Chapter 25
Fable
“Well, I’ll be damned, girls,” Kline said, pulling off his hat as he nodded toward the bulls being led into the pasture—the ones that had been sold.
The past two weeks had been a whirlwind. Every day, I woke up to the sound of cattle, the scent of fresh hay, and a whirlwind of working nonstop. The small-town life that had once seemed so foreign was starting to feel . . . comfortable.
Harleigh and I had thrown ourselves headfirst into it, working day and night to bring Twisted Spur Ranch into the modern world.
We started small—posting simple, everyday moments of the bulls on social media.
Clips of them playing, rolling in the dirt, showing their personalities.
It didn’t take long before we realized people loved that kind of content.
So, we leaned into it.
We hired a professional photographer to come out, dressing some of the bull calves in little spring-themed outfits, tiny flower crowns on their heads, little pastel bandannas tied around their thick necks.
It had started as a joke, but the photos blew up.
Thousands of shares and comments flooded in—people gushing over how “handsome” the babies were, asking when they could visit, wanting updates like they were influencers instead of future bucking bulls.
And then came the auction.
Harleigh and I had nothing to do with the logistics of it, but one thing was undeniable—more eyes were on this sale than any auction Twisted Spur had ever held. Our marketing had worked.
I could feel it in the air as we stood by the fence, watching the bulls be led into the pasture.
“It’s working,” Harleigh whispered, barely containing her excitement.
I smiled, my chest swelling with pride as I watched Kline nod in approval, pulling his hat back onto his head.
Yeah. It was.
“You girls better go celebrate tonight,” Kline said with a nod before heading off toward the barn.
Harleigh nudged me. She was dressed in a pair of checkered pants and a tight, cropped shirt with a light sweater over it. The air was finally warming up, even if only a little. Much better than any Chicago winter, that was for sure.
“Want to come to my house tonight? Dad’s putting on the championship round of the event that Dalt and Beau are at,” Harleigh said, glancing over at me.
I hesitated. I hadn’t seen Beau since I started working a couple of weeks ago.
I’d catch glimpses of his truck parked near the barn or out by the pastures—but I never actually saw him.
It wasn’t like I was intentionally avoiding him .
. . not really. But keeping a little distance, maintaining that fragile friendship line we’d drawn, felt easier.
Ever since that night—the rain, the way I felt too much—it was simpler to pretend like he wasn’t there. Plus, it seemed like he didn’t want to search me out either.
“No, I think I’ll pass tonight.”
Harleigh sighed dramatically as we reached my front door. “Fine, but you cannot bail tomorrow night.”
I groaned, already regretting my past self for agreeing. We were supposed to go to The Dive to celebrate surviving our first couple of weeks at Twisted Spur, and reluctantly, I had promised her I’d go.
“Fine. Yes. Tomorrow,” I muttered, pushing the door open.
Harleigh smirked. “Good. Because if you even think about backing out, I will drag you there myself.”
“Ha. Ha.”
“Wait, Fabs?”
I paused, my hand resting on the open door. “What’s up?”
Harleigh hesitated, glancing down at her boots, scuffing them lightly against the dirt before lifting her bright blue eyes to mine. “I wanted to say . . . I’m extra proud of you. I noticed that you haven’t needed to . . .”
She didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew exactly what she meant.
I smiled, warmth blooming in my chest. I did feel better. For once, I wasn’t drowning in my thoughts or spiraling into old habits. I was here, present and immersed. For so long, I had been terrified that after Mike, I’d be completely alone.
But this ranch? It was starting to feel like mine.
I had a project. A purpose. A place where I fit, something I hadn’t realized I was searching for until I found it.
“Thanks, Harls,” I murmured.
“See you later.”
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
I had spent so much time defining myself by how others saw me—letting their opinions shape my worth, their judgments dictate who I was supposed to be.
I hadn’t realized how good it felt to be appreciated just for being me, for my accomplishments, for something I built with my own hands.
Harleigh had always been the one who saw me for who I was, who never tried to change me or fit me into some mold.
It wasn’t until I was away from the noise of the city, away from the constant buzz of people telling me what I was too much of—too weird, too modest, too difficult, too not enough—that I truly valued her friendship.
Out here, it was easier to see who mattered.
I sank onto the large leather couch, kicking my feet up and letting out a slow breath. My phone dinged, pulling me from my thoughts.
Harls: Dad said you’re missing the pulled pork tonight. Come by if you change your mind. XX
I wasn’t going. But knowing I could—that someone wanted me there—felt like enough.
I was already in bed, curled under the covers, my phone propped up on some pillows beside me as I scrolled mindlessly through my streaming apps.
There was nothing on that I actually wanted to watch, but I kept scrolling anyway, hoping something would catch my interest. Out here, we didn’t get cable—just mediocre Wi-Fi that made streaming anything a gamble.
Half the time, it buffered right in the middle of the best parts, and I wasn’t in the mood to fight with it.
I sighed, tossing my phone onto the bed beside me and staring up at the ceiling. Even with exhaustion sitting heavy in my bones, my mind wouldn’t shut off. The success of the auction, the way Harleigh had looked at me with pride, the text she sent—it all lingered.
I pulled the blankets tighter around me, sinking deeper into the mattress, willing sleep to come. As I stared at the ceiling, restless and annoyed, something clicked in the back of my mind.
Bull riding.
That was why Roger had invited me over—why Harleigh had texted about dinner. The championship round for the weekend was on. While Dalton and Beau were still in the top fifteen, it was an important weekend for them, at least from what some of the ranchers were saying at the auction earlier.
I turned my head toward my phone, which was currently playing some half-hearted rewatch of a show I’d seen years ago. I barely remembered putting it on, and I definitely wasn’t paying attention.
Fuck it.
I sat up, grabbed my phone, and swiped over to the streaming app that aired the bull riding events. It took a second for the screen to load, the little spinning wheel making me hold my breath as I silently prayed the weak Wi-Fi wouldn’t betray me. Finally, the broadcast came to life.
Bright arena lights. The hum of the crowd. The deep drawl of the announcer setting up the next ride.
The event had already been on for some time, and they were setting up for the top five rides.
I squinted at the screen, scanning the arena until I saw a familiar name pop up on the broadcast.
Dalton Culpepper – 87.5 to advance
My stomach tightened as the camera panned to him in the chutes, wrapping his hands tight around his bull rope, nodding once to signal he was ready.
The bull beneath him was shifting aggressively in the pen.
It didn’t come from Twisted Spur—we were too far from the East Coast for stock to be transported that far—but I made a mental note of the ranch name branded on the bull’s side.
I’d have to look them up, follow them on socials, see how they marketed their bulls.
The gate flung open, and my breath lodged in my throat.
Dalton shot out into the arena, his body rocking hard with the force of the first jump. He didn’t turn with the bull the way he should’ve. The bull jerked right, and Dalton leaned left, throwing his balance completely off.
My heart was in my stomach.
Hold on. Hold on.
But he didn’t.
The second his weight shifted too far off-center, the bull did exactly what bulls were trained to do—it sent him flying.
He hit the dirt hard, rolling as fast as he could to avoid the hooves coming down behind him. The bullfighters sprinted in, waving their arms, trying to pull the bull’s focus away. But for a split second, they weren’t fast enough.
The bull’s back leg came down inches from Dalton’s chest, and I swore my heart stopped.
I squeezed my phone tighter, my knuckles aching.
This is why I don’t watch this.
My health anxiety already had me spiraling over normal, everyday things, but this? Watching someone I knew get tossed like a rag doll, seeing them almost get stomped out under 1,800 pounds of raw muscle? It was enough to make me want to throw up.
I didn’t understand it. The fearlessness. How they climbed onto these bulls, knowing damn well they could end up in the dirt—or worse.
Dalton scrambled to his feet, jogging toward the fence and shaking out his arm like it had taken the brunt of the fall. The camera zoomed in on him grinning, shaking his head like he loved it.
Meanwhile, I was gripping the blanket around me, trying to convince my brain that I wasn’t the one who had almost been trampled.
The camera cut to Dalton, slightly out of breath but still grinning like he hadn’t come inches from being stomped into the ground. Dirt streaked his jaw, and his blonde hair was a mess beneath his helmet, but he looked completely unbothered—like this was another Friday night for him.
The interviewer stepped up beside him, shoving the microphone in his direction.
“Dalton, rough ride out there, but if no one else gets a qualified ride, you’re still sitting in the top five. How are you feeling?”