking as tack settles. Beyond the fence line, a gate bangs once, then stills.
The sky is still deep blue. The hour before sunrise.
I ride in as the last gate is being checked.
I don't announce myself. Don't hurry to catch up or slow like I'm a guest. Blaze moves beneath me with an easy, familiar cadence, ears forward, steps sure. The sound of his hooves on packed dirt steadies something in my chest.
I'm wearing the right jacket. Not the clean one I almost grabbed before thinking better of it, but the worn canvas I've used for years. Gloves already on. Hair pulled back tight enoughit won't come loose the first time the wind kicks up. No one told me what to bring.
My pulse ticks. Not nerves exactly. Awareness. The sharp kind that comes when I step into a space that used to be mine and I'm not sure yet if it still is.
Eli sees me immediately.
I feel it before I see him looking—a subtle shift of attention, like a line tightening across the dark. He doesn't stare. Just a brief, measuring glance, the same way he checks everything else this early. Position. Readiness. Whether something will hold.
I meet his gaze without flinching, even though the urge to fill the moment presses hard at my ribs. To say something. A quiet acknowledgment of last night.
He gives a single nod. Acknowledgment, nothing more.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and nudge Blaze forward. The crew moves around us without ceremony. One of the day hands we brought on for the drive swings up onto his horse and takes the far flank. Another checks the fence line with a practiced eye. Chace settles in close to the rear, posture loose, reins slack, attention already tracking movement like he was born doing this.
I guide Blaze into position without waiting to be told.
