The first bead of sweat gathered at my brow, sliding down the curve of my face, only to be swallowed by the thick heat of the day. My mother's voice, sharp as ever, whispered in the back of my mind: Ladies should glow, not drip. I could almost hear her scolding tone, as if she were right there, reminding me that a daughter of an Odell name should be flawless even under the unforgiving sun. But there was no room for flawlessness here—not when the heat of the afternoon bore down on me like a hammer, and I was so damn close to clearing that jump.

Honey's hooves clipped the hurdle again, and my heart sank—just a little. I could feel it, though, the power in her muscles, the way they coiled and released like she was ready to spring into something more, something greater. She was close. I was close. But close wasn't enough, not for either of us. The taste of it hung in the air, like something just out of reach, and no matter how much I pushed, I couldn't seem to grasp it.

"You've got this, girl," I murmured, running my gloved hand down the length of her sweat-slicked neck, feeling the warmth of her beneath the leather. Her coat shimmered in the late light, glowing with effort. She was giving everything, and I needed her to know I saw that. "You're strong. We're going to get this."

But not today.

This time the jump was even messier, and my heart clenched against the disappointment threatening to take root. I pressed my legs to her sides, guiding her back toward the stables. The tension slowly bled out of me, but that knot of frustration—of yearning—stayed, lodged somewhere deep inside. I couldn't shake it, and a part of me despised that we were so close and yet it still wasn't enough.

"You did great today," I whispered up, my voice barely audible over the rustle of the breeze through the dry grass. My fingers moved through her mane, and I hoped she didn't hear the lie that clung to my words. "Tomorrow, we'll take it easy. No jumps, just a nice long walk."

Honey tossed her head, her nostrils flaring as she trotted toward the water trough, muscles quivering beneath her sweat-soaked coat. She dipped her head to drink, and I slid off the saddle with a groan, my legs aching from the ride, heavy like they had taken on the weight of my frustration. My shirt clung to my skin, damp and uncomfortable, but I didn't care. The sweat, the dirt, the ache—they were proof. Proof that I was still pushing, still fighting for something I couldn't quite name.

I moved beside Honey, loosening the girth, slipping the saddle off her back with practiced ease. She shifted beneath my touch, still skittish, still green, but her energy was undeniable. She was wild in the way that only creatures with something to prove could be. The name they'd given her—Revenge Is Best Served Cold—never suited her. Honey wasn't cold, wasn't calculating. She burned, fierce and untamed, always reaching for more. Always striving.

And wasn't that why I'd chosen her? Because she mirrored the same fire in me—the same relentless, aching desire to prove that I could be more than just Tex Odell's daughter. She was nervous, yes, but that fire? It made her resilient. It made her like me.

The soft creak of wood behind me snapped me out of my thoughts, sharp and sudden.

"Steady there, darlin'."

His voice slid into the quiet, wrapping around the air like it belonged there. I froze, the heat of the afternoon pressing harder against my skin, and instinctively my fingers found the collar of my shirt, clutching the damp fabric as though it could anchor me. My heart, steady just moments before, betrayed me, pounding hard enough that I could feel it in my throat. I spun around, already knowing who I'd find standing behind me. Of course, it was Colt. It had to be him. Leaning against the gate with that easy, infuriating calm, like he belonged here—like he hadn't already upended my world in ways I couldn't shake.

Why did it always have to be him?

I hadn't seen him in a week, and that was on purpose. I'd made sure of it. Avoiding the places where I knew he'd be had become second nature—the rodeo grounds, the local bars where he'd settle in like he owned the place, and even the empty stretches of land where Rem sometimes lingered. I'd needed space, needed the silence to pull myself back together, to remind myself that I could still stand on my own, even with Colt haunting the edges of my thoughts. Rem's texts had faded into background noise, so easy to ignore once you trained your mind not to listen. His late-night phone calls had stopped, too. A strange kind of quiet had settled over everything—unsettling at first, but necessary.

I should've felt something, felt more. But the days had been long—filled to the brim with training and work, with hours spent out here, trying to bring some semblance of control back into my life. Honey demanded everything from me, and with each passing sunset, the competitions loomed closer, casting shadows over everything. There was no room for distractions, no room for the kind of emotional entanglements that would only slow me down. Colt, with all his quiet intensity, was a distraction I couldn't afford.

Yet here he was.

The air between us buzzed with a tension neither of us acknowledged, thick with the weight of words left unsaid. Whatever unease still hung between us felt small in comparison to the pressure mounting on my shoulders—the weight of everything else that threatened to pull me under. I couldn't let myself slip into this—whatever this was between us. And I couldn't afford to fall into something new, something more tangled, more dangerous.

But here he was, standing as though he belonged, like the walls I'd built around myself were invisible to him. He didn't seem to notice how I kept my distance, how I held myself back, unwilling to let him any closer. Or maybe he noticed, and simply didn't care.

It took a second for me to swallow the irritation rising in my chest. My gaze drifted over him, trying to understand what, exactly, had brought him here. He looked different somehow, more present than he had been when I caught glimpses of him at events or saw him on TV. He wasn't wearing the usual armor—no boots, no crisp button-down, no black cowboy hat perched like a crown. Today, it was just worn jeans and a black Carhartt shirt, tight enough that it clung to his frame in ways that made my stomach twist unexpectedly. No pretense. Just him. And somehow, that made this all the more unsettling.

"You're here," I breathed, the words slipping from my lips before I could stop them. I hadn't meant to say it, hadn't meant for that flicker of surprise to color my voice. But seeing him now, after all the effort I'd put into keeping him at arm's length, left me off balance in a way I didn't like. Colt Langmore was not the kind of man you could easily shake—his presence lingered like the scent of rain after a storm, clinging to the air no matter how far you ran. I'd known that from the start, but today... today, I hadn't expected him to be here, cutting through the quiet like he belonged in every space I tried to claim as my own.

I'd caved. Of course, I had. After the incident at the bar, I sent him a message. A polite thank you, nothing more. Just enough to acknowledge the moment without opening any doors I wasn't ready to step through. "Feel free to stop by if you ever need anything," I'd written. It was safe. It was distant. I hadn't thought he'd take me up on it—not this soon. Not like this.

And yet, here he was. His presence was too steady, too real, in a way that made my pulse race. I didn't want this feeling, this connection that tugged at me whenever he was near. I had enough on my shoulders, enough expectations and weight pressing down without adding him into the mix.

Colt didn't seem to mind the weight of those unspoken truths. "Wanted to see you in your natural element, is all," he said, his voice low and easy, the kind of tone that slid under your skin before you had a chance to put up defenses. His eyes followed the path of my hand as I ran it down Fiets's neck, and I could feel his gaze settle, heavy and deliberate. It made everything feel... denser. More solid.

My body tensed, an involuntary reaction I couldn't seem to control, and I hated it. Hated the way my muscles tightened under his gaze, as though I needed to brace myself against him. Against what he represented.

"We were working on a jump," I said, forcing my voice to steady, though a small, almost wry smile tugged at my lips. "Emphasis on 'working.'" I leaned against Honey's side, drawing comfort from the steady warmth of her. Her ear flicked back, acknowledging me in that quiet way horses did. She was getting better. And I trusted her.

Colt stepped closer, his movements fluid, practiced. He reached for Honey's reins, and I couldn't ignore the ease with which he handled them—the quiet authority that came so naturally to him, as if it had been part of him all along. Honey didn't seem to mind, either. She let Colt take the lead, guiding her deeper into the stables like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And that was what made this so difficult. The ease with which Colt moved through my life—through the space I'd tried to carve out for myself—was unnerving. It was as though he belonged here, and the more time he spent around me, the more that feeling settled in. Quiet. Subtle. But impossible to ignore.

The stables used to be the heart of everything, back when everything felt more alive, not just in memory. Four stalls, built like small fortresses for the horses we cared for, warm in the winters and cool enough in the Wyoming summers. I remembered the afternoons spent here with Laney and Mama, brushing paint onto the walls—bright streaks of color that felt as wild as we did back then. For a while, it seemed like those moments would last.

But time wore at things, sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once. The colors had faded, chipped away. The walls, once so solid, looked tired now. And the shovel leaning against the far wall wasn't where it belonged, though it had been there so long I'd stopped noticing. Things here had shifted, fallen out of place, as if no one had been around to keep them straight.

Yet the memories are still here. I can feel them embedded in the grain of the wood, in the dirt beneath my boots. Every step I take, they cling to me, weighing down the air until it's almost suffocating.

"So, you guys prepping for an upcoming show?" Colt's voice cut through my thoughts, and I watched his hands move with that effortless grace, working on Honey's tack like he was born for it. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement—just years of knowing exactly what he was doing, exactly how to handle a horse like Honey.

"Not at the moment," I replied, folding my arms as I leaned against the cool metal of the door, eyes tracing the way his muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he lifted the saddle. There was something about the way he did it, like the weight of it was nothing to him. "Just working on getting used to each other. She's strong, but she lacks..." I hesitated, searching for the right word before a small, knowing smile tugged at my lips. "Gumption."

Colt snorted, that sound more breath than laughter, and his lips quirked into a half-smile. "Gumption, huh?" He seemed amused, like I'd caught him off guard, though I doubted anything truly surprised him. His freckles scattered like gold dust across his cheeks as the fading light hit him. "You rode her hard. I was watching."

The way he said it—the low timbre of his voice—made something catch in my throat. I hesitated for a moment before turning back to Honey, running my hands along her neck as if the motion could distract me from the warmth spreading through my chest. "I like that in a woman," Colt added, his voice lower now, teasing, but laced with a quiet admiration that settled under my skin.

Heat flushed my face, and I cursed myself for it. Damn him. I could feel the weight of his gaze, the way the shadows in the barn seemed to pull us closer. I cleared my throat, trying to shake off the sensation, but his eyes never left me.

"Yes, well," I said, my voice unsteady, the edges of my composure fraying. "Anything worth doing right takes work."

His smirk deepened, amusement dancing in his cobalt-blue eyes, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. "Does that apply to everything you do, ma'am?"

The way he says ma'am sends a flicker of irritation through me, like a spark catching on dry tinder. There's something in his drawling tone, like he's testing boundaries, pushing just enough to see if I'll push back. I grit my teeth, focusing on the brush in my hand, the rhythmic stroke against Honey's coat. Steady, calm. But I can feel Colt's presence settling into the space between us, heavy and undeniable, like the air had thickened just from him stepping closer.