Chapter 8
LILAH
The bay mare moved beneath me like water, smooth and steady, her ears flicking back every few strides to check in.
I shifted my weight, testing her response to lighter cues, and she adjusted without hesitation.
Good horse. Smart horse. The kind that made trick riding feel less like performance and more like conversation.
I guided her through a figure eight, standing in the saddle now, my feet planted on either side of the horn, knees bent to absorb the rhythm.
The cold February air burned my lungs, but my body felt warm, alive, grounded in a way it hadn't in months.
This was what I'd been missing. Not just the riding, but the trust. The partnership.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Dawson leaning against the rail like always, his arms crossed, hat low. He'd been there since I'd started, watching without saying a word, tracking my movements the way he tracked stock he respected.
I dropped back into the saddle, brought the mare down to a walk, then a halt. Gave her a long rein and a pat on the neck. “Good girl.”
Dawson pushed off the rail and met me at the gate, water bottle already in hand. He passed it to me without a word, then moved to the mare’s head, steadying her while I dismounted. His hand brushed my hip as I stepped down, warm and solid, and he didn't apologize or pull away.
“She's ready,” I said, taking a drink.
“She is.”
I handed the bottle back and reached for the reins, but Dawson was already loosening the girth, his movements efficient and practiced. We fell into the rhythm of cooling the horse down together, walking her in slow circles, checking her legs, brushing out the saddle marks.
“Ruby's been on me about timelines,” Dawson said after a while.
“Rodeo pressure?”
“That, plus insurance and permits.” He paused, running a hand down Mesa’s shoulder. “Slade found something on his property last month. It’s an old marker. Nobody knows what it means yet, but it's raising questions about boundaries and ownership.”
I glanced at him, relieved that he trusted me enough to tell me. “Is it going to be a problem?”
“Could be.”
“For the rodeo?”
“For everything.”
The weight in his voice made me pause. I'd noticed the tension creeping back in over the past few days—the way his jaw would tighten when Ruby called, the distraction that settled over him when he thought I wasn't watching.
But he hadn't pushed me away. Hadn't shut down.
Just carried it quietly, the way he carried everything else.
“What does the marker say?” I asked.
“Initials and a date. Nothing conclusive.” He straightened, meeting my eyes. “But it's old enough to matter.”
I nodded slowly, turning that over. “You think it ties back to the feud.”
“I think it complicates things people don't want complicated.”
“Like what?”
“Like who actually owns what. Like whether the rodeo's even happening on legitimate ground.” He let out a sharp exhale. “Like whether I'm about to blow up my family's reputation by digging into records nobody's looked at in decades.”
The admission landed between us, raw and unguarded, and I realized this was the first time he'd said it out loud. Not the facts, but the fear underneath.
“You're doing the right thing,” I said, my voice quiet.
“Doesn't feel like it.”
“It never does when it's hard.”
He looked at me for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Not agreement exactly. More like recognition. Like he'd been bracing for me to judge him, and he wasn’t sure how to react since I hadn’t.
“Come on,” he said finally. “Let's put her away.”
We moved into the barn together, the mare trailing behind. The light inside was softer, golden from the overhead bulbs, and the familiar smell of hay and horses wrapped around me like a warm blanket. Dawson led the horse into her stall while I grabbed the brushes and started putting the tack away.
I hung the bridle on its hook and turned to reach for the saddle pad, but Dawson was already there, lifting the saddle blanket onto the rack above my head.
His chest brushed my back, solid and warm, and he didn't step away.
Just stayed there, close enough that I could feel the rise and fall of his breaths.
I turned to face him.
He met my eyes. Not with the restrained hunger from before. And not with the hesitation that had followed the Valentine's dinner. This was different. Like he'd made a decision he didn't need to explain.
I didn't move. Didn't push.
His hand came up, his fingers brushing my jaw, tilting my face toward his. The kiss was slow this time, just steady heat that built in increments. His other hand settled at my waist, pulling me closer, and I let myself sink into him without thinking about timelines or leaving or what came next.
When we finally broke apart, his forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing a little harder.
“I don't want you to go,” he said.
The words hit me square in the chest.
“I'm still here,” I said.
“For now.”
“For now,” I agreed.
Because that was the truth. Not a promise. Not a threat. Just where we were.
The kiss deepened, slow and sure, like we had all the time in the world.
Dawson’s hand slid into my hair, his fingers tangling just enough to tilt my head, to take the kiss deeper without rushing it.
His other arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat through his shirt.
Heat sparked low in my belly and radiated through me. At the same time, a hollow ache pulsed deep in my core. I couldn’t deny the attraction if I wanted to. My body would give me away.
His mouth was warm, his stubble rough against my skin, and when his tongue met mine, the ground under my feet seemed to tilt sideways.
My hands found the solid weight of his shoulders, then the back of his neck, holding on as the kiss turned slower, lazier, like we were savoring something we’d both been pretending we didn’t want.
When we finally broke apart, his breath was warm against my lips. “Let’s go upstairs,” he murmured.
At that point, I would have followed him anywhere.
The loft was warmer, the air thick with the scent of wood. Dust motes swirled in the slanted afternoon light. Dawson led me to the far corner where a pile of blankets was stacked—clean, worn soft from use. He didn’t push me onto them. Just stood there, watching me, waiting.
I reached for the hem of my sweater and pulled it over my head. The cold air hit my skin, but his gaze was warmer, tracing the lines of my body like he was committing them to memory. His hands followed, slow and deliberate, skimming over my waist, my ribs, the swell of my hips.
“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice rough.
I answered by unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders.
My fingers traced the hard planes of his chest and the ridges of muscle earned from years of work.
He hissed in a breath when I scraped my nails lightly down his sides, his hands tightening on my waist for just a second before easing again.
This wasn’t like the first time…hot and fast, driven by something we’d both been holding back too long. And it wasn’t like all the times since. This was different. Like we were both finally admitting this wasn’t just about need. It was about wanting each other.
His mouth found mine again as he guided me back onto the blankets, his body covering mine without crushing me.
His weight grounded me while his hands slid under my back, unhooking my bra way too easily.
He tossed it aside before cupping my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples until they tightened under his touch.
I arched into him, desperate for more.
"Tell me what want," he murmured against my skin.
I didn’t hesitate. "This. Your hands. Your mouth." I tangled my fingers in his hair, guiding him lower. "Don’t stop."
He didn’t.
His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue swirling over one nipple before moving to the other, his teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp.
His hands never stilled…one slid down to pop the button of my jeans, the other braced against my hip as he kissed his way lower, following the path his fingers had traced.
I lifted my hips, letting him drag my jeans and underwear down my legs, leaving me bare underneath him. The air was cool against my skin, but his breath was warmer, his hands rough and calloused as they slid up the inside of my thighs, pushing them apart.
"Fuck, Lilah," he groaned, his voice thick. "Look at you."
I did. I watched as he settled between my legs, his gaze dark and hungry, before his mouth followed where his eyes had been. His tongue was slow at first, teasing, testing, until I gripped his hair and pulled him closer, until the sound of my own breath filled the quiet space between us.
He didn’t rush and he didn’t let me either.
By the time his fingers joined his mouth, I was already shaking, my body coiled tight, every nerve ending on fire. He worked me with a patience that should’ve been infuriating, but it wasn’t. It was like he was savoring every reaction, every sound, every way my body responded to his.
When I came, it was with his name on my lips, my back arched off the blankets, my hands fisting the fabric underneath me. He didn’t stop, drawing out every last shudder until I was boneless, breathless, my skin slick with sweat.
Finally, when I couldn’t take another second, he pulled back and stripped the rest of his clothes then reached for his wallet. I watched as he rolled on the condom, my pulse still thrumming in my ears, my body humming with the aftershocks of what he’d just done to me.
He settled between my legs again, bracing himself above me, his forehead pressed to mine. "Still good?"
I wrapped my legs around his hips, pulling him closer. "Better than good."
He pushed inside me in one slow, deep thrust, and we both groaned at the feel of it…full, perfect, and so right. He stayed there for a long moment, buried all the way, letting us adjust to each other, his breath ragged against my neck.
Then he moved.
Not fast. Not hard. Just deep, rolling his hips in a rhythm that made my toes curl, and my nails dig into his shoulders. Every thrust was deliberate, every kiss slower than the last, until I was climbing again, my body tightening around his, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Dawson—"
"I’ve got you," he murmured, his hand sliding between us, his thumb finding exactly the right spot to send me over the edge again.
This time, he followed, his body tensing above me as he came with a low, rough growl, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.
We stayed like that for a long time, holding the rest of the world at bay.
Dawson’s arm rested heavy across my waist, his thumb tracing random patterns over my skin. The loft was quiet except for the distant sounds of the ranch, the occasional whinny of a horse, and the creak of wood settling.
Then he started talking. Not about us or the future.
But about the past. How he’d lost both of his parents one right after the other and had to walk away from a championship run to come home and take over the ranch.
How he’d been keeping things going but if the rodeo moved forward, he’d finally be able to get the ranch in the black.
I listened, trailing my nails over his arm while I let myself believe this could be the start of something.
He moved on to mention the pressure he’d been under with the rodeo calendar tightening and the way everything felt like it was coming to a head. His voice was low and steady, like he was thinking out loud more than explaining.
"I found another ledger entry," he said after a while. "Same names. Different dates. If it’s real, if it’s legitimate…"
"It changes things," I finished.
He exhaled. "Yeah."
I didn’t push. Didn’t ask what that meant for him, for the rodeo, for the feud that had been simmering beneath the surface of this town for decades. I just listened.
Then I told him about my past. How my parents split when I was in middle school and I ended up raising myself while they tried to numb their own pain.
I finally packed a bag and set off on my own, lying about my age and taking any job I could find that would let me work with horses and eventually learn how to ride.
Eventually, one of the ranch hands came looking for Dawson. He called down that he’d be there in a minute, and we got up to get dressed.
The spell had been broken. As we descended the ladder, the closeness and warmth of the loft gave way to the cooler air of the barn below. Dawson laced his fingers with mine as we walked toward the barn doors, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then his phone rang.
He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and his jaw tightened. "It’s Ruby."
I squeezed his hand before letting go, stepping back to give him space. He answered, his voice shifting into something more distant. I busied myself with straightening the tack room, giving him privacy, but I could still hear the tension in his responses.
"Yeah, I’ve got the paperwork."
"No, nothing’s changed."
"I’ll handle it."
When he hung up, he found me in the tack room. He gave me a tight smile, but I could see the tension he was holding in his shoulders.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
He nodded, but it was automatic and distracted. "Just rodeo shit."
I didn’t push.
Later, when Dawson was pulled away by another call—this time Slade, judging by the tightness in his voice—I found a quiet corner of the barn and pulled out my phone.
The message from Jenna was still there.
Jenna: Clinic offer stands. Spot’s yours if you want it. Just say the word.
I stared at it, my thumb hovering over the screen.
The timeline was tight, but it was a good opportunity…a solid next step…a way to rebuild what I’d walked away from.
Leaving would be safe, but staying would be making a choice. Because I wanted this…training on my own terms, building something honest, and standing next to a man who didn’t flinch when things got hard.
I didn’t answer the message, but I didn’t delete it either.
I found Dawson outside, leaning against the corral fence, his hat pulled low as he watched a group of yearlings move through their paces. He looked entirely at home and relaxed in a way he never was when he was thinking about paperwork or feuds or the rodeo.
I leaned against the fence next him, close enough that our arms brushed. He didn’t pull away. For a long moment, we just stood there, watching the horses, the quiet between us easy in a way it hadn’t been before.
I wanted to stay. Not because I didn’t know how to leave. And not because I was afraid of what came next. Because I wanted this. I wanted him. Even knowing the cost.
And if I chose it, it would be because it was mine to choose.