She laughs under her breath. Then she hesitates. Just a fraction longer than necessary.
"You could come in," she says. Doesn't quite meet my eyes. "For dinner."
The invitation settles between us, heavier than it has any right to be.
I picture it easily. The kitchen. Mae bustling around, pretending not to notice anything while noticing everything. Hazel moving through the space like she belongs there, because she does. The easy rhythm of it. The way it would feel to slide back into that orbit without resistance.
It would be easy.
Too easy.
"I better not," I say finally. "Still got a few things to check before it gets dark."
She searches my face, then nods, accepting the answer without pushing. "Okay."
She turns and walks toward the house, her stride unhurried, confidence settled back into her bones. I watch her go, same as I always have. The way she fits into the landscape like she never left it. Like the land recognizes her even if the town hasn't yet figured out how to.
I stay where I am long after she reaches the porch.
It would be easy to follow her. To step inside, let familiarity carry me forward. Easy to forget why distance matters.
Hazel has always been gravity for me. Not a choice. Just pull.
Dangerous if I let it be.
She left once without looking back. Grief, probably. Fear of a future she didn't choose yet. I stood too close to that future—already rooted, already certain. She needed to run and I was in the way.
I get it.
Doesn't mean I'm ready to stand there again.
I exhale slowly and turn back toward the pen. The colt waits in the fading light.
Trust, earned inch by inch. Not rushed. Not assumed.
Some things, once broken, need space to mend.
Even if part of me still wants to chase what once felt like home.
Chapter fourteen
Hazel
The house smells like onions and something simmering low and patient.
I step inside and shrug out of my jacket, hanging it on the peg by the door out of habit. Dust still clings to my cuffs. My muscles carry the good kind of ache, the kind that comes from work done with intention. From being useful.
Mae stands at the stove, back to me, wooden spoon moving slow through a pot that doesn't look fancy or celebratory. Just dinner. Practical. Sustaining.
"You get back alright?"
"Yeah." I move to the counter, wash my hands under warm water. "Town was busy."
Mae glances over her shoulder. "Get what you needed?"
"Yeah. Stuff for the barbecue." I dry my hands. "Worked the colt with Eli after."
That gets Mae's attention. She turns, leaning a hip against the counter. "The new one?"
