Chapter 8
WAVERLY
I backed the trailer into a slot near the far end of the lot, excitement and nerves swirling around in my stomach at the thought of competing again.
The jackpot I’d signed up for was two hours from Mustang Mountain.
Close enough that a good run today would still count for something, far enough that I could breathe without wondering who would be watching.
The arena sprawled ahead. It wasn’t anything fancy, just standard fencing, worn dirt, and a handful of metal bleachers that had seen better decades.
Trailers lined up in uneven rows, riders already warming up their horses in tight circles while a crackling speaker announced names I didn't recognize.
It was the perfect place for the gelding and I to take our first official run together.
I climbed out of the truck, my boots hitting dirt that didn't belong to Hollister or Kincaid land. My shoulders dropped half an inch in relief. The past few nights had played through my mind on the drive over, especially the comment Harrison Winslow had made about Kincaids cleaning up nice.
I'd stood there waiting for Tanner to say something. Anything. A single word that acknowledged what we'd been to each other in that cabin, in his truck, in every stolen hour we'd carved out when no one else was looking. But he'd given me silence instead. Like nothing between us had mattered.
I shoved the memory down and moved to the back of the trailer, unlatching the door with more force than necessary. The horse shifted his weight but stayed calm. I still couldn’t believe he was mine. I'd found him, evaluated him, and paid for him with money I'd earned on my own. That mattered.
"Alright," I murmured, reaching for his lead rope. "Let's see what you've got."
He backed out of the trailer smooth and steady, his head low, his ears swiveling toward the noise coming from the arena. He was curious but didn’t show a single sign of spooking. I ran a hand down his neck then led him toward the warm-up area.
Everything after that came easy. My hands moved through the familiar motions of saddling him, fitting the bridle, and checking the cinch twice out of habit rather than necessity.
Other riders circled nearby, some offering nods, others too focused on their own runs to notice another competitor settling in.
No one here knew me on sight. No one whispered Kincaid like it meant something more than a name. No one expected me to be anything other than what I showed them in the arena.
When it was time for me to compete, the speaker crackled overhead. "Waverly Kincaid, you're up in five."
I swung into the saddle and adjusted my weight until it felt right. The gelding responded immediately, stepping forward without hesitation, and I guided him toward the entry gate.
Dust hung thick in the air, kicked up by the previous runs. The scent of churned earth mixed with leather and horse sweat. I circled him once, feeling his muscles coil and release under me, testing his responsiveness to leg pressure and rein cues. He gave me everything I asked for.
"Waverly Kincaid," the announcer called again.
I urged him forward through the gate. The arena opened up ahead with the three barrels positioned in a triangle.
The dirt underneath the gelding’s hooves was soft but not too deep.
I adjusted my grip on the reins and could tell he was ready by the way he lifted his head slightly, and his ears twitched forward.
The flag dropped, and we were off. Everything else disappeared.
The first barrel came up fast. I held him steady through the approach, no rushing, no second-guessing.
His body curled around the turn exactly where I needed him, tight enough to shave time, controlled enough that his hooves didn’t slide.
We moved on to the second barrel. I shifted my weight before he needed the cue, felt him respond like we'd been running together for years instead of just over a week. He made a clean turn with no hesitation, his shoulder dropping at the perfect angle while I kept the reins steady.
The third barrel was where runs fell apart. Either horses made a move too soon or riders lost their nerve. But we drove through the turn with power that vibrated up through my legs, his hindquarters pushing hard against the dirt, and when we broke for home, he opened up like something unleashed.
The gate flashed past in a blur.
I slowed him down gradually, letting him work through the adrenaline in wide circles while my pulse hammered in my ears.
Our run hadn’t been perfect. The second barrel had been a fraction wider than ideal and might have cost me an extra tenth of a second, but we’d had a clean run. The kind of run that would turn heads.
When I finally brought him to a stop near the warm-up area, I heard the time announcement crackling through the speakers. We were at the top of the board.
My breath came steady despite the adrenaline still humming through my veins. I loosened the reins, let the horse drop his head, and sat there for a moment letting the certainty that had been missing for weeks finally settle into place.
This wasn't luck. It wasn't about family connections or someone else's training or a horse handed to me because of my last name. This was mine. The choice, the work, the ride. All of it.
“You did good, boy.” I patted his neck then led him toward the edge of the grounds, away from the noise of riders prepping for their runs and the crackle of the speaker announcing times.
He'd cooled down enough that his breathing had evened out, but I kept him moving in slow, easy circles, letting his muscles settle after the effort he'd given me.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dirt.
A few trailers had already pulled out, their owners headed home or on to the next stop.
I should've felt the satisfaction of that top time more than I did, should've been mentally cataloging what worked and what needed adjustment for the next run.
Instead, my attention snagged on movement beyond the arena fence. On Tanner.
He stood about twenty yards away, his boots planted in dirt that didn't belong to either of our families, close enough that I knew he'd watched the run, far enough that no one would notice him.
His hat sat low, shadowing his expression, but the way his shoulders squared, and he kept his hands loose at his sides, told me everything I needed to know.
He'd come. But only like this. Only where it didn't cost him anything.
I kept walking in circles, not acknowledging Tanner’s presence at all, and waited. If he’d come all this way and wanted to talk to me, he could make the first move himself.
He did. He crossed the distance between us in slow steps until he stood close enough for conversation but not close enough to touch. The space he’d left felt intentional, exactly the kind of careful distance he'd been maintaining since that night at the community center.
"That was a good run," he said.
I adjusted my grip on the reins, feeling the gelding shift underneath me. "Thanks."
“Did you decide on a name yet?”
I hadn’t wanted to name the gelding until we’d had our first run together. Now that he’d shown me what he could do, I felt like I’d earned the right to give him a name. “I’m going to call him Outlaw.”
Tanner huffed out a gruff laugh. “That fits.”
Outlaw nickered like he approved of the name.
"He handled the turns better than I expected." Tanner's gaze followed the horse, assessing him the way he assessed everything: methodical, thorough, and professional. "The second barrel could have been tighter, but it was clean and he's still learning your weight distribution."
The evaluation landed exactly how he meant it, like useful feedback from a trainer and nothing more. He didn’t acknowledge what it meant that he'd driven two hours to watch me compete. He didn’t mention the fact that he'd stayed hidden in the crowd instead of letting anyone see him.
"Is that why you came?" I kept my voice level, stripped of accusation or hope or anything else that might give him room to maneuver. "To see how the horse would perform?"
Tanner's gaze shifted to a spot behind me. "I wanted to make sure the evaluation held up under pressure."
There it was. The explanation that made it about the horse, about his professional reputation, about anything except the truth we both knew and he refused to speak.
I'd spent weeks meeting him at that cabin, letting myself believe that what happened between us there meant something beyond just bodies and heat and stolen hours.
I'd stood in front of him at the community center and given him the chance to claim even a fraction of what we'd been building, and he'd handed me a professional opinion instead.
And now he'd driven two hours to watch me ride, but only from a distance where no one would see him, where it wouldn't challenge the boundaries he needed to keep his world from cracking. The realization settled in quiet and final, cutting through whatever hope I'd been trying not to name.
He'd show up. But only in ways that didn't cost him anything. Not for me. Not where it counted.
"I'm done.” The words came out steady, certain, without the anger or hurt or desperation that might've made them sound like a plea. Just a statement of fact, the same tone I'd use to decline a horse that didn't meet my standards.
Tanner's expression shifted. Something that might have been surprise or regret flickered across his face before he could lock it down again. "Waverly—"
"No." I shook my head once. "I'm not arguing with you about this. I'm not asking you to explain yourself or promise things will be different. I'm just telling you I'm done."
Outlaw shifted his weight, responding to tension I hadn't meant to let into my hands on the reins. I loosened my grip and kept my breathing even.
"You came to watch me ride," I continued, "but you made sure no one saw you here. You'll meet me at that cabin where nobody knows, but you won't defend me when some asshole makes a comment at a town dance. You want me—I know you do—but only in ways that don't challenge the lines you've drawn."
Tanner stood silent and chose not to deny it.
"I'm not something to be hidden," I said. "Not after everything I've built on my own. Not for you. Not for anyone."
The finality of it sat between us. I waited for him to argue, to offer some compromise that would still let him keep his distance while holding onto whatever we'd had in that cabin. He didn't.
"Alright," he said finally, his voice low and rough. Just that one word, accepting the boundary I'd drawn the same way he'd drawn his own.
I turned Outlaw toward the trailer, feeling the gelding's steady warmth beneath me, the reliable muscle that would carry me through whatever came next.
Tanner didn't follow or call out after me.
He just stood there in the dirt while I walked away, exactly where he'd always put himself.
Close enough to matter. Far enough to stay separate.
The drive back to Mustang Mountain stretched long and quiet, nothing but road and fading daylight and the sound of Outlaw shifting in the trailer behind me. I'd made the decision. Said the words I needed to say. But something still felt unfinished, hanging loose like a thread I needed to cut clean.
The turnoff for the cabin appeared before I'd consciously decided to take it, but my hands moved on the wheel anyway, steering the truck down the rutted dirt road that led to the place where everything between us had started and ended.
I parked near the cabin and climbed out, leaving the engine running. Outlaw would be fine for a few minutes.
The door was unlocked. Inside, dust motes hung in the last rays of sunlight slanting through the window. The bed where we'd tangled together sat unmade, exactly how we'd left it the last time. The small kitchen area still held the coffee mugs we'd used.
I walked to the drawer under the window and pulled out the wooden box I'd found weeks ago.
The letters inside felt fragile under my fingers.
Old paper and careful handwriting held the evidence of something between a Hollister and a Kincaid that didn't fit the feud narrative either family had built their walls around.
I'd kept the secret since finding them, unsure what to do with history that belonged to both of us but neither of us had chosen. Now I knew.
I set the box on the table where we’d shared meals together.
Tanner wouldn’t be able to miss it when he came back.
Then I looked around the cabin one last time.
This place had been ours. For a little while, I’d found some happiness here.
But I was done settling for being a secret kept on the sidelines.
I walked out without looking back, pulled the door shut behind me, and climbed into my truck. Outlaw neighed from the trailer as I shifted into gear. The cabin disappeared behind me as I drove toward the main road, toward town, toward whatever came next.
I was choosing myself in the one way Tanner never could.