Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Eli
The cattle will need moving at first light, before the heat creeps in. I work through the preparations without rushing, stacking what I'll need, checking straps and gates, laying everything out so the morning moves clean.
I like things ready before they have to be.
The barn settles around me as the light outside thins. Wood shifting. A horse blowing softly. The low hum of insects from the fields.
This is the part of the day that makes sense. My hands know the work. I focus on tomorrow — moving the cattle to fresh pasture. Which section to start with. Where the ground dips near the lower fence line. The rotation we're behind on because there's never enough time, never enough hands.
The colt shifts in his stall, settling for the night. He's coming along—slower than I'd like, but steady. Three months in and he's finally starting to listen. Another project on a long list I never have enough time for.
I stack another coil of rope, jaw tightening as my thoughts drift despite my efforts.
Hazel came into the barn earlier today.
I hadn't expected that to unsettle me. Not like it did.
She paused just inside the doorway, like she was testing whether the space still recognized her. Like she wasn't sure she had the right to step fully inside. I didn't watch her outright. I learned a long time ago how to keep my attention casual.
But I felt it anyway.
The shift in the air. The way my focus fractured the moment she walked in. The way my body went alert without my permission.
She looked steadier than when she arrived. Not fixed. Just present. Like the land had started working its way back into her, piece by piece.
That shouldn't have mattered.
But it did.
I tighten another strap harder than necessary and move on. Distance has rules. Silence has structure. I can live inside both if I'm careful.
But memory doesn't work that way.
I think about how she used to ride when she needed space. How she'd disappear for hours and come back looser, quieter, like she'd left something heavy out in the fields and didn't need to carry it home. I'd wait, pretending I hadn't noticed how long she'd been gone.
At her father's funeral, I stood exactly where I was needed. Not in front. Not behind. Just there. Close enough that she could lean if she had to. I didn't speak then either. I didn't need to. Hazel never required words in moments like that.
Presence had been enough.
That had been easier.
This feels different. Sharper. Like something unfinished pressing against the edges of my control.
I wipe my hands on a rag and lean back against the stall rail, eyes tracking the darkening sky through the open barn door. The last light clings low on the horizon, the fields beyond already settling into shadow.
Tomorrow will come whether I'm ready or not.
The ranch doesn't pause for unresolved history. The cattle don't care about what's been said or left unsaid. They need calm hands and steady movement, and I can give them that.
What I can't give is certainty.
Then I hear it—boots on gravel, moving fast. The barn door swings open before I can turn.
Hazel comes in like she's made a decision—purposeful, carrying the energy of the ride with her. Her hair is loose, wind-tossed, strands catching against her jaw and neck. Dirt on her boots. Color high in her cheeks from the cold air, from motion, from something sharper burning behind her eyes.
She stands a few feet inside, hands on her hips, breathing hard.
I turn. And stop.
My gaze drops before I can stop it. The curve of her waist beneath her jacket. The way her jeans fit her hips like they were made for long days in the saddle. The way she's looking at me—alive in a way that hits me square in the chest.
Heat crawls up my neck. When my eyes lift again, she's watching me—knows exactly where I was looking.
My jaw tightens. My hands curl at my sides.
For a beat, neither of us speaks. The quiet stretches, heavy with everything between us. Years of shared space. Years of unfinished sentences. The weight of wanting something I can't let myself have.
For a second, I think she might lose her nerve. Something flickers across her face—the realization of how much this matters—but then her shoulders square. Resolve settles back into place.
I stay still. Waiting.
"Eli," she says.
My name in her mouth does something to me—always has.
"This needs to stop."
The words don't come with accusation, just certainty.
My jaw tightens, but I don't interrupt.
"I can't fix things here if we're not on the same side," she continues, voice firm.
The barn seems to hold its breath around us. The lantern hums softly. A horse shifts in its stall somewhere behind me.
I watch her, every instinct urging restraint even as something deep in my chest pulls taut, bracing for impact. She stands there, eyes locked on mine, waiting.
And for the first time since she came back, I'm not sure silence will be enough.
I want to let her back in. That's the truth of it—simple and dangerous. The wanting has always been the problem.
"I'm not pushing you away," I say finally. "I'm trying not to make it worse."
Her brows pull together. "By shutting me out?"
"By not pretending this is easy," I snap, then rein it in, breath tight. "You don't just come back and jump into the middle of things like nothing happened."
She takes that in. Really takes it in. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away.
"I didn't say nothing happened," she says. "I said I'm here now."
The words land heavier than she probably intends.
Here now. Like that's supposed to be enough.
My jaw locks. I glance past her to the open stalls, the quiet animals, the familiar order of a place that only works if everyone knows their role. If everyone shows up.
"You left," I say, low. Not loud. Not accusing. Just fact. "And I had to figure out how to keep this place standing without you."
Her throat works. "I know."
"No," I say. "You don't."
I step closer before I stop myself. Close enough to crowd her. Close enough that she has to lift her chin to keep eye contact. Close enough to catch her scent—honey and leather and something that's just her.
"I was here when Mae didn't sleep for weeks," I continue. "When boarders started drifting away and nobody wanted to say out loud that we were losing them." I pause, jaw working. "I was here when things got tight and there was no one to call."
Her eyes shine, but she doesn't interrupt.
"I didn't get the luxury of leaving," I finish. "So yeah. I'm careful with where I put my trust now."
Something softens in her expression. Not weakness. Understanding.
"That doesn't mean I'm the enemy," she says quietly.
I swallow.
"No," I admit. "It doesn't."
The space between us stretches again. Thinner now. More dangerous.
She exhales slowly. "Then stop treating me like one."
I look at her for a long moment.
At the dirt on her boots. The steadiness in her stance. The way she's not asking me to forgive her. Not yet. Just asking me to stand beside her again.
That's what guts me.
Because standing beside her has never been the hard part.
But I can't. Not like this. Not when the ground beneath us is still uncertain. Not when every instinct in me warns that she's already halfway gone again, even if she doesn't know it yet.
"How long are you here, Hazel?" I ask quietly. "Because this ranch needs more than a bandage."
The words land exactly where I aim them.
She hesitates.
Just a fraction of a second. Long enough for guilt to flicker across her face before she smooths it away.
Good. She should feel that.
I step closer despite myself, drawn forward by something stronger than reason. The space between us narrows to inches. Close enough to see the pulse jump at her throat. Close enough that the heat between us feels dangerous. Close enough that I could reach for her if I let myself.
She tilts her head up to look at me, and something in her expression shifts. Softens at the edges, even as her breath catches.
"Eli," she says, quieter now. Uncertain. "I don't know what I'm doing. I need you. I need your help. I can't figure out what's next without you."
The words hit me square in the chest.
I need you.
My gaze drops to her mouth before I can stop it. To the curve of her bottom lip. To the way her breath comes shallow and quick.
God, I want her.
Not just the physical pull, though there's plenty of that. I want her. The girl who raced me across open fields. The woman asking me to trust her again even though she broke me the first time.
I’ve wanted her for years. Through the anger. Through the silence. Through every moment she was gone and every moment since she came back.
And that's exactly why I can't do this.
Because wanting Hazel Clark has only ever led to one place—watching her leave.
The temptation hits hard and fast. To close the last few inches between us. To remind both of us how easy it once was to fit together. To kiss her the way I've wanted to since the moment she stepped into that bar and back into my life.
It takes everything in me not to reach for her.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. My jaw locks. I force myself to memorize this moment—the way she's looking at me, the way her body leans toward mine without seeming to realize it, the way the air between us feels charged and fragile all at once.
Then I step back.
The movement costs me. But I do it anyway. I put space between us deliberately, anchoring myself in practicality, in work, in anything that isn't the way she makes me feel.
"Fine," I say, the word firm. Controlled. "Tomorrow we're moving stock to the upper pasture. Rotation's overdue." I hold her gaze. "Be here and ready by four. It's going to be a long day."
Her eyes widen slightly, surprise cutting through the tension.
She nods once. No argument. No pushback. Just acceptance.
"Okay," she says.
I stand there long after she's gone, hands clenched, chest tight, heart pounding.
Letting Hazel Clark back into my orbit is a mistake. One that could cost me everything.