Chapter 5
Five
HORSES ARE EXCELLENT JUDGES OF CHARACTER.
KINSLEY
The timer will either prove my worth or expose me as a fraud—there's no middle ground in the geometry of barrels and the alchemy of speed.
I press my heels against Rebel's sides, and we explode forward into the familiar clover. The first barrel rushes toward us, a blue blur that demands split-second precision. Rebel's shoulder nearly kisses the steel as we sweep around it, the mare's body bent like a drawn bow.
Thirty yards to the second barrel—pure thunder and synchronization, hooves drumming against earth while my weight shifts with each stride. Around the turn we fly, Rebel's hindquarters sliding in the dirt as she collects herself for the final sprint.
The third barrel comes fast, and for a heartbeat time suspends itself between approach and execution. We round it clean, racing for home while the digital timer counts the seconds.
I cross the laser line, slow Rebel to a prance and glance at the display—16.23. Respectable. A run that might earn the kind of mother’s love that's measured in fractions of seconds and flawless execution.
Without the roar of Rebel's hooves, the arena falls quiet around us, all polished rails and perfectly raked dirt that speak of success built through discipline. I dismount and loosen Rebel's cinch, running my hand along the mare's damp neck. This partnership isn't love—it's something more reliable.
The sound of a truck engine breaks the silence, the tires crunching gravel.
I frown. Mom isn't due back from Denver until tomorrow, and we aren't expecting clients.
I lead Rebel toward the gate, suddenly aware of how the approaching darkness will soon swallow the amber light that makes everything feel safe and familiar.
A black truck parks, and I tip my hat down and try to peer through the tinted windshield to get a glimpse of my visitor. Whoever it is pulls right up to the arena like they know their way around a ranch.
The driver's door opens and then slams with the solid thunk. A woman walks around to the front of the truck. Even in the fading light, everything about her speaks of legacy—the confident way she moves, the cut of her jacket, the hand-stitched ostrich boots you can't pick up at your local Boot Barn.
"That was beautiful to watch." Her voice is warm.
I make eye contact. She might be fifty, with light brown hair streaked with gold and an olive complexion that suggests time spent outdoors. "Thank you." My tone is carefully neutral. Strangers who show up uninvited usually want something.
I lead Rebel through the gate toward the barn.
She hitches her oversized purse over her shoulder and falls into step beside us, and I note how Rebel's ears prick forward with interest rather than wariness. Horses are excellent judges of character.
"Your partnership with her is extraordinary. There's a trust there that can't be taught," she adds as we walk.
"She's a good mare." We reach the hitching post, where I slip the bridle from Rebel's head and replace it with a halter. “I’ve had her since the day she dropped.” The stranger stands at a respectful distance, clearly comfortable around horses but understanding barn etiquette. “Did you come to see about a horse?” Pretty much any horse around here’s for sale for the right price.
"No. I'm Sarah Halloway." The introduction is simple, unadorned, but something in the way she says it suggests the name should carry weight. "I was hoping to speak with you about a business opportunity."
My hands still on the leather. Sarah Halloway.
As in Wyatt-I'm-an-excellent-kisser Halloway?
I straighten. It has to be a coincidence.
There's no way the two of them are related.
Perhaps distantly. Wyatt has an air of confidence about him too—though I'd classify it as swagger with a side of strut. I push thoughts of the bull rider aside
"Ms. Halloway, it’s nice to meet you.”
Sarah's handshake is firm and brief. "I've heard impressive things about your work. Your reputation precedes you."
I'm not the one she should be talking to. Mom gets all the credit around here. "I'm flattered, but I should mention that my mother isn't here. If you're looking for training services—"
"I'm not." Sarah's smile deepens, and there's something almost conspiratorial in her expression. "I'm here for you, Miss Rose. For your particular skills as a lobbyist and strategist. Would you have time to discuss a project that might interest you?"
Ah, a politician. “What, exactly, are you proposing?”
"It’s simple," Sarah says, settling against the barn wall. "I need someone to lobby for cowboys."
I lead Rebel into her stall, checking the automatic waterer and shaking out fresh hay while Sarah continues. "Our way of life is disappearing while bureaucrats decide what's best for the land that's never touched their boots."
"There are organizations who could help you." She should know what's available and what resources are out there. I latch the stall door and move to the feed room, Sarah following. "For example, the PACs with decades of experience—"
"And speak in statistics and policy papers.
" Sarah leans against the doorframe, her voice carrying quiet conviction.
"I need someone who understands that when we lose grazing access, we're not just losing economic opportunity.
We're losing the knowledge of how to read weather in a horse's ears, or how to manage land the way it was meant to be managed.”
I measure grain into Rebel's bucket as I process Sarah's words. The description resonates. "How'd you hear about me?" I'm curious. Because what drew her all the way out here will tell me as much about what she stands for as the heirloom necklace she wears.
"Your work on the Colorado Water Rights Reform Bill," Sarah replies , following as I return to Rebel's stall. "I want you because your experience gives you the credentials, but your life gives you the credibility.” She gestures around the barn.
"I’m officially intrigued," I admit.
She grins.
"What’s at stake?"
Sarah reaches into her purse and pulls out a file folder. "On a national level? Government overreach. There’s always someone who wants to make it hard to be a rancher—I want someone who will stand up to them.”
I accept the folder and scan the documents.
My mind immediately begins organizing the challenges: coalition building, timing legislative pushes, identifying pressure points within existing regulatory frameworks.
I feel something shift inside of me. This is the kind of job where I could make a difference.
"How long are we talking about?"
"As long as it takes." Sarah's smile holds both determination and something that looks like hope.
"The job would be based in Gritstone, Colorado," Sarah says, watching me hang up the lead rope.
"It's a small ranching community about two hours south of Denver.
The kind of place where everyone knows everyone. "
Gritstone. My hands still.
"My dad lives there." The admission escapes before I can stop it, carrying twenty-seven years of abandonment in four simple words.
I turn away immediately, straightening halters that are already perfect, annoyed at my own reaction.
Why does the thought of my father create this tightness in my chest when he's never been present enough to matter?
"Well, that's—" Sarah begins.
"It doesn't matter." I cut her off, rebuilding my professional facade. "The location is fine. Actually strategic—rural enough to understand the issues, close enough to Denver for legislative access." I face Sarah again, expression neutral. "What kind of timeline are we looking at?"
Sarah studies me for a moment before allowing the redirect. "My husband, Oscar, and I anticipate six months, with potential for extension based on results. There are immediate issues to address and some long-term ones. We can plant seeds now and harvest later. It might be slightly complicated."
"I can handle complicated." Even as I say it, my fingers worry the edge of the folder.
I wish I could understand why the idea of being in the same town as my father makes me feel unsettled.
If it's a small town, I will probably see him.
The notion makes me queasy, and I shove it as far down inside my brain as I can.
"Would I be able to bring my horse?" I don't want my mom to take over her training. Rebel’s my first investment and I need to prove that I can turn a profit on her. I check the latch on Rebel's door to make sure it's locked.
"Of course," Sarah agrees, watching the unconscious intimacy between woman and horse with knowing eyes. "Stonegate Ranch has everything you'll need."
I nod, satisfied that the practical concerns are addressed. "It sounds like a great opportunity.”
"How soon can you start?" Sarah asks.
"A couple of weeks?" I shrug as my schedule plays through my mind. "Maybe ten days. I'll need to make some arrangements, but I think I can make it work."
"The sooner the better. I'll email you the details and a contract." Sarah smiles and while she's confident and aggressive, there's something calming about her.
“I’ll walk you out,” I offer. I think I’ll like working for her and I’m excited about the challenge she brought to my door.
"Your mother has quite a reputation," Sarah pauses to look at the seasoned mare, Hello Lainey, one of mom’s top performers. "The name Callie Rose means something in barrel racing circles. What she's built here is impressive."
I feel a familiar flicker of pride, the kind that comes from being associated with excellence. "She's worked hard for it."
"I understand you ride for her—is she going to be okay with losing you for six months?"
"Mom's practical. She understands business opportunities." Which is true—Callie Rose has always encouraged me to take assignments that advance my career. She expects nothing less from me.
We exchange information and she climbs back into her big, shiny black truck and disappears down the gravel drive while I head back to the barn.
Gritstone.
I don’t know what I’d say if I saw my father.
Maybe nothing. Maybe too much. Mom says he’s the kind of man who makes you feel chosen when you’re standing in front of him and forgotten the minute you’re out of sight.
I don’t need him in my life, but some absences echo louder than presence ever did.
I don’t want to think about him, so I pull out my phone and search Sarah Halloway.
What are the chances that she’s related to Wyatt?
Probably about as ironic as me moving to the same town as my father.
I lean against Rebel’s stall door. "Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice," I mutter as I type and wait for the results to pop up. An image of Sarah and a younger Wyatt appears on my screen. "You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The memory of the way I looked at him and how embarrassingly attracted I was to him floods me. There’s no way I can work in the same vicinity as the bull rider—no stinking way.
Another quick search of the PRCA schedule, and I verify that Wyatt won't be anywhere near the ranch while I'm there. He's chasing Vegas with a vengeance. I sigh with relief. "Looks like we're moving to Gritstone," I tell Rebel. "I hope you're ready because I'm not sure I am."