Chapter 6
Chapter six
Hazel
The rodeo hits me all at once.
I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it until I'm standing in the middle of it, surrounded by sound and movement and the low, vibrating hum of something that lives in my bones.
The announcer's voice crackles over the speakers.
Boots scuff dirt. Laughter rises and falls in loose waves, and somewhere nearby a horse snorts, impatient and familiar.
The air smells like dust and sweat and fried food, like leather and hay and summer heat. My chest tightens, then loosens, like something inside me has finally recognized where it is.
I take a slow breath and let myself stand there for a moment, just feeling it.
The noise. The lights. The way my pulse seems to match the rhythm of it all.
I feel awake in a way I haven't in years—not the sharp alertness of a city street or the constant hum of being on, but something deeper and older.
My body remembers this place even if my life wandered far from it.
I watch the first event unfold, eyes tracking instinctively, muscles in my own body responding as if I'm still the one riding.
The tension in the chute. The split second of stillness before release.
The crowd roaring as rider and horse burst into motion.
My mouth curves into a smile before I can stop it.
God, I missed this.
Memory brushes against me, light but present.
Sitting on the rail with my friends, legs swinging, sunburned and loud and invincible.
My dad leaning against the fence nearby, hat low over his eyes, pretending not to watch me while never missing a thing.
The sound of his wince when someone wiped out in the dirt.
The way he always smelled faintly of leather and coffee and the land itself.
The familiar ache comes, but softer than it used to be. Still there. Still real. Just not sharp enough to take me out at the knees. I let it sit, let it pass. Tonight isn't about what I lost—it's about what still lives in me.
A ripple of excitement rolls through the crowd, pulling my attention back to the arena. I lean forward slightly as the next group prepares, and that's when it hits me.
Addie.
I blink, scanning the lineup again to make sure I'm not imagining it. There she is, helmet tucked under her arm, posture focused and ready in a way that stops me cold. Addie is competing. Not just tagging along, not just helping out—competing. The kind that takes time and training and commitment.
My chest tightens. I didn't know she'd gotten this serious.
The announcer calls Addie's name.
She mounts with confident ease, settling into the saddle like she belongs there, and something in my chest both swells and aches at once. Whatever else I missed, I'm here for this moment. That has to count for something.
The gate opens. Addie and her horse explode into motion, fast and clean, and the crowd roars.
I find myself holding my breath, body tense, watching every stride like I'm the one riding. My hands grip the rail and muscle memory floods through me—the lean into the turn, the calculated risk, the thunder of hooves beneath you.
I miss this. The energy, the electricity, being part of something that lives in your bones.
But I don't miss being out there. Don't miss the spotlight, the nerves before every run, the way my stomach would twist waiting at the gate. Don't miss competing against myself as much as the clock, trying to prove something I could never quite name.
This—watching, cheering, feeling the rush without my heart in my throat—this I can handle.
The third barrel is where riders lose time, where nerves make you pull too early or lean too late. But Addie reads it perfect, her body already angled before the turn begins, and her horse responds like they're one creature.
When she crosses the line, applause thunders through the arena.
Second place. Pride blooms bright and clean in my chest. She earned that. Every second of it.
My dad's face surfaces, uninvited. The way he took Addie under his wing years ago, patient and encouraging, giving lessons that were equal parts instruction and belief.
He was always good with kids who needed someone steady, someone who saw potential and treated it like fact.
I can almost see them in the round pen together, his hand on her shoulder as he adjusted her grip, his quiet voice saying, "That's it. You've got it."
My throat tightens. I would've known about this. Should've known. If I'd been here. If I'd stayed.
The guilt sinks its teeth in sharp, but I shove it down before it can take hold. Not now. I won't survive every moment here if I let regret lead the way.
My gaze drifts without permission, searching the crowd until it lands on him.
Eli stands near the far rail, profile sharp against the lights, hat low enough to shadow his eyes but not enough to hide the line of his jaw.
He's watching Addie too, shoulders loose in a way they never are around me now.
There's something almost soft in his posture, something proud and protective that makes my stomach twist.
He would've been here for every practice. Every competition. Every moment I missed.
I force myself to look away before he catches me staring, but it's too late.
The awareness settles under my skin, warm and unwelcome.
I know without checking that if I look back, I'll find him watching me.
I felt it the moment I walked through the gates earlier too—that pull, that attention, the same way I always used to.
My eyes searched for him first tonight. Old habit. Stupid habit.
"Beer?"
The voice cuts into my thoughts, close and familiar. I turn to find Shae grinning at me, one eyebrow arched, a cold bottle already pressed into my hand.
"Figured you'd need this," she says. "You've got that look."
I huff a laugh and take it. "What look?"
"The one that says you're feeling about fifteen things at once and trying real hard to feel none of them." She leans her hip against the rail, eyes still on the arena as she tips her beer back. "Welcome home."
I lift the bottle, the cool glass grounding me as I take a long sip. The alcohol hits smooth and familiar, loosening something in my chest that's been wound tight since I got here.
Shae turns then, studying me with that look that's always made me feel both seen and gently called out. "So," she says lightly, like she's not about to poke a bruise. "How bad is it? With the ranch, I mean."
I snort. "Well, the stalls are empty, the fences are held together with spite and baling wire, and Eli's being a controlling ass. So, you know. Living the dream."
Her mouth twitches. "I figured as much." She pauses, something softer crossing her face. "He's not usually like this, you know. He's still a good man, Hazel."
"Could've fooled me."
"Hazel—"
"Don't," I say, but without heat. "I know what you're going to say. That he's been holding everything together. That I left. That I don't get to be mad." I take another sip of beer. "Trust me, I'm very aware."
Shae opens her mouth to respond, but an arm slings itself around my shoulders before she can.
"Well hell," Chace says cheerfully, pulling me against his side like we've been doing it our whole lives. "If you keep staring across the fairgrounds like that, people are gonna start thinking you're picturing me naked."
I choke on my beer. "Chace!"
"What?" He grins down at me, all innocence and mischief. "I'm just saying. That's a very specific kind of look."
I smack his chest without any real force, laughing despite myself. "You're disgusting."
"Only on weekends," he shoots back. "And since you cleaned up real nice tonight, I figured I'd shoot my shot. You know, for old times' sake."
Shae barks a laugh. "You're going to get yourself killed."
"Been threatened with worse," Chace says easily, but there's something grounding in the way he keeps his arm around me. Familiar. Safe. The same way it's always been between us— uncomplicated.
I let myself lean into it for a moment, into the ease of someone who doesn't expect me to explain myself.
Then I feel it.
That shift in the air. The weight of someone's attention.
I glance up, and sure enough, Eli's looking right at us.
Not casually. Not accidentally. His eyes are locked on Chace's arm around my shoulders, and the expression on his face is dark enough to make my pulse stutter.
It's gone in a blink, replaced by that unreadable mask he's so good at now, but I saw it.
Heat flashes through me—frustration and something more dangerous underneath.
I look away first, hating myself for it.
Chace drops his arm, oblivious, already craning his neck to see something in the arena. I exhale slowly and take another sip of beer, willing my heart rate to settle.
"See?" Shae murmurs, quiet enough that only I can hear. "That's what I'm talking about."
I open my mouth to tell her she's wrong, that whatever she thinks she's seeing isn't there, when another voice slides in smooth and sharp.
"Well if it isn't the prodigal daughter returned."
I turn slowly.
Cole Maddox stands there, hat tipped back just enough to show the sharp angles of his face, that familiar smile playing at his lips.
The kind of smile that says he knows exactly what he's doing and enjoys every second of it.
His gaze sweeps over me with the lazy confidence of someone who's never been told no in a way that mattered.
Chace's easy posture vanishes. His shoulders go rigid, the playfulness draining from his face in an instant. Beside me, Shae shifts closer, her body angled like she's bracing for impact.
Across the way, Eli turns and he starts walking toward us with long, deliberate strides, and I can feel the intent radiating off him even from here.
I wondered how long it would take for this to happen.