But something was. I felt it in the tension coiling through my shoulders, in the way my pulse kicked up despite the careful distance I tried to maintain.
She’d given me an opening. All I had to do was reach for it. Ask her to dance. Say something that acknowledged what we'd become in those stolen hours at the cabin. Make a choice that mattered in a space where people could see it.
"It’s a nice night," I said instead, the words landing flat and useless between us.
Something flickered in her expression, too quick to name.
Torin shifted his weight next to me, the movement subtle but pointed. He took another sip of whiskey, his eyes tracking between Waverly and me with an attention I didn't want.
"That was a real pretty turn on the floor," someone said from my left. Harrison Winslow, one of the richest ranchers in town, inserted himself into the conversation with the confidence of a man who'd had a few drinks and felt entitled to share his thoughts. "The Riley boy’s got good taste, I'll give him that."
He looked at Waverly when he said it, his gaze dropping briefly to her dress before returning to her face with a smile that didn't quite land right.
"Kincaids clean up nice," Harrison continued, oblivious to—or ignoring—the way the temperature dropped. "Though I'm surprised to see one of yours at an event attended by Hollisters. I guess lines are blurring all over the place these days."
The comment hung in the air, careless and pointed at the same time. A few people nearby went quiet, their attention focusing on our small group.
I felt the exact point where I could step in. Where I should step in. The words formed automatically, sitting just behind my teeth. She's here because I want her here. Because what's between us doesn't have a damn thing to do with last names or feuds or whatever small-minded bullshit you're peddling.
But the weight of the room crashed in before I could say a damn word. Harrison Winslow’s presence pressed down on me along with the judgement of neighbors and family. Generations of Hollister expectations made my chest squeeze tight like I’d been caught inside a vise. Every lesson I'd learned about responsibility and legacy, about protecting what mattered and maintaining the boundaries that kept everything from falling apart, rushed over me.
My father's voice echoed in my head, rough and certain: Hollisters don't mix with Kincaids. Never have, never will. You remember that. I'd been raised on those words. Built my entire life around them. So I let the moment pass.
I didn’t contradict Winslow. Didn't defend her. Didn't say or do a fucking thing. The silence stretched for three heartbeats, then four. Long enough for everyone nearby to understand exactly what I wasn't saying.
Waverly saw it. The understanding settled over her, looking like resignation I didn't want to acknowledge. She'd given me an opening, and I'd refused to take it.
Her chin tipped up, that familiar pride reasserting itself. When she nodded, it carried the weight of an answer, like she'd asked a question and I'd responded without speaking a word.
"Mr. Winslow," she said, her voice level and cool. "It’s always a pleasure." The politeness in her tone made it clear it was anything but.
Then she looked at me one more time. Her green eyes revealed nothing and everything at the same time. "Thanks for the evaluations, Tanner. I appreciate your professional opinion."
Professional. The way she said that word landed like she’d just stuck a knife between my ribs.
"No problem," I managed.
She stepped back, putting distance between us that felt permanent. I watched her go, my hands curling into fists at my sides as she moved through the crowd. People parted for her, some nodding politely, others tracking her departure with the same attention they'd given her arrival.
Ethan caught her near the door and said something that made her pause. She responded, her expression smoothing into something pleasant and distant, before she continued outside. The door closed behind her with a soft click that I shouldn't have been able to hear over the music, but I did.
"Well," Torin said. "You handled that real well."
I turned to look at him, my jaw tight.
He met my gaze without flinching. "You're a fucking fool, Tanner."
I couldn’t argue with that. He was right.
CHAPTER 8
WAVERLY
I backed the trailer into a slot near the far end of the lot, excitement and nerves swirling around in my stomach at the thought of competing again. The jackpot I’d signed up for was two hours from Mustang Mountain. Close enough that a good run today would still count for something, far enough that I could breathe without wondering who would be watching.
The arena sprawled ahead. It wasn’t anything fancy, just standard fencing, worn dirt, and a handful of metal bleachers that had seen better decades. Trailers lined up in uneven rows, riders already warming up their horses in tight circles while a crackling speaker announced names I didn't recognize. It was the perfect place for the gelding and I to take our first official run together.
I climbed out of the truck, my boots hitting dirt that didn't belong to Hollister or Kincaid land. My shoulders dropped half an inch in relief. The past few nights had played through my mind on the drive over, especially the comment Harrison Winslow had made about Kincaids cleaning up nice.
