Chapter 3
TANNER
We met at a private facility south of town. It was neutral ground… the kind of place buyers used when they didn't want sellers knowing who was watching.
She'd sent me the address yesterday morning in a text. Nothing personal. Just the time, the location, and a single comment at the end.
Waverly: FYI… The seller doesn't know I'm bringing anyone.
That told me two things. One, that she didn't want the Kincaid name working against her before she'd even seen the horse. And two, that she knew enough not to tip her hand before she had a chance to do an evaluation.
I pulled in at ten past two. Her truck was parked by the barn, and seeing it there made my chest tighten in anticipation.
Waverly Kincaid had a way about her that set me on edge.
Being around her made me feel like I was settling into the saddle of an unbroken horse, knowing it could ruin me, but still looking forward to the ride.
The barn was clean and well-maintained. Stalls lined both sides, mostly empty at this time of day. At the far end, near the grooming stalls, I caught sight of Waverly.
She stood next to a bay gelding, her hands steady on the lead rope while the seller, a middle-aged man in a canvas jacket, gestured toward the horse's shoulder. Waverly wasn't looking at him. The horse had her full attention.
I stopped just inside the door.
She'd dressed like she was going to work in a pair of well-worn boots and jeans that molded to her curves. She had that long red hair pulled back in a braid that hung between her shoulder blades. She wasn’t looking for attention, but I gave it to her anyway.
She glanced up, caught my eye, then refocused on the gelding. No acknowledgment beyond that. No greeting. Just a slight shift in her stance that told me she knew I was there.
The seller noticed me next. "Are you Tanner Hollister?"
"Yes, sir."
He stuck out his hand, and I gave it a firm shake.
"I appreciate you coming out. Waverly here says you're the guy to ask about barrel prospects."
I didn't correct him or clarify that I wasn't training her horses, just looking at them. That distinction mattered to me, but it wouldn't mean much to him, and I wasn't interested in explaining myself to a man I'd likely never see again.
"Let's see him move," I said.
“I’ll leave you to it and will wait for you in the office.” The seller gave a slight wave and walked away.
Waverly led the gelding toward the arena entrance without checking to see if I was following.
The arena was indoors, which meant good footing and consistent light. Waverly unclipped the lead and let the horse settle. She didn't push him or ask for anything yet. Just gave him space to adjust, to recognize the environment, to decide whether he trusted her or not.
That was smart. Most buyers rushed this part.
They wanted to check speed, agility, and responsiveness right out of the gate.
But a horse that performed under pressure wasn't always a horse that performed well in a partnership.
And Waverly had enough experience to know that barrel racing required both.
She waited until his ears swiveled toward her, then clicked her tongue once. The gelding moved into a smooth walk along the rail, his head level and his stride even. Waverly kept up with him on foot, matching him and giving him plenty of space. After half a lap, she asked for a trot.
I watched the way his hocks engaged, the reach in his shoulder, and the set of his neck. His movement was even and clean, and I didn’t see any obvious compensation. But movement wasn't everything. Plenty of horses moved well in a straight line and fell apart the second a rider asked for more.
Waverly must have been thinking the same thing, because she stopped him near the center, adjusted her position, and cued him into a tight circle. Left first. Then right.
The gelding responded, bending through his body without locking up or losing balance. He wasn’t perfect, but he showed promise and was solid enough to work with.
She brought him back to a walk, then to a halt, and stood there for a moment with her hand resting lightly on his neck.
To someone else, it might look like she was giving him a quick pat for a job well done.
But I could tell she was getting a read on him, feeling for tension, for resistance, for the small tells that would let her know whether he would partner with her or just comply.
Then she looked at me. "What do you think?"
I didn’t want to give anything away, so I kept my expression neutral as I stepped away from the rail and moved closer. I wanted to give the horse a chance to see me without crowding him. He didn't spook, just watched me with calm, curious eyes.
I ran my hand down his shoulder, checking muscle tone and sensitivity. Moved to his legs, feeling for heat or swelling. Lifted each hoof, inspecting wear and balance. Everything came back clean.
"He's got a good foundation," I said. "Moves honest. No major red flags in his structure."
"But?" Waverly's voice stayed even, but her eyes narrowed.
I straightened, brushing dust off my hands. "His right lead needs work. He's not confident there yet. Could be training. Could be physical. You'd need a vet check to rule out anything deeper."
She nodded. "Anything else?"
"He's quiet," I said. "That's good for consistency. But quiet doesn't always mean competitive. You're going to need to see how he handles speed and pressure before you know if he's got the heart for it."
"I know."
It was the confidence in her tone that made me look up, and that's when everything clicked into place.
She wasn't here because she didn't know what to look for.
She was here because she wanted confirmation.
Wanted a second set of eyes on something she'd already assessed herself.
That was different. That was the mark of someone who understood their own limitations without being controlled by them.
Most people didn't operate that way. Most people either refused help out of pride or relied on it out of insecurity. Waverly did neither.
She stood there, patient and grounded, waiting for me to finish. Not needing me to tell her what to think. Just giving me space to say my piece so she could weigh it against her own judgment.
That unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
Because the last time I'd worked with a woman who seemed this prepared, this intentional, she'd walked away the second something better came along.
Left me holding a contract and a half-trained horse I couldn't sell because she'd burned the reputation before disappearing.
I'd sworn I wouldn't make that mistake again.
I swallowed hard. Waverly wasn't her. I knew that. Logically, I knew that. But it didn't stop the old instinct from kicking in. I stepped back, putting distance between myself and the gelding. Between myself and her.
"He's a decent prospect," I said. "But he's not going to make you competitive this season. You'd be better off looking at something with more experience."
Waverly's jaw tightened. Not much. Just enough that I noticed. "You said he had a good foundation."
"He does."
"You said his movements were clean."
"They are."
"Then why are you telling me to walk away?" She moved closer, closing the gap I'd just created. "Because that's what you're doing. You're not saying he needs work. You're saying he's not worth my time."
I held my ground. "I'm saying you came here looking for a horse that can run barrels at a competitive level. This one isn't ready for that yet."
"Most prospects aren't." Her voice stayed level, but there was heat underneath it. "That's why they're prospects. That's why people train them."
"And that's why you need to be realistic about timelines." I crossed my arms. "You want to stay in the circuit. That means you need a horse that can perform now, not six months from now."
"I know what I need."
"Then why'd you ask me to come here?"
The question landed harder than I'd intended. She didn't flinch, but something shifted in her expression. Like she'd been waiting for me to ask it out loud.
"Because I wanted to know if you were actually evaluating the horse," she said quietly, "or if you were just looking for reasons to say no."
I uncrossed my arms. "You think I'm lying to you?"
"I think you don't want to be here." She took another step forward.
Close enough now that I could see the flecks of gold in her green eyes.
"I think you agreed to this because I backed you into a corner, and now you're looking for the fastest way out.
So you're telling me this horse isn't good enough, even though everything you've seen says otherwise. "
"That's not what I'm doing."
"Then what are you doing, Tanner?"
"I'm giving you an honest assessment."
"Are you?" She didn't move any closer, but it felt like she did. "Because it sounds like you're giving me an excuse. And I'm trying to figure out if it's about the horse or about me."
I should've stepped back. Should've put space between us again and reasserted the boundary I'd spent two days trying to build. But I didn't. I couldn't. Because she was right there, steady and unflinching, looking at me like she already knew the answer and was just waiting for me to admit it.
"Your last name doesn't change what I see in a horse," I said.
"But it changes what you're willing to do about it."
"That's different."
"Is it?" Her voice dropped lower. Not softer. Just more direct. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're letting a feud I didn't start decide what I'm allowed to have."
"You're allowed to have whatever you want." The words came out rough. "Just not from me."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't work with Kincaids."
"You're working with me right now."
"I'm evaluating a horse."
"And finding problems that aren't there."
"They are there."
"Then tell me where." She didn't back down…
didn't give me an inch. "Show me what I'm missing.
All I've heard from you is that he's quiet, he's got a good foundation, his structure is clean, and he moves honest. That sounds like a prospect worth training.
So either you're wrong about all of that, or you're wrong about this. "
I opened my mouth then closed it again. She was right. The gelding was solid. Green, yeah, but solid. Any other rider, any other circumstance, I would've told them the same thing I'd told her, that he has a good foundation, needs work, but would be worth the investment if someone has the time.
But I'd added the caveat. The warning. The subtle suggestion that she should keep looking.
And I'd done it because I wanted her to walk away. Not from the horse. From me.
"You don't trust me," she said.
"I don't know you."
"Then get to know me." She tilted her head slightly, studying my face like she was reading a horse and looking for one of the small tells. "Or admit you don't want to."
The air between us felt too thin and too heavy all at once.
Her scent surrounded me. She wasn’t wearing perfume.
Just clean skin and leather and something warm underneath it.
I could see the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, the small scar at the corner of her jaw, and the way her pulse beat steady at the hollow of her throat.
She didn't look away and didn't step back. Didn't give me the space I needed to think straight. And I stopped trying.
That’s when I kissed her.
It was instinct and frustration and something I couldn't name colliding at the same time. My hand came up to her jaw, my fingers curling against the warmth of her skin, and she didn't pull away. She leaned into it, into me, like she'd been waiting for this exact moment.
Her mouth was soft and sure. I felt her hand press against my chest. Not pushing me away. Just grounding herself. Anchoring the moment before it spun out entirely. And that's what broke it.
This wasn't just attraction. Wasn't just heat burning off the tension we'd been building since she walked onto my property two days ago. This was something that could take root.
I pulled back just enough to break contact. Enough to remember why I'd been keeping my distance.
Her eyes opened slowly, focused and steady, still locked on mine.
"That was a mistake," I said.
Her expression didn't change. "Was it?"
"Yeah." I dropped my hand from her face, stepped back fully this time. Put the space between us that should've been there all along. "It’s not happening again."
She watched me for a long moment then nodded. "Understood."
But she didn't look away. And I couldn't shake the feeling that the line I'd just drawn wasn't nearly as solid as I needed it to be.