I'd stood there waiting for Tanner to say something. Anything. A single word that acknowledged what we'd been to each other in that cabin, in his truck, in every stolen hour we'd carved out when no one else was looking. But he'd given me silence instead. Like nothing between us had mattered.
I shoved the memory down and moved to the back of the trailer, unlatching the door with more force than necessary. The horse shifted his weight but stayed calm. I still couldn’t believe he was mine. I'd found him, evaluated him, and paid for him with money I'd earned on my own. That mattered.
"Alright," I murmured, reaching for his lead rope. "Let's see what you've got."
He backed out of the trailer smooth and steady, his head low, his ears swiveling toward the noise coming from the arena. He was curious but didn’t show a single sign of spooking. I ran a hand down his neck then led him toward the warm-up area.
Everything after that came easy. My hands moved through the familiar motions of saddling him, fitting the bridle, and checking the cinch twice out of habit rather than necessity. Other riders circled nearby, some offering nods, others too focused on their own runs to notice another competitor settling in.
No one here knew me on sight. No one whispered Kincaid like it meant something more than a name. No one expected me to be anything other than what I showed them in the arena.
When it was time for me to compete, the speaker crackled overhead. "Waverly Kincaid, you're up in five."
I swung into the saddle and adjusted my weight until it felt right. The gelding responded immediately, stepping forward without hesitation, and I guided him toward the entry gate.
Dust hung thick in the air, kicked up by the previous runs. The scent of churned earth mixed with leather and horse sweat. I circled him once, feeling his muscles coil and release under me, testing his responsiveness to leg pressure and rein cues. He gave me everything I asked for.
"Waverly Kincaid," the announcer called again.
I urged him forward through the gate. The arena opened up ahead with the three barrels positioned in a triangle. The dirt underneath the gelding’s hooves was soft but not too deep. I adjusted my grip on the reins and could tell he was ready by the way he lifted his head slightly, and his ears twitched forward.
The flag dropped, and we were off. Everything else disappeared. The first barrel came up fast. I held him steady through the approach, no rushing, no second-guessing. His body curled around the turn exactly where I needed him, tight enough to shave time, controlled enough that his hooves didn’t slide.
We moved on to the second barrel. I shifted my weight before he needed the cue, felt him respond like we'd been running together for years instead of just over a week. He made a clean turn with no hesitation, his shoulder dropping at the perfect angle while I kept the reins steady.
The third barrel was where runs fell apart. Either horses made a move too soon or riders lost their nerve. But we drove through the turn with power that vibrated up through my legs, his hindquarters pushing hard against the dirt, and when we broke for home, he opened up like something unleashed.
The gate flashed past in a blur.
I slowed him down gradually, letting him work through the adrenaline in wide circles while my pulse hammered in my ears. Our run hadn’t been perfect. The second barrel had been a fraction wider than ideal and might have cost me an extra tenth of a second, but we’d had a clean run. The kind of run that would turn heads.
When I finally brought him to a stop near the warm-up area, I heard the time announcement crackling through the speakers. We were at the top of the board.
My breath came steady despite the adrenaline still humming through my veins. I loosened the reins, let the horse drop his head, and sat there for a moment letting the certainty that had been missing for weeks finally settle into place.
This wasn't luck. It wasn't about family connections or someone else's training or a horse handed to me because of my last name. This was mine. The choice, the work, the ride. All of it.
“You did good, boy.” I patted his neck then led him toward the edge of the grounds, away from the noise of riders prepping for their runs and the crackle of the speaker announcing times. He'd cooled down enough that his breathing had evened out, but I kept him moving in slow, easy circles, letting his muscles settle after the effort he'd given me.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dirt. A few trailers had already pulled out, their owners headed home or on to the next stop. I should've felt the satisfaction of that top time more than I did, should've been mentally cataloging what worked and what needed adjustment for the next run. Instead, my attention snagged on movement beyond the arena fence. On Tanner.
He stood about twenty yards away, his boots planted in dirt that didn't belong to either of our families, close enough that I knew he'd watched the run, far enough that no one would notice him. His hat sat low, shadowing his expression, but the way his shoulders squared, and he kept his hands loose at his sides, told me everything I needed to know.
He'd come. But only like this. Only where it didn't cost him anything.
I kept walking in circles, not acknowledging Tanner’s presence at all, and waited. If he’d come all this way and wanted to talk to me, he could make the first move himself.
He did. He crossed the distance between us in slow steps until he stood close enough for conversation but not close enough to touch. The space he’d left felt intentional, exactly the kind of careful distance he'd been maintaining since that night at the community center.
"That was a good run," he said.
I adjusted my grip on the reins, feeling the gelding shift underneath me. "Thanks."
“Did you decide on a name yet?”
I hadn’t wanted to name the gelding until we’d had our first run together. Now that he’d shown me what he could do, I felt like I’d earned the right to give him a name. “I’m going to call him Outlaw.”
Tanner huffed out a gruff laugh. “That fits.”
