Outlaw nickered like he approved of the name.
"He handled the turns better than I expected." Tanner's gaze followed the horse, assessing him the way he assessed everything: methodical, thorough, and professional. "The second barrel could have been tighter, but it was clean and he's still learning your weight distribution."
The evaluation landed exactly how he meant it, like useful feedback from a trainer and nothing more. He didn’t acknowledge what it meant that he'd driven two hours to watch me compete. He didn’t mention the fact that he'd stayed hidden in the crowd instead of letting anyone see him.
"Is that why you came?" I kept my voice level, stripped of accusation or hope or anything else that might give him room to maneuver. "To see how the horse would perform?"
Tanner's gaze shifted to a spot behind me. "I wanted to make sure the evaluation held up under pressure."
There it was. The explanation that made it about the horse, about his professional reputation, about anything except the truth we both knew and he refused to speak. I'd spent weeks meeting him at that cabin, letting myself believe that what happened between us there meant something beyond just bodies and heat and stolen hours. I'd stood in front of him at the community center and given him the chance to claim even a fraction of what we'd been building, and he'd handed me a professional opinion instead.
And now he'd driven two hours to watch me ride, but only from a distance where no one would see him, where it wouldn't challenge the boundaries he needed to keep his world from cracking. The realization settled in quiet and final, cutting through whatever hope I'd been trying not to name.
He'd show up. But only in ways that didn't cost him anything. Not for me. Not where it counted.
"I'm done.” The words came out steady, certain, without the anger or hurt or desperation that might've made them sound like a plea. Just a statement of fact, the same tone I'd use to decline a horse that didn't meet my standards.
Tanner's expression shifted. Something that might have been surprise or regret flickered across his face before he could lock it down again. "Waverly?—"
"No." I shook my head once. "I'm not arguing with you about this. I'm not asking you to explain yourself or promise things will be different. I'm just telling you I'm done."
Outlaw shifted his weight, responding to tension I hadn't meant to let into my hands on the reins. I loosened my grip and kept my breathing even.
"You came to watch me ride," I continued, "but you made sure no one saw you here. You'll meet me at that cabin where nobody knows, but you won't defend me when some asshole makes a comment at a town dance. You want me—I know you do—but only in ways that don't challenge the lines you've drawn."
Tanner stood silent and chose not to deny it.
"I'm not something to be hidden," I said. "Not after everything I've built on my own. Not for you. Not for anyone."
The finality of it sat between us. I waited for him to argue, to offer some compromise that would still let him keep his distance while holding onto whatever we'd had in that cabin. He didn't.
"Alright," he said finally, his voice low and rough. Just that one word, accepting the boundary I'd drawn the same way he'd drawn his own.
I turned Outlaw toward the trailer, feeling the gelding's steady warmth beneath me, the reliable muscle that would carry me through whatever came next. Tanner didn't follow or call out after me. He just stood there in the dirt while I walked away, exactly where he'd always put himself. Close enough to matter. Far enough to stay separate.
The drive back to Mustang Mountain stretched long and quiet, nothing but road and fading daylight and the sound of Outlaw shifting in the trailer behind me. I'd made the decision. Said the words I needed to say. But something still felt unfinished, hanging loose like a thread I needed to cut clean.
The turnoff for the cabin appeared before I'd consciously decided to take it, but my hands moved on the wheel anyway, steering the truck down the rutted dirt road that led to the place where everything between us had started and ended.
I parked near the cabin and climbed out, leaving the engine running. Outlaw would be fine for a few minutes.
The door was unlocked. Inside, dust motes hung in the last rays of sunlight slanting through the window. The bed where we'd tangled together sat unmade, exactly how we'd left it the last time. The small kitchen area still held the coffee mugs we'd used.
I walked to the drawer under the window and pulled out the wooden box I'd found weeks ago. The letters inside felt fragile under my fingers. Old paper and careful handwriting held the evidence of something between a Hollister and a Kincaid that didn't fit the feud narrative either family had built their walls around.
I'd kept the secret since finding them, unsure what to do with history that belonged to both of us but neither of us had chosen. Now I knew.
I set the box on the table where we’d shared meals together. Tanner wouldn’t be able to miss it when he came back. Then I looked around the cabin one last time. This place had been ours. For a little while, I’d found some happiness here. But I was done settling for being a secret kept on the sidelines.
I walked out without looking back, pulled the door shut behind me, and climbed into my truck. Outlaw neighed from the trailer as I shifted into gear. The cabin disappeared behind me as I drove toward the main road, toward town, toward whatever came next.
I was choosing myself in the one way Tanner never could.
CHAPTER 9
TANNER
She’d ended it and everything in my life felt wrong without her. I was still busy. The horses still needed feeding, fences still needed checking, and the work kept piling up the way it always did. But something sat off-center now, like I'd pulled a load-bearing post and everything else hadn't settled back into place yet.
