Not yet.
But soon.
Chapter fifteen
Hazel
The colt sidesteps again, ignoring the cue I know I'm giving correctly.
Or correctly enough that it should count.
It doesn't.
I've been at this for nearly two hours. Sweat dampens the back of my shirt. Dust clings to my boots, my jeans, my hands. The colt's ears flick back, then forward, attention scattering everywhere except where I need it. I exhale through my nose and reset, frustration creeping in where confidence should be.
I want this to work.
Not just today. Not just with him.
I want to prove the ranch still has what it takes. That it didn't lose its edge when my dad died. That the knowledge he pouredinto it didn't disappear with him, leaving behind only land and memory and a version of myself that never quite felt finished.
Patience, Hazelnut. That's all it takes.
My dad's voice echoes in my mind.
My mind drifts, unhelpful and persistent. To the books I pored over last night, pages dog-eared and smudged with dust. To the years when boarding and training kept this place moving, steady income flowing in even when cattle prices dipped or repairs stacked up faster than checks cleared. Horses have always been the quiet backbone of the ranch. The part that worked even when everything else strained.
If we can train this colt well, really well, it could mean something. A win. A name getting passed around again. Boarders coming back, trailers lining the drive like they used to.
My phone buzzed this morning. Denver. My boss checking in, careful and neutral, reminding me the time was there without pressing on it. I didn’t call her back.
The colt spooks at nothing, jerks sideways, and I barely catch it in time. My reaction is slower than it should be.
That scares me more than his resistance does.
"Hazel."
The voice comes from closer than I expect. I startle, reins tightening instinctively as I turn.
Eli stands just inside the fence line, hat low, arms relaxed at his sides like he's been there longer than I realized. His gaze is on the colt, not me, reading the tension like it's written plainly across muscle and breath.
"If you keep thinking about other things while working him," he says, calm but certain, "you're never going to get through to him."
I still. The colt shifts, sensing the pause.
Of course he knows.
I don't have to say a word. Don't have to explain the spiral, the pressure from Denver, the leaving that's already half-built in my head. Eli has always known when I'm somewhere else, even when my body stays put.
That used to feel normal. Easy.
Now it lands heavier.
I draw a breath and bring my focus back where it belongs. On the colt. On the line of his neck, the tension in his shoulders, the way his weight shifts before his feet do. I soften my hands, ease the pressure I hadn't realized I was holding.
The change is immediate. Not dramatic. Just enough.
The colt flicks an ear back toward me, then forward again. Listens.
