Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Hazel
I'm already mucking stalls when the sun finally clears the ridge.
The barn smells like damp earth and hay and animals that don't care what kind of night I had. Steam rises faintly from the bedding as I work, pitchfork scraping, boots sinking into packed dirt that remembers every step taken before mine. My shoulders ache in a way that feels earned, not alarming.
Familiar. Good.
I spent too many mornings in the city waking to silence that wasn't real—walls too clean, nothing that needed me.
This is different. This is honest work with immediate results.
I lift another forkful and toss it into the wheelbarrow, muscles protesting but obeying.
My body knows this even if my head is still catching up.
Mae was asleep when I came in from the rodeo.
Fully out, door cracked, lamp off. I stood there a moment longer than necessary, watching her chest rise and fall, listening to the quiet of the house settle back into place.
I didn't wake her. Whatever conversation we need to have could wait until morning.
Except this morning, she's already gone.
I noticed when I padded into the kitchen earlier. The coffeepot cold. Mae's mug missing from its hook. A note on the counter in her looping handwriting.
Town. Back later.
So much for talking to her about Cole right away.
I adjust my grip and shove the wheelbarrow forward, jaw tightening as the weight shifts.
My throat feels dry no matter how much water I drink.
Dust clings to my skin, settling into the creases of my hands, the line of my wrist. My body carries a low, persistent soreness—not sharp, just there. Like a reminder.
I welcome it. It's easier to focus on physical aches than everything else.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I ignore it.
It buzzes again. Then a third time. I tip the wheelbarrow at the far end of the aisle and wipe my forearm across my brow.
Sunlight filters in through the slats, striping the floor in pale gold.
My phone vibrates once more, a longer buzz this time.
A call. I pull it out, glance at the screen.
Lauren, my boss. I silence it and slip the phone back into my pocket without answering.
I'll deal with Denver when I'm ready. When I figure out what to tell them.
I work through the stalls methodically, falling into the rhythm I grew up with. Clean. Turn. Replace. Move on. It feels good to be useful without explanation, to do something that doesn't ask me to defend my presence or justify my timeline.
I came back to help Mae. That was the plan.
Just until her leg healed. But Cole's threat last night shifted something.
Mae lied for five years about how bad things are.
Eli holding everything together alone. The ranch was bleeding while I built spreadsheets in a glass tower.
The problems are bigger than I expected. That's all I know right now.
By the time I finish the last stall, the ache in my arms has settled into something steady. My breath evens out. The tightness in my chest loosens just enough to make room. I lean the pitchfork against the wall and stand there for a moment, hands on my hips, breathing in the barn air.
I'm not hiding. I'm not waiting to be invited.
I'm working.
And for today, that's enough.
***
I'm halfway to the feed shed when my phone buzzes again.
This time I stop and pull it out. Three texts from Lauren. Two from Marcus. A calendar reminder about Monday's presentation. An email notification with "URGENT" in the subject line.
My thumb hovers over the screen. Denver feels distant.
Not just in miles, but in relevance. The ranch surrounds me—real and immediate and impossible to ignore.
Problems that can't be solved with a pivot table.
People who won't wait for me to schedule them into my calendar.
But Denver is still my life. My apartment.
My job. My carefully constructed routine that makes sense in a way this place hasn't in five years.
I type out a quick response to Lauren: Family emergency with the ranch. Going to need three more weeks minimum. Will stay in touch on urgent items but need to be offline for most of it.
It's not a lie. It's also not the whole truth. I hit send before I can overthink it and pocket the phone again.
I push away from the wall and scan the yard, looking for the next task. My eyes catch on the gate down the far fence line—the way it hangs slightly crooked, one hinge sagging.
Good. Work I can fix.
I head toward it, boots crunching over gravel. The gate down the line is crooked, one hinge sagging just enough to throw the alignment off. I crouch to inspect it, fingers testing the loosened bolts, already cataloging what it'll take to fix.
Wrench. New hardware. An hour, maybe two.
I'm about to head back for tools when a shadow crosses the ground beside me.
I don't need to look up to know who it is.
A wrench appears at eye level, held steady.
I pause, then take it. Our fingers brush—just once, a brief and unmistakable contact. Skin against skin. We both go still.
The wrench feels suddenly heavier in my hand. I swallow and focus on the bolt in front of me, forcing my attention downward. I loosen it carefully, metal creaking in protest.
Eli kneels beside me without a word and reaches for the gate. He holds it steady, and I catch the flex of muscle in his forearms as he takes the weight. We work in silence, movements falling into the old rhythm—precise, coordinated, effortless.
I adjust the hinge. Eli shifts his grip.
Our shoulders brush.
My breath hitches, barely audible. I steady it again and tighten the bolt, fingers firm despite the tremor that wants to creep in.
Eli releases the gate slowly, testing the balance.
It swings clean this time, settling into place with a soft click.
He doesn't look at me. Doesn't acknowledge the moment at all.
He stands, dusts his hands off on his jeans, and steps back.
For half a second, his eyes meet mine. Something flickers there—not anger, not coldness.
Something that looks almost like regret before he shuts it down and turns away. Professional. Controlled. Devastating.
I stand, wrench still in my hand. I turn to the gate once more, confirming the fix, and nod to myself.
When I look up, he's already walking away. No pause. No glance back.
I stand there a second longer than necessary, the quiet ringing in my ears louder than the ranch sounds around me. His silence hurts more than his anger did last night. At least his anger was something—hot and real and directed at me. This distance is worse. It's a door closing. A decision made.
He's already decided I'm leaving. And the worst part is, he's probably right.
I carry the wrench back to the shed and set it where it belongs, aligning it neatly with the others. My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I don't check it.
I check on the colt before heading to the feed shed. He lifts his head when I approach, ears forward instead of pinned. Progress. Small, but real.
I don't go into his stall—Eli made it clear I need permission for that. But I can watch. He's alert when I approach, ears swiveling toward me, but he doesn't pin them back. Doesn't retreat to the far corner. Just watches, wary but not panicked.
I turn away and head toward the far pasture fence, scanning for the next thing that needs fixing.
Chace is already there when I arrive, crouched by a loose board near the corner post. I don't know how long he's been working—long enough to notice me checking on the colt, apparently.
He doesn't ask questions. Doesn't comment. Just works nearby, the way ranch hands do when they're keeping an eye out without making a thing of it.
"Rough night?" There's a hint of amusement in his voice.
I tip the bucket and set it down with a thud. "Yeah."
"Well." He tips his hat back and studies the sky. "You're still here."
The observation lands differently than I expect. Simple. Matter-of-fact. No judgment attached.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I am."
We work in loose tandem after that. Not assigned, just adjacent. Chace takes on tasks that keep him nearby. Fixing a loose board. Checking another gate. Just two people working the same land, shoulders loose, breathing easier.
The sun climbs. Sweat slicks my spine. Dust clings to my skin, settling into something that feels almost like belonging. With every completed task, a small piece of the noise in my head goes quiet.
By the time I pause for water, my breathing has evened out. The ache in my muscles feels familiar instead of sharp. I lean back against the shed wall for a moment, forearms resting on my knees.
Chace hands me a bottle of water without a word.
I take it, unscrew the cap, and drink deep. Water runs cool and steady down my throat, washing away the dryness I hadn't realized had built up.
"Thanks," I say.
He nods, then glances toward the pasture. "Gonna be a long one today."
I follow his gaze. The ranch stretches out wide and indifferent, work waiting at every turn. Empty stalls where boarders used to be. Fences that need more than patches. A financial crisis I'm only beginning to understand.
That you give a damn about any of this.
Eli's words from last night surface without warning.
Do I?
The question sits heavier than I want it to. Because the truth is, I don't know how to prove I care. Not in a way that makes up for five years of silence. Not in a way that convinces him—or anyone—that I'm not just going through motions until it’s time to leave again.
I'm here today. That's all I've got.
Whether it's enough, I don't know.
I drain the last of the water and push to my feet. "Yeah. Let's keep moving."
***
The afternoon stretches long and hot. I work steadily, checking off tasks without fanfare. A loose board replaced. Feed distributed. Troughs scrubbed clean. Small things. Necessary things. The kind that keep a place like this moving forward whether people are ready or not.
I pass the empty stalls more than once. Each time, I slow just slightly, taking in the vacant space. These used to be full. Boarders paying to stable their horses here, clients bringing young prospects for my dad to train. It was my daddy’s greatest joy.
I keep walking.
By the time the sun starts its descent, my body has settled into a rhythm that feels almost right. The earlier ache has smoothed into something manageable. The tightness in my chest has loosened—not gone, but no longer sharp enough to stop me.
I pause once, hands on my hips, eyes tracing the line of the pasture fence toward the hills beyond. Somewhere out there is Maddox land. Cole circling, waiting for us to fail so he can swoop in with another offer.
I exhale slowly and turn back to the task in front of me. I pull out my phone and check the message thread with Lauren.
Lauren: Got your message. Three weeks is fine. Keep me posted on anything urgent. Take care of your family.
Relief loosens something in my chest. I didn't realize how much I'd been bracing for pushback until I didn't get it.
Five years of never missing a deadline, of being the one they could count on—it bought me this.
I type back: Thanks. I appreciate it.
Three weeks. I've bought myself three weeks.
I slip the phone away and get back to work.
The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the yard. I finish the last task on my mental list and stand there for a moment, taking in the quiet. Cows shift in the pasture. A breeze stirs the grass along the fence line. Somewhere, a board creaks as it settles into place.
The ranch doesn't feel like it's opened its arms to me.
But it hasn't shut me out either.
I roll my shoulders and head toward the house, boots crunching over gravel. Mae's truck still isn't back. The conversation we need to have looms somewhere on the horizon—Cole's offers, her lies, what happens next.
But that can wait until tonight.
Three weeks to figure out what this place needs and whether I'm the one who can give it.
That's a question for later.
Right now, there's work waiting for me tomorrow. And I'll be here to do it.