|LEMON ODELL|

                     When I first break a sweat, I can hear my mother's voice ringing clear in the back of my head: Slow down! Ladies should glow, not drip! The sun is beating down hard but I'm too close to nailing this jump to stop now.

Fiets—my chestnut brown Holsteiner—is getting better at the taller jumps. He's kicked off part of the hurdle every time today, but I can feel how hard he's trying, how he's so close to reaching those crucial final centimeters.

"You can do it," I mutter, stroking down his neck with a gloved hand. "I know you can do it Fiets. You're so—tall! And fierce. We've got this."

Despite my optimism, we do not actually nail the jump. If anything, it's probably a little bit worse than we were doing ten minutes ago. I guide Fiets back toward the stables with a gentle push of my knees, leaning over to stroke his neck again as we go.

"That's alright—great work today. I tired you out. Tomorrow I'll just take you for a nice long walk, no jumping required."

It's okay, Fiets. We'll get it next time, I reassure him silently, patting his neck reassuringly as we make our way back toward the stables.

The sun is hugging the horizon as I dismount from my saddle and lead a sweat soaked Fiets to the water trough to drink his fill. I hadn't realized how long the two of us had been at it, but my own shirt is sticking to my skin and I've already raked all of my curls back from my forehead, the sick satisfaction of not wearing a helmet warming in my belly.

Just like Mama always says, I think to myself, a lady shouldn't sweat, she should glow. But today, I don't mind the sweat. Today, it feels like an accomplishment.

But I trusts Fiets. He's a relatively new acquisition, still green and fidgety, teeth grinding hard into his bit with each turn I coax him into. But he works hard and the first time I saw him, there was just something about his eyes that clashed against the name that the breeder has assigned him: Revenge Is Best Served Cold. Standing beside him now, I wince at the thought, patting along his smooth, dewy side as I move to take his saddle off.

He's a good horse. A bit skittish, but he'll settle down with time.

"Steady there darlin. I got it."

The voice startles me half-way out of my own skin. I jump, clutching at the collar of my shirt and whirling around to find a familiar blue eyed man emerged from the gravel road leading up from the house. Above the entrance, a weathered sign catches my eye, as it always does, its paint faded but its message clear: "Windwalker Cattle Co."

I remember my father telling me the story behind the name. He named it for my mother, Evelyn who came from a small town but had met my father while he was bull riding in a nearby rodeo. Despite their different worlds, they fell deeply in love.

But as time passed, with daddy out in the rodeo mama grew homesick, longing for the familiar sights and sounds of her childhood. That's when Tex decided to buy this ranch. He wanted to create a place that reminded her of where she grew up, a sanctuary where she could feel at home and where we could all be raised with the same sense of connection to the land. Now it's just a reminder of where I come from and the values they instilled in me.

They were happy here, I think, a bittersweet pang in my chest as I recall memories of running through these fields as a child.

It's been a week since I last saw Colt, a week of deliberately avoiding the rodeo, the bars, and even Rem. In the silence of the past week, his calls and texts had gone unanswered, and his presence had been notably absent. No more late night visits, I was fairly certain that whatever we had was ended by Colt's call. Maybe I would have felt sadder about it if I didn't have enough on my plate already. Adding either his or Colt's chaotic presence to the mix would just take away from the work I knew I had to get done, especially if I wanted to continue competing this season.

Yet, here Colt is, stepping in without hesitation.

What does he want now?

A few days after our encounter at the bar, I caved and sent him a polite invitation, a token of gratitude for his unexpected assistance. "Thanks for your help," it read, "feel free to stop by if you ever need anything."

I didn't like feeling in debt to anyone. But I hadn't expected for him to show up this soon. Or at all really. How long was he planning to stick around town now that the rodeo season here was coming to a close?

"You're here," I let out a breath as I approached.

Now that I had a chance to really look at him, Colt looked different than usual. I'd grown used to seeing him on TV and from afar at PBR events. At competitions he acted as if the riders had a dress code. Without fail, he always wore boots, blue jeans, a crisp button-down shirt or plaid flannel, and a black cowboy hat. Not that I took special notice of him, because I didn't. Today he wore jeans and a tight black carhartt shirt. Nothing about him said "cowboy" though he still held that southern charm to him.

"Wanted to see you in your natural element is all." The path of my hand leaves a trail in the sweaty skin of Fiets's neck.

"We were working on a jump," I say. "Working being the key word." I lean into Fiets's side, meeting his eye as I turn to Fiets as if asking Is this okay? about the stranger taking his reins. I can't help but nod my head. And as if Fiets understands, he lets Colt lead him further into the stables.

They're the kind of plush, air conditioned and heated stables I had grown to cherish after visiting the other rodeos. Though there were only four stalls, they had been made into like little luxury apartments, complete with stacks of fresh hay, salt licks. They were perfect in their prime, when Tex had left the rodeo, and mama took Stella and I painting and riding. But that time had passed long before, and now the mixed yellows and blues we had painted alongside the walls had chipped, and the shovel had found a more permanent place alongside the tacks. And yet its allure remained, the memories mixed like the paints into the walls themselves. The scratches along side the wall, the dents in the flooring, the drawings. It was a reminder that they were still here, even if they weren't.

"So, you guys prepping for an upcoming show?" Colt asked, leading Fiets into the stable and setting to work on undoing her tack.

"Not at the moment." I cross my arms and lean against the cool metal of the side door, watching Colt's arms as the muscles ripple underneath them. He lifts the saddle like it weighs nothing at all, tossing it onto the saddle horse in the corner of the stall. "Just working on getting used to each other. He's a strong thing but he lacks—oh, what is it? Gumption?"

"Sure. Uh huh." Colt's lips lift into a smile that crinkles against his blue eyes. A light dusting of freckles spatter over his nose, his skin tanned with a long day of working in the sun. "You rode him hard. I was watching." I move forward, hanging the tack on each piece's designated hook on the wall before taking after Fiets with a brush. "I like that in a woman."

Heat shoots through my cheeks so suddenly that I'm very thankful for the low light of the barn as the sun sets behind us.

"Yes, well," I stammer. "Anything worth doing right takes work."

Colt smirks at me, an expression a little more skeptical than his previous smile, which I would've even called flirtatious. Now, he only looks amused. "Does that apply to everything you do ma'am?"

I can't help but prickle. Even as I watch Colt from the corner of my eye, soothing Fiets while feeding him an apple from my palm—I don't like the feeling that I'm being judged. Watched. My frustration is put on the backburner when Colt moves on quickly, shifting closer to Fiets.

Before I could formulate a response, Colt moved closer, his presence overwhelming in the confined space of the stable. "How long you been riding?" he asked, his voice low and intimate.

"Daddy put me on my first pony when I was three," I say with a faint smile. My eyes drift to the daisies painted alongside the tacks.

Colt's smile is back, genuine and delighted. "No kidding. I grew up around horses too. I get along with them better than people sometimes."

"I don't know. I find myself to be quite the people person. The horses are just a bonus."

The corner of the Colt mouth rises into a crooked smirk before he bends, sliding a hand down Fiets's flank and down his leg to lift his hoof and inspect it, his bottom lip jutting out scrutinizingly.

Does he honestly think I don't care enough for my stallion to provide regular farrier visits? I am certain that his hooves are in top shape, inspected regularly just as every other horse in my life has been. Fiets stands still, shooting me another are you sure about this look as Colt lets his hoof drop and moves to his front, sliding his hand down the leg again and then lifting it to check.

"I beg your pardon, but I assure you that's not necessary."

"Just checkin' on him." Colt scratches Fiets with both hands as he moves around his front to check on the opposite hoof.

"I assure you he's in peak condition." Irritation pricks harder and harder under my skin as Colt ignores me completely and moves to the final hoof, inspects it and lets it go with a satisfied nod.

"He looks good. I just make a habit of checking. You'd be surprised—"

"What are you doing here Colt?" I interrupt, thoroughly annoyed for more reasons then I understand.

"Ah, well you see I've been working on one ranch or another since I was knee-high."

He's on the other side of Fiets now, but he's tall enough that our eyes meet over the horse's curved back.

"And?" I ask curtly, eyes narrowing at him. I knew what he was getting at. Being Tex Lamar Odells daughter came with expectations, I knew that all too well. Mama did too, when she married Tex her rural small town ways had been made public. The world watched, waited, wondering if Tex Lamar could actually do it. Settle down and step away from the world of rodeo.

But Tex made sure mama, Stella and I were able to live a simple quiet life up on the Absaroka Range. But when mama died, Stella moved away to the city, and then with Tex's death- the ranch had felt each crack in our family and seemingly taken it personal. The winters were harsh on the structures, the barn was worn, and the cattle had thinned. The ranch hands were gone now, no help needed, no prying eyes. The once bustling ranch was now barely making ends meet.

The way Colt watched me told me he knew it too.

"I need good work for my limited time here, and you need good help," he finally says, breaking the heavy silence between us.