Chapter 3
Chapter three
Hazel
The hangover hits before I even open my eyes.
I groan and roll onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow. My head pounds in time with my pulse, mouth dry, stomach rolling. Light leaks through the gap between curtain and window—too bright, too insistent.
The bar comes back in fragments—music, Chace's laugh, Shae's concern. Then Eli's hand on my elbow, his truck, his voice cutting through the haze: You're done. My breath catches at the memory.
I force myself upright, pausing when the room tilts. I breathe through it until the world steadies, then swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there longer than necessary, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
Eli Dawson.
We'd spent our whole lives in each other's barns. Learned to ride together, showed horses together. Our fathers traded labor during busy seasons.
Best friends our whole lives.
Until I left.
The smell of coffee pulls me to the kitchen.
Aunt Mae stands at the stove, bacon sizzling in the pan.
"Well," she says without turning. "You survived."
I slide into a chair. "Barely."
She glances over her shoulder, amused. "How many times have I told you to pace yourself?."
"My whole life."
"And you never listen." She sets a plate in front of me and slides over water. "Drink that first."
I obey.
Mae leans against the counter, watching me with that knowing look she's perfected over the years. "Eli dropped you off late."
I freeze for half a second, then pick up my fork. "Yeah."
"Didn't stay long. Just made sure you were inside."
I nod. "That sounds like him."
She studies me a moment longer. "You should check on Blaze today. He's been restless, pacing the fence line like he's waiting for something."
My grip tightens on the fork. "He probably knows I'm back."
Mae's voice softens. "He's missed you."
So has everything else I left behind.
The barn is cooler inside, layered with familiar scents—hay and leather and dust. Wood creaks softly as the structure settles around me.
I walk slowly, letting my eyes adjust to the dimmer light.
Then I notice what's missing. Empty stalls line the far wall, doors latched open to nothing. Feed bins sit unused against the wall, clean and waiting for horses to fill them. The barn feels too big, too quiet—like something vital has been hollowed out.
These stalls used to hold horses people drove in from three states away to board and train with us. My dad's reputation meant something back then.
Now they're empty.
I keep walking until I reach the third stall on the left.
Blaze stands with one hip cocked, grayer now around the muzzle, but his eyes are still bright and knowing.
When he turns his head toward me, recognition flickers instantly.
He steps closer, breath warm against my shoulder, a low nicker rumbling out like a greeting he's been holding onto.
I swallow hard.
I got Blaze when I was sixteen. We won a lot of ribbons together before I left him behind.
I step into the stall and rest my forehead against his neck, feeling the solid warmth of him. "I'm sorry, boy. I know I've been gone too long."
He huffs softly, like he's considering whether to forgive me.
My dad died five years ago—sudden heart attack in the back field. After that, every fence post felt like his hands, every horse like his voice, every success like something I no longer deserved. I couldn't stay.
My mom left when I was five. Dad and Aunt Mae raised me after that, and this ranch became everything—until it wasn't anymore.
I pull back and wipe at my eyes. "Still handsome. Even if you're retired."
He bumps my shoulder gently, like he's arguing the point.
Movement catches my attention—a colt in the stall opposite Blaze. Three years old, maybe, just coming into himself. There's something in his build that makes me pause. Good bone structure, clean lines, intelligent eyes watching me with curiosity instead of fear.
This isn't just any colt.
"Well," I say softly, stepping toward him. "You look like trouble."
He tosses his head, clearly unimpressed by the assessment.
I smile despite myself and reach for the halter. "Let's see what you know."
***
The sun climbs quickly once I'm in the round pen. By the time I wipe my forearm across my brow, sweat clings to the back of my neck and my shirt sticks where fabric meets skin.
The colt tests me at first—crowding my space, tossing his head, all nervous energy and instinct. I stay calm, steady my breathing the way I always have. I ask for small things. A step back. A turn. A pause.
Pressure on. Pressure off.
The language comes back like muscle memory—the timing, the patience, the quiet insistence that doesn't need to be loud to be heard. The things my daddy taught me.
The colt circles the pen, but his ears pin back when I step toward his shoulder. White shows around his eyes. His stride shortens, head high, looking for an exit. I've seen this before—a horse that learned handlers mean pain.
I hold my ground but soften my posture. Wait.
He bolts left, testing me. I don't chase. Just keep the pressure light and steady, asking without demanding. His ears flick back and forth, weighing whether I'm a threat. It takes three more circles before his head drops an inch. Four before his stride lengthens.
Patience, Hazelnut. That's all it takes.
I adjust my position, read his body language, give space when he needs it and step in when he pushes too far. He snorts once, tosses his head like he's shaking off old memories, then settles—just a fraction, but enough to matter.
I slow him to a stop and approach carefully, palm open. He tenses, but holds. I rest a hand against his neck, feeling the heat of him, the tremble beneath his skin that's finally starting to ease.
Underneath the fear, he moves with a natural grace that makes my chest tighten. Responsive when he trusts. Smart enough to learn fast. The kind of horse my dad would've been excited about. The kind worth fighting for.
"Good," I murmur. "That's good."
"Well shit."
I turn, startled, then can't help but laugh.
Chace leans against the fence, hat tipped back, grin wide and familiar. "Look at you, city girl. Guess you haven't forgotten how to be a cowgirl yet."
I wipe my hands on my jeans. "Careful. I might start charging for lessons."
Up close, I catch the subtle hitch in his movement—the way he favors his left shoulder when he shifts his weight. Shae told me last year about the accident, her voice quiet over the phone. Bad ride. His career stalled. Chace back in Ashford Ridge pretending he'd chosen it.
I never called him. The guilt sits heavy, but I don't know how to name it now.
The colt tosses his head and I adjust my position without thinking, reading his body language, giving pressure then releasing it. He settles, ears flicking back toward me.
"Damn," Chace says quietly. "You really haven't lost it."
I glance at him. "What?"
"That." He nods toward the pen. "The timing. Most people would've yanked the rope by now."
"He's just nervous."
"Yeah, and you're reading him like a book." Chace grins, genuine warmth in it. "Forgot how good you were at this."
The compliment warms me more than it should.
"So," Chace says, and his tone shifts just slightly. "Does Eli know you're in here working the colt?"
I frown. "Why would Eli need to—"
“Get out of that pen, Hazel. Now."
The voice cuts across the yard like a whip.
I turn as Eli storms toward us, long strides eating up the distance between the barn and the round pen. His jaw is set hard, eyes locked on the colt before snapping to me with something that looks an awful lot like fury.
"He's not ready," Eli says, already climbing the fence. "Get out."
My temper flares hot and immediate. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He's moving between me and the colt now, deliberately placing himself in the space. "Get. Out."
I plant my feet. "I was handling him just fine."
"You don't know what you're handling." His voice drops, dangerous and controlled. "You've been gone five years. You don't get to walk back in here and pretend you know how things work."
The hit lands sharp and precise.
"That colt's been through hell and he spooks at everything," Eli continues, eyes hard. "He doesn't trust handlers yet. One wrong move and he could hurt himself. Or you."
"I know what I'm—"
“We're liable for that horse. Owner pulls him if something happens, and right now we need every bit of income we can get." Eli's voice is flat, matter-of-fact, which somehow makes it worse. "So no. You don't get to risk our boarding contract because you feel like playing cowgirl again."
The words sink in, spreading through my chest like ice water.
"Okay, okay," Chace says, hopping off the fence and stepping between us with his hands up. "How about we all take a breath here before—"
"Stay out of it, Chace," Eli snaps without even looking at him.
"Can't do that." Chace's tone is light but his eyes are sharp, tracking between us. "You're about to say something you'll regret."
"I regret plenty already." The words point straight at me like an arrow.
Pain flares, quick and sharp. I shove it down.
I look between them, voice harder than intended. "Why do you—" I gesture at Eli, at the pen, at his commanding presence here. "What gives you the right to—"
"I'm foreman," Eli cuts in, flat and matter-of-fact. "Have been for years now."
The words hit like cold water.
Foreman. Of my family's ranch. For years.
"Mae didn't..." I trail off, looking at Chace for confirmation.
Chace grimaces slightly. "Yeah. He runs the place, Haze."
I turn back to Eli, still trying to process. "You're—you run Clark Ranch?"
"Someone had to." His voice is cold. "Your aunt's holding it together with duct tape and stubbornness. Money's tight. Hands are few. That colt isn't a hobby—he's a necessity."
My stomach drops. "She didn't tell me things were this bad—"
“Why would she?" He's in my space now, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You talked to her every week and never once asked how things really were. You didn't want to know, so you didn't ask."
The accusation lands hard because it's true.
"Five years, Hazel." His voice drops lower. "You asked just enough to feel like you cared. Never the hard questions. Never how bad things really were."
My chest tightens. "That's not—"
"Your aunt was struggling and you didn't see it because you didn't want to see it."
He stops himself, jaw working like he's physically biting back the rest of the sentence.
"How bad is it?" I press, needing to know. "What aren't you saying?"
"Ask her yourself." His eyes are cold, distant in a way that hurts more than anger. "Since you're so good at showing up when it's convenient."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" Something breaks in his voice, just for a second. "You walked away clean while the rest of us stayed and dealt with the fallout. Don't talk to me about fair."
My throat closes around whatever response I might have had.
"Okay, timeout," Chace tries again, stepping forward with exaggerated calm. "Before someone says something they can't take back, how about Hazel grabs some water, you take a walk, and we all reconvene when we're feeling less flammable?"
"I talk to Mae every week," I say, needing him to understand. "She never told me any of this."
"Yeah, well." His jaw works. "She's good at that."
His shoulders tense, but he takes a step back. "Just stay out of the pen unless you clear it with me first."
Something flickers across his face—confirmation and resentment and bone-deep exhaustion all at once.
"Yeah." His voice is flat, empty. "Funny how things fall to the people who stick around."
The words hit exactly where he meant them to, precise as a knife between ribs.
He turns and walks away, boots biting into dirt with each step, leaving nothing but dust and silence behind him.
I stand there with my hands curling into fists at my sides, the sun hot on my back and shame burning hotter in my chest.
Chace exhales slowly and turns to me. "So that could've gone better."
I don't laugh.
“In my defense, I tried." He attempts his usual grin but it doesn't quite land. He watches Eli's retreating figure, concern flickering across his face before he masks it. "He's been wound pretty tight lately."
I stare at the dirt where Eli stood, his words still ringing in my ears. Money's tight. Hands are few. That colt's a necessity.
"How bad is it really?" I ask quietly. "The ranch."
Chace's expression shifts—careful now. "Bad enough that every decision matters. Every dollar. Every risk."
My stomach drops. "And Mae just... didn't say anything."
"She didn't want you worrying. Didn't want to pull you back here out of guilt." He pauses. "But yeah. It's been rough. For a while now."
"I should've known." The words scrape out. "I should've asked the right questions. Should've—"
"Yeah," Chace says quietly, and the honesty stings. "Maybe you should've."
I swallow hard. He doesn't offer comfort or an easy out. Just the truth sitting heavy between us.
"Yeah." He squeezes my shoulder once, the gesture meant to comfort me. "Look, just... check in before working the horses. For now. Ok?"
The fact that Chace—easy-going, rule-bending Chace—is asking me this tells me everything.
I watch Eli disappear beyond the barn, a new understanding settling heavy and unwelcome in my chest.
The ranch is in trouble. Real trouble. Eli's been carrying all of it—the weight of keeping this place running, keeping Mae safe, keeping everything from falling apart—while I've been gone.
Nothing here is as simple as I hoped.
And I have a feeling it's about to get worse.