But even as I said it, my mind drifted. Back to that ride. To the silence that wrapped around me so tight I thought it might split my ribs. Colt's number. Colt's name. Colt's ride. The way he'd held on longer than anyone had all season—long enough to rewrite every scar into something that looked like it might've been worth it. And I thought about Caleb.

Caleb had been out there too, hadn't he?

The thought slid in sideways. Not loud. Just sharp enough to catch.

Jasmine's gaze drifted, not like she meant to avoid mine—more like it slipped without her permission, like it was chasing something she hadn't caught up to yet. She reached for a flask off the shelf, turquoise inlay winking under the store's tired lights. Ran her thumb across it absently, like it might hold a memory she hadn't decided whether or not to keep.

"I was supposed to be in Vegas," she said, not looking at me. Her voice was even, but something underneath it pulled a little tight. "Caleb made it through prelims. He wanted me there."

I didn't say anything. Just let the quiet do its job. She traced the edge of the flask with her nail.

"He bombed his second draw. Something in his wrist gave. Didn't even stay for the finals. Left before sunrise like the place was gonna swallow him whole."

I paused halfway through folding a bandana, the cotton creased under my fingers like it was trying to stay out of it. I knew that kind of exit. Knew the sound of a man packing failure into his boots and calling it pride.

"You two done?"

She gave a short breath—more exhale than sigh. "Week before Christmas."

I didn't offer a sorry. She didn't ask for one.

"He said I was cold," she went on. "Said I didn't know how to be still. How to let someone care about me without testing if they'd leave."

Her laugh was quiet. Unsteady. "Guess I failed the test."

I turned a bandana over in my hands like it mattered, like the fabric might soften the edge of what I was about to say. "That's not cold," I said. "That's what it looks like when you learn the hard way not to mistake being needed for being loved."

The words landed. She didn't say anything at first—just looked down, like she was cataloging every time she'd swallowed her own hurt and called it resilience. Then her eyes found mine again.

"Did I do that to you?" she asked. No sharpness. No challenge. Just a question, plain as frost on glass. "Make it harder than it had to be?"

I met her stare. Held it long enough to remember every version of her I'd once wanted to beat and be in the same breath.

"We both did," I said. "And we both knew it."

We kept walking. Not shoulder to shoulder, but close enough that I could hear the soft catch of her boot sole every time it met the floor. There was a rhythm to it, unspoken and slightly off—like a song you don't know the lyrics to but hum along with anyway.

I reached for the mineral block halfway down the shelf—same red label, same chipped corner like always—and cradled it against my side, the cold bleeding through the flannel and catching somewhere under my ribs.

Jasmine didn't stop. Just drifted a few steps ahead, fingers ghosting over a row of silver conchos too polished for anyone who worked for a living.

"She hated Caleb," she said, the words slipping out soft. Like they weren't meant to be heard so much as admitted. I didn't look at her, just let the quiet stretch. "My mama," she clarified, not for me—for herself. "Said he moved like a man chasing a life he wasn't built to live. Called him a tumbleweed in boots. Thought that was clever."

"She wasn't wrong," I said.

"No." Jasmine smiled, but it didn't have any lift to it. "But I loved him like she was."

I didn't say anything to that. Some truths are too intimate to be pitied. Too worn-in to be met with anything but silence.

We rounded the aisle. I grabbed a bottle of Hush's coat supplements off the rack without thinking. My hands moved like they were following a map my body had memorized. Jasmine slowed beside a display of cowhide belts and let her eyes skim the stitching without really seeing it.

"You still with him?" she asked.

Quiet. Not nosy, not sharp. Just curious in that way women sometimes are when they're trying to figure out if someone else made it out intact.

My fingers tightened around the bottle.

"No," I said. "And also... yeah. Depends on the day. Depends what kind of wind's blowing through."

That pulled a dry laugh out of her, almost startled.

"Yeah," she said. "That sounds about right."

I looked at her then—really looked. The kind of glance you give when you're trying to decide if someone else is tired in the same way you are, or if they've just gotten good at pretending it doesn't wear them down.

"You ever feel like you're always just... waiting?" I asked. "Like a man's either gonna choose you, or fall apart trying not to?"

Jasmine blinked, slow. Her hand closed around a belt buckle and then let go. She didn't look at me when she answered. "I don't know a single girl with a soft heart and a sharp tongue who hasn't."

Jasmine drifted toward a rack of wool saddle pads, her fingers brushing the edges like they weren't for sale but already belonged to a past version of her she hadn't quite let go of. She moved like someone trying not to wake up old ghosts—careful, measured, but not slow. Her boots didn't make a sound on the scuffed floorboards, but I felt her shift beside me just the same.

"I didn't qualify," she said finally, her voice almost an exhale. "Barrel season."

She didn't look at me, and I didn't force it. Some truths only come out when you give them nothing to push against.

"Four points short in Pueblo," she added, soft and steady. Like the words had dried on her tongue days ago and only now remembered how to fall. "And after that... I couldn't string together a clean run if you paid me in gold."

I didn't say anything at first. Just listened. Let her voice settle over the shelves and racks like dust in a barn left closed too long.

"You were fast," I said. "Always were."

She gave a breath of a laugh, the kind that knew better. "Fast don't mean anything when your timing's off. When every turn feels like the one that's gonna throw you out the back end."

She picked up a halter—tan leather, bright hardware, the kind meant more for show than work. Turned it over in her hands like it owed her an apology. "Caleb told me if I smiled more, softened the edges, sponsors might've stayed longer. Said I was too hard to stick with."

I didn't ask what she said back. Didn't have to.

But I asked the other thing. The one that mattered.

"Did you believe him?"

She paused. Just long enough to let me know she'd asked herself the same thing more than once.

"I think," she said slowly, "I wanted to. Because if I didn't... then I'd have to admit it wasn't just me they didn't want. It was the kind of girl I am."

We moved on. Her boots keeping just ahead of mine, my shoulder trailing the aisle like maybe it held answers in the rows of folded fly sheets and waterproof blankets. It didn't.

She stopped at a rack of windbreakers, thumbed the tag of a navy one with cracked plastic lettering.

"I've been floating," she said. "Picking up odd work. A couple clinics. Some ranch gigs. Training horses no one wants to keep. But it's like... patching a roof with thread."

I looked at her—really looked. There was wear in her, but it wasn't weakness. It was the kind of wear that meant she'd kept moving even when the ground buckled. A woman who could shoe a horse in borrowed boots and still walk away without owing anyone her story.

"You thinking about going back to Colorado?" I asked.

She shook her head once. It was quick, but something in it broke.

"That place only liked me when I was winning," she said. "And I'm too tired to keep shouting just to be heard."

I let that hang. Let the weight of it find its place.

Then I said the thing I hadn't meant to say. Not yet. But maybe I'd always meant to.

"I need someone at Windwalker."

She blinked. Turned to me like she'd misheard the wind and wasn't sure if it mattered.

"For real?"

"Room. Board. Cut of the pay. It's not glamour. But it's honest work."

I shifted the mineral block from one hip to the other. "I've got a few horses that don't make sense on paper. And one who doesn't like to be looked at, let alone touched. Thought of you when she started testing the fence line."

Jasmine's mouth twitched, but it didn't become a smile.

"You're serious."

I nodded once. "Dead."

She didn't answer right away. Just stood there, eyes narrowed slightly—not in doubt. In defense. Like she was trying to figure out if she was being offered help or history repeating itself.

"If I come," she said slowly, "I'm not mucking stalls hungover."

I half-smiled, shifting the mineral block against my hip. "Then don't be hungover."

That got a laugh—small, but real. It lived in her chest for a second before slipping out, unguarded. She turned toward the register, and I followed, our boots echoing soft against the floor, not in sync, but not in conflict either. Just... beside each other.

She bought the boots. Ostrich-skin, half-scuffed already from the way she'd been holding them. I picked up my gloves, the peppermint treats, the supplements for Hush.

Outside, the sky hung low and gray with unsaid things. Wind coiled at the corners of the buildings but didn't howl. It just stayed there, breathing around us like it had nowhere else to go. The air smelled like snow that hadn't fallen yet—held in suspension, like a thought you couldn't quite say aloud.

We moved toward our trucks without saying anything. My tailgate creaked open. Hers stuck. She kicked it with the side of her boot and it gave.

As I slung the bag of feed up into the bed, she glanced over at me. "You still leave the porch light on?"

"Sometimes," I said. "Depends who I'm waiting on."

She nodded like that made sense. Like she'd waited under that same kind of light once, and knew exactly how long it could stretch.

Then she reached for the door, fingers tightening around the handle like it was the last test. "Alright then," she said. "I'll see you Monday."

Ω

-LATE JANUARY-

The screen door was cracked just enough to let the cold creep in, the kind that didn't cut so much as seep—slow and bone-deep, like it wasn't sure if it still belonged. I paused on the porch, boot heels thudding softly against the wood, and kicked the snow from the tread. It dropped in thick clumps, clinging where the warmth of the boards hadn't reached. The sun hadn't broken the horizon yet, not really. Just hovered in the low part of the sky, silver and slow, casting light that didn't carry heat. Still, it stayed longer now. Hung around like it wanted to listen in.

From inside came a sharp clang—metal against formica—and then Jasmine's voice, hoarse from sleep, half-cursed and half-accusing.

"Your toaster is a damn liar, Odell. A four-slice con job in chrome."

I pushed the door open with the flat of my shoulder, unwrapping my scarf one-handed, the knit still stiff with frost. "That toaster's seen more winters than we have combined. You talk to it like it's your problem, it'll become one."

"It's already my problem." She slapped the lever again. The toaster groaned, then gave a pathetic wheeze like it had decided it no longer believed in breakfast.

"You keep shoving it like it owes you money," I said, toeing off my boots and setting the mineral block down with a quiet thunk. "It's not a cattle chute."

"It deserves to be shoved." Her tone was flat, not playful. Just honest in that way mornings make people. "I've been up since six. My socks are still frozen stiff, and I've got one slice of toast that looks like it survived a barn fire."

I didn't answer right away. Just stood there a moment, gloves still on, breath trailing from the walk in. The house had held its heat better overnight, but that wasn't what struck me. It was the shift in air, subtle and lived-in—the smell of coffee grounds, the sound of cabinets half-closed, the thrum of someone else's frustration moving through the kitchen like it had the right to.

Her boots were beside the door now, caked in dried mud and untied like she'd peeled them off mid-step. A denim jacket hung across the dining chair, collar flipped up, one sleeve dragged halfway inside-out. There were coffee rings on the counter that hadn't been there yesterday. Her mug. My stove. The old quilt from the guest room was rumpled on the arm of the couch, the edges tucked where someone had pulled it tight without thinking.

Jasmine was hunched over the toaster like it owed her something—elbows braced on either side, jaw set, her whole frame taut with that quiet fury reserved for bad wiring and worse men. The red bandana in her hair was half undone, slipping down behind one ear like it'd given up trying to keep her neat. The sleeves of her thermal were shoved past her elbows, damp at the cuffs where the barn water had caught her mid-scrub. Salt stains traced the fabric in ghost-thin streaks, and she smelled faintly of cedar shavings and saddle soap, like she'd been up long before the sun remembered how to rise.

I stepped around her, reaching for a mug, and muttered, "You keep wrangling that toaster like it's a Brahma bull, you're gonna be eating breakfast off a shovel."

"It's already broken," she said flatly, without looking at me. "Look at it. Thing's mocking me."

"It's a toaster. Not a man."

Her laugh was soft but splintered, like a screen door caught in a Wyoming gust. "Same thing, far as I can tell. All heat and no follow-through."

I didn't argue. Just poured the coffee—what was left of it—and brought the mug to my lips. It was lukewarm at best, bitter at worst, but I drank it anyway. This late in winter, you either adjusted or you cussed. Jasmine did both, sometimes in the same breath.

She gave the toaster lever one last push, slow and deliberate, like she was arming a trap and didn't trust the wire. The coils glowed reluctantly to life, humming like they knew better than to pick another fight.

"There," she said, stepping back with a look of grim satisfaction. "It just needed the right kind of pressure."

I raised my mug, letting the steam warm the stretch between my nose and upper lip. "Your idea of finesse involves three threats, two curses, and a glare sharp enough to skin a steer."

"Worked, didn't it?" she said. "You ever seen a bull hold his ground against a woman with bad aim and nothing left to lose?"

The corners of my mouth tugged, but didn't lift all the way. I let the moment breathe.

The toast popped, blackened on one side, barely browned on the other—surviving the ordeal by sheer accident. Jasmine plucked it from the slot with two fingers like she was pulling a burr from a dog's coat.

"Tragic," she murmured. "But edible."

"You want butter or just the sweet taste of revenge?"

"Revenge has fewer calories."

I passed her the knife, then brushed a fleck of char off the counter. She was already chewing by the time I moved toward the coat rack, boots thudding soft across the old pine floor. Her footsteps followed, not light, but certain. Not polished, but practiced. That was the difference lately—she moved like someone who wasn't waiting to be invited into her own life anymore.

Her jacket hung by mine now. Not in the barn, not over the back of the couch—on the wall hook where Stella's used to hang, sleeve tucked into sleeve like it meant something. And maybe it did.

I shrugged on my coat, caught her glance as she scraped the last bite of toast into her mouth and wiped her fingers on a napkin like she didn't care who saw.

"You ready?" I asked.

I handed her the knife, brushed a fleck of ash off the counter. She was already chewing by the time I reached for the coat rack, boots thudding softly across the wood floor. Her steps had rhythm now. Not grace, not ease—but rhythm. Like she'd stopped waiting for things to fix themselves and just learned to move inside the broken.