What I remembered most was the feeling of his hands in mine.

Rough, sure. Cracked from the sun and streaked with old dirt that never fully washed out. But warm, always warm. Even in winter. Even when the rest of him felt far away. Those hands were worn like the reins he wrapped them around: creased, calloused, marked by every beast he'd ever broken, every fence he'd built, every sin he never talked about.

They weren't soft like Mama's, and thank God for that. I didn't need soft. I needed steady.

Those were the hands that hoisted me out of the creek when I fell in headfirst at six, that patched me together with electrical tape and baling twine when we ran out of first aid supplies on branding day. Hands that pressed band-aids onto bloodied knees with the same care he used to tie a cinch strap—firm, but never cruel.

I was proud of those hands.

They pulled me through arenas thick with dust and the metallic breath of adrenaline, through tunnels of clapping palms and vendor calls and sun-cracked bleachers where men tipped their hats and women tilted their heads to see if I looked more like Evelyn or Tex.

Weston. Harlan. Blake. Names Daddy spoke like gospel, like each syllable was a stone he was laying beneath my boots so I could cross the river he'd already walked. He'd lean down, the brim of his hat brushing mine, breath warm against my cheek, and murmur, "You need to know these people, Lemon. Someday, it'll be you in the spotlight."

I was twelve. Barely clearing the rail. Still trying to tuck my hair right under my hat. But to him, every conversation was a door. Every nod, every calloused palm, a seed planted in the soil of some future he believed in harder than I did.

He'd tug me forward with that grin- the one that said he saw farther than the rest of us. Like he could already picture the buckles in my hands, the way my name would echo through speakers over the roar of the crowd. And I let him lead. Every time. Because he made it look easy. Like being great wasn't something you chased; it was something you remembered.

To the rest of the world, Tex Lamar Odell was larger than life. Bronze and bone and legend. The kind of man who filled up a room before he even walked in. But to me, he was just Daddy. The man who carried peppermint in his coat pocket and never minded when I cried over things he'd long learned not to. He had made space for my softness, even as he hardened me for the world. Reminded me, with every quiet glance, that I was the thing he was proudest of—even when I messed up. Especially then.

When it was his turn to ride, he'd crouch beside me, one hand anchored to my shoulder, the other pointing toward the stands. "Right here, Lem. Don't move. No matter what you hear." But I always did. The second his name rang out, I was already moving—pink boots kicking up dirt, breath lodged somewhere behind my heart, hands clutching that fence rail like it could hold back the world.

I watched him mount those bulls like he'd been born to it. Like death had already shaken his hand and walked the other way.

Tex Lamar Odell.

Fearless. Untouchable. A myth made of blood and bone and something bigger than both. And I'd stare at him with something tight in my chest, thinking—that's who I come from. That's who I'm supposed to be.

Now, when I walked through the crowds, the pride I used to wear so easily had been replaced with something heavier, an ache that lodged itself deep in my chest and never left. It lingered, no matter how many seasons came and went, settling into the spaces between the past and now. It was in every glance thrown my way, in the whispers they thought I couldn't hear.

Yes, Lemon Odell's still riding.

Yes, I'm still here.

And no, I wasn't settling down like Laney, tucked away in some pretty house, raising babies and playing the part. That was what they wanted from me, what they expected. Their eyes said it all, the way they looked at me like I was some kind of cautionary tale. They shook their heads just so, like they're trying to pretend they aren't judging me, but I saw it. I felt it. She should've known better. After what happened to Tex...

They never said it outright, but I could see the thoughts crawling through their minds, in the way their gazes shifted, shame coating their words even before they formed. They wondered how I hadn't crumbled. How I took Windwalker Ranch after his death and made it something again, like running it was some small consolation for all the other things I'd lost. Evelyn first, slow and steady, and then Tex—fast, too fast.

They nodded, offered me their thin smiles, praise that felt more like pity than recognition. Like running the ranch was some morbid victory they'd never want for themselves. But we all knew what they were really thinking.

A girl like her shouldn't still be out here. Clinging to the dirt, as if the same earth that swallowed her father won't take her too.

They thought I was stubborn. They thought I was broken. And maybe, in some ways, I was.

But this dirt, this life—it was the only thing that still felt like it belonged to me. Like it was mine to claim, mine to fight for, the only thing that hadn't been ripped from my hands. I held on to this land like I was holding on to Tex himself, the only part of him that no one else could touch. And I'd be damned if I let it slip away just because they thought I should be barefoot in some kitchen, cooking for a husband who'd never set foot in a barn, who wouldn't know the difference between a heifer and a bull calf.

Laney gave them what they wanted. But me? I gave them something to talk about.

The ranch may have been passed to me by blood, but it had been kept alive by force. Every morning, before the sun had a chance to break the horizon, I was out there. Every storm-chasing night, every calf pulled from a mother's trembling body in the dead of winter, I was reminded that this wasn't a gift I was handed. It was a war I was still fighting. A battle I'd fight until there was nothing left of me to give.

And here I was, five years later, saddling up Honey like nothing had changed. Like the world hadn't shifted beneath me, even though it had. The ranch kept me busier than I cared to admit, so busy I barely had time to remember the girl I used to be, the one who lived for the rodeo. But something kept pulling me back. Every time. Maybe because the arena was the one place where everything felt the same, even when it wasn't.

It was the rhythm in it that settled me. My hand slid down Honey's neck, feeling the warmth of her breath, steady and sure, as she nudged me softly. I smiled despite the tightness in my chest. Honey had been the one constant since Dad... since everything changed. She was irreplaceable, a piece of my heart that hadn't cracked.

The saddle cinched tight, the leather creaking beneath my fingers, and I lost myself in the ritual until the sound of boots crunching on gravel broke through. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. I'd recognize that gait anywhere.

Rem.

"Still fussing over her like she's brand new?" His voice, low and teasing, carried a weight I couldn't ignore. One that pulled me back into a time when things were simpler. When we were simpler.

I glanced over my shoulder, just enough to catch sight of him leaning against the fence, that same lazy grin playing on his lips. Remington Blake—Rem—he looked the same, yet different. More dust settled into his skin, more lines around those sky-blue eyes that used to twinkle with trouble. His blond hair curled just under the brim of his hat, and those shoulders... broader now, stronger.

He'd filled out in ways that only years of working in the sun could shape a man.

He was a legacy in his own right—son of Declan Blake, one of rodeo's giants. But to me, Rem was just the boy I grew up with, the one I used to trust more than I trusted myself. The boy who kissed me that night, almost a year ago, making everything different. We didn't talk about it afterward, didn't address the lines we crossed. But it was still there, between us, like a knot we were both afraid to touch.

"I'm not fussing," I said, turning back to Honey, though my voice was lighter than it should've been. "Just making sure she's ready."

"Sure," he drawled, pushing off the fence, his boots making their slow, familiar approach. "You've been checking that saddle for a solid ten minutes. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were prepping her for a national championship."

I shot him a sidelong glance, feeling the corners of my mouth twitch in spite of myself. "Well, some of us like to be thorough," I said. "Not all of us are okay with half-assing things."

His grin spread, slow and crooked, like he'd already won something I didn't even know I was playing for.

"Thorough," he repeated, and I could hear the teasing edge, the way he'd always known how to pull me in with just a word. "That's what you're calling it now?"

I rolled my eyes, though a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. It had always been easy with Rem, even now, after everything. He was the only bull rider I could still stand, and maybe that was because he hadn't changed—not in the ways that mattered. Dad used to say Rem was cut from the same cloth as him, back when he was just a ranch hand, before all the fame and buckles. It was what kept Rem real.

He gave me that look, the one that had always been too knowing. His eyes traced the familiar curve of my back as I adjusted Honey's reins, like he was mapping out all the places he remembered. "You're still the same. All nerves and fire until the second that buzzer goes off." His voice dropped, softer now.

His words poked at me, lighting a fire under my skin. Because he was right. I could feel the familiar pulse of tension thrumming beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. But I wasn't about to admit that to him. Not with everything twisted up inside me. Not when I could barely make sense of the mess myself.

"I'm not nervous," I lied, the words coming out sharp. "I just want to get it over with."

Rem didn't buy it. He never did. He just smirked, tipping his hat back as his eyes bored into mine.

"Liar," he said, a quiet challenge in his voice. He took a step closer, the space between us shrinking until the scent of leather and hay mingled with his warmth. "You've always been a terrible liar, Lem."

I forced a laugh, though it felt thin, brittle. "I've gotten better at it."

He shook his head, his smile softening. "Nah. You still light up like a lantern when you're trying to hide something. And you've been glowing since the second I got here."

I huffed, turning back to Honey, needing to focus on something—anything—other than the way his words made me feel like I was standing under a spotlight. "I don't need you to psychoanalyze me, Rem."

But his presence lingers, solid and warm, and despite myself, I feel the weight of his words sink deeper. Because he's right. I am more nervous than usual, and it has nothing to do with the ride itself. It's what the ride represents.

The hills of Kaycee rose around the arena, cradling the small town like a secret hidden from the rest of the world. The crowd, though intimate, felt like they were all leaning in, watching, waiting for me to prove something I wasn't sure I had left to give. The pressure built like a knot at the base of my throat, and I swallowed hard, trying to push it down.

Rem's voice cut through the fog in my mind, pulling me back to the present. "I remember when you used to get so jittery before a ride you couldn't sit still," he said, his tone lighter now. "What was it you used to say? 'Don't talk to me until after I cross the line.'"

I glanced at him, giving him that look—the one I used to throw his way when he poked at me too much, back when we were kids sneaking off to ride under the moonlight. It was still too easy to fall into that rhythm with Rem, like no time had passed. But those nights felt like they belonged to a different version of me, a girl I barely recognized.

"Yeah, well, some things don't change," I said, adjusting the cinch one last time, my fingers trembling just slightly. It wasn't the leather that needed adjusting. It was me. "I still don't need distractions."

Rem stepped closer, his gaze dipping to my hands, catching the subtle shake I'd rather hide. "Distractions," he murmured, a soft tease. "Is that what I am now?"

"You're not, Rem. You never were."

Another lie. One we both felt settle in the space between us. His eyes darkened, flickering like embers that refused to die out. He stepped closer, not crowding me, just near enough that I could feel the warmth of him.

"Is that so?" His voice was low, smooth like the summer wind that swept through the ranch at dusk. The kind of wind that stirred everything just under the surface.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because the fact remained: I had never been good at lying to Remington Blake.

"You've got this, Lem," he said, softer now, stepping just close enough that I could feel his breath against my skin. "I've seen you ride a hundred times, and every time, you left them in the dust. You don't need to prove anything."

His words tugged at something I had tried to bury for years. The part of me that felt like I had to prove everything—not just to the crowd, not just to myself, but to him. To my dad. To the version of me that still didn't know who she was without the weight of the Odell name pressing like heat behind her eyes.

For a second, I almost reached out. Almost let my hand settle on his arm like I used to when things felt too heavy. But I stopped myself. Because that wasn't who we were anymore. We weren't those kids running wild through the hills, pretending forever could be ours.

Now we were two people standing on opposite sides of something neither of us could name.

The weight of Rem's presence faded as he stepped back, his eyes lingering on me for just a second longer before he retreated, like he knew exactly when to pull away.

I shifted my focus to Honey, feeling the weight of the reins in my hands, the leather familiar and grounding against my skin. I swung my leg over the saddle, settling into the seat, and the world around me shrank. The noise, the crowd, even Rem—it all fell away, leaving just the pulse of Honey beneath me, the stretch of dirt ahead.

For a heartbeat, I let myself feel it. The quiet. The stillness before everything cracked open.

The sun cast long shadows across the arena, the barrels gleaming, waiting for me to make my move. I adjusted my hat, my fingers brushing the brim with a practiced ease, but there was a tightness in my chest that refused to loosen.

"Odell."