I climb to my feet and move toward the sink to rinse out my mouth and splash water on my face. In the mirror, my reflection looks like a man who lost a fight. But there’s still something behind the eyes—something hard, something alive. When I finally turn toward the bed, Jake rolls over, half awake, one eye open. “You good?” he mutters.
“Yeah” I say, ready to put this all behind me.
He grunts and pulls the blanket over his head. I pull on a clean shirt and head for the door. I need food.
As I step into the hallway, I tell myself this day’s already seen the worst of me. I glance down the hall toward the elevators—toward the world outside.
What if Kinsley’s still in town?
There was something about her. Something different, but after last night, the last thing I need is another woman in my life.
It’s time to head home, heal up, and then get out of my hometown as soon as possible.
Five
HORSES ARE EXCELLENT JUDGES OF CHARACTER.
KINSLEY
The timer will either prove my worth or expose me as a fraud—there's no middle ground in the geometry of barrels and the alchemy of speed.
I press my heels against Rebel's sides, and we explode forward into the familiar clover. The first barrel rushes toward us, a blue blur that demands split-second precision. Rebel's shoulder nearly kisses the steel as we sweep around it, the mare's body bent like a drawn bow.
Thirty yards to the second barrel—pure thunder and synchronization, hooves drumming against earth while my weight shifts with each stride. Around the turn we fly, Rebel's hindquarters sliding in the dirt as she collects herself for the final sprint.
The third barrel comes fast, and for a heartbeat timesuspends itself between approach and execution. We round it clean, racing for home while the digital timer counts the seconds.
I cross the laser line, slow Rebel to a prance and glance at the display—16.23. Respectable. A run that might earn the kind of mother’s love that's measured in fractions of seconds and flawless execution.
Without the roar of Rebel's hooves, the arena falls quiet around us, all polished rails and perfectly raked dirt that speak of success built through discipline. I dismount and loosen Rebel's cinch, running my hand along the mare's damp neck. This partnership isn't love—it's something more reliable.
The sound of a truck engine breaks the silence, the tires crunching gravel. I frown. Mom isn't due back from Denver until tomorrow, and we aren't expecting clients. I lead Rebel toward the gate, suddenly aware of how the approaching darkness will soon swallow the amber light that makes everything feel safe and familiar.
A black truck parks, and I tip my hat down and try to peer through the tinted windshield to get a glimpse of my visitor. Whoever it is pulls right up to the arena like they know their way around a ranch.
The driver's door opens and then slams with the solid thunk. A woman walks around to the front of the truck. Even in the fading light, everything about her speaks of legacy—the confident way she moves, the cut of her jacket, the hand-stitched ostrich boots you can't pick up at your local Boot Barn.
"That was beautiful to watch." Her voice is warm.
I make eye contact. She might be fifty,with light brown hair streaked with gold and an olive complexion that suggests time spent outdoors. "Thank you." My tone is carefully neutral. Strangers who show up uninvited usually want something.
I lead Rebel through the gate toward the barn.
She hitches her oversized purse over her shoulder and falls into step beside us, and I note how Rebel's ears prick forward with interest rather than wariness. Horses are excellent judges of character.
"Your partnership with her is extraordinary. There's a trust there that can't be taught," she adds as we walk.
"She's a good mare." We reach the hitching post, where I slip the bridle from Rebel's head and replace it with a halter. “I’ve had her since the day she dropped.” The stranger stands at a respectful distance, clearly comfortable around horses but understanding barn etiquette. “Did you come to see about a horse?” Pretty much any horse around here’s for sale for the right price.
"No. I'm Sarah Halloway." The introduction is simple, unadorned, but something in the way she says it suggests the name should carry weight. "I was hoping to speak with you about a business opportunity."
My hands still on the leather. Sarah Halloway. As in Wyatt-I'm-an-excellent-kisser Halloway? I straighten. It has to be a coincidence. There's no way the two of them are related. Perhaps distantly. Wyatt has an air of confidence about him too—though I'd classify it as swagger with a side of strut. I push thoughts of the bull rider aside
"Ms. Halloway, it’s nice to meet you.”
Sarah's handshake is firm and brief. "I've heard impressive things about your work. Your reputation precedes you."
I'm not the one she should be talking to. Mom gets all the credit around here. "I'm flattered, but I should mention that my mother isn't here. If you're looking for training services—"
