Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Eli
By the time Hazel comes back to the ranch, the light has shifted.
It isn't evening yet, but the sun has dropped low enough to stretch the shadows long across the corral, turning the dust soft and gold instead of harsh and white.
I've been expecting her. Not because she said when she'd be back, but because I know the look she wore when she drove off.
Purposeful. Set. The kind that doesn't lead straight home.
I hear the truck before I see it, the familiar rattle slowing near the fence line. I keep working, hands steady on the halter rope, attention fixed on the colt. He's young. Too much leg, too much opinion. Smart enough to resist, not experienced enough to know why he shouldn't.
"Easy," I murmur.
I've spent the better part of the afternoon with him, letting him burn off nervous energy without turning it into a fight.
Her door shuts behind me.
I don't turn right away.
She walks closer, boots crunching softly over the dirt, stopping just outside the rail. I feel her there the same way I always do. A shift in the air. A change in weight.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The Cole encounter sits between us—unspoken but present. His threats. The way I stepped in. The conversation we said we'd have later.
Later.
Not now.
She leans her forearms on the fence, watching the colt. "He giving you trouble?"
"Has been all day," I say. "Wants to do everything except what I'm asking."
She smiles, faint but real. "Sounds familiar."
That gets me. Not enough to laugh, but enough that the tension eases a notch.
"You want in?" I ask.
She doesn't hesitate. "Yeah."
I unlatch the gate and step back so she can enter first, watching the way she moves. Careful, but not tentative. Aware of the animal without flinching from him. I clock it all, the same way I always do when someone steps into a pen. Fear shows itself fast if it's there.
She doesn't have it.
"What's his issue?" Hazel asks.
"Trust," I say simply. "Same as always."
I hand her the lead, keeping hold of the line between us. "Don't try to control him. Just keep him with you."
She nods, adjusting her grip. The colt snorts, head tossing, hooves scraping as he tests the pull. She holds firm, but not stiff. I watch her shoulders, the set of her spine, the way she matches the colt's movement instead of fighting it outright.
"Good," I say. "Let him feel you there."
She does. For a few seconds, it works.
Then the colt spooks. Not full panic, just enough of a sideways jolt to catch her off guard. The rope burns across her palm as she stumbles, boots sliding in the dirt. I move without thinking, closing the distance in two strides.
"Hazel," I say, voice even. "Don't let go."
She doesn't. She digs in instead, breath sharp, surprise flashing across her face before determination replaces it. The colt rears slightly, front hooves lifting before slamming back down.
She loses her balance.
I catch her at the waist, one arm firm around her middle, the other steadying the rope with practiced ease. I don't yank. Don't rush. I just anchor us both until the colt settles, his movements slowing as the tension bleeds off him in small, reluctant increments.
"Easy," I murmur again.
She sucks in a breath, and for a second we're locked there. Her back against my chest, my arm solid around her ribs. The heat of her cuts through denim and cotton like they're nothing at all.
I can smell her. Dust and sweat and something underneath that's just Hazel. Something I'd recognize anywhere.
I feel the moment her pulse jumps, fast and startled, under my forearm. Or maybe that's mine. Hard to tell when we're this close.
Then she steadies. Her breathing evens out, but she doesn't pull away immediately.
Neither do I.
For half a second, it would be easy to forget why I'm keeping distance. Why this can't be simple.
I step back, hands dropping to check her stance, nudge her feet into better position with my boot. Practical. Necessary.
Safer.
Her eyes find mine, still bright with adrenaline, and something else underneath I don't let myself name.
"You okay?" I ask.
She nods. "Yeah. Just wasn't expecting that."
"None of them announce it."
She huffs a breath that might be a laugh. "Figures."
I hand her the lead fully this time. "Try again. He felt you hesitate, but you didn't quit. That matters."
She flexes her hand, then squares her shoulders. "Okay."
We work the colt in a slow circle, and I think out loud as we go — not instructions, just the rhythm of it. Where the pressure is. What the twitch along his flank means before it becomes movement. She already knows. But sometimes it helps to hear it said.
"Don't anticipate," I say. "React."
She listens. Really listens. I see it in the way she adjusts, the way her breathing steadies, the way her grip changes from defensive to confident.
The colt tests her again. She holds.
By the third pass, his head drops a fraction. His steps even out.
Progress.
She catches it too. Her mouth curves, satisfaction flickering across her face. "He's calmer."
"He's learning," I say. "So are you."
She glances at me. "You saying I forgot?"
"I'm saying time off shows. So does commitment."
She doesn't argue that.
The colt finally halts, standing still in the center of the pen, sides heaving lightly. She exhales, long and slow, and reaches out, palm open, letting him sniff her fingers before she touches him. The horse doesn't pull away.
Something settles in my chest that's been tight since town.
"That's it," I say quietly. "You've got him."
She rests her hand against the colt's neck, eyes soft now, wonder threading through her relief. "Feels good to remember how."
I watch her, the animal, the way trust is taking shape in real time. Not perfect. Not finished. But real.
"Yeah," I say. "It does."
The sun dips lower, throwing our shadows long and tangled across the dirt. The colt shifts closer to her, choosing her space without being asked.
I don't miss it.
Neither does she.
She looks up at me then, and for a second she's unguarded. That smile she used to give me when something went right and she wanted me to see it first. It spreads slowly, like she's trying not to let it show too much, but the pride leaks through anyway.
For a second, she looks lighter. Not careless. Just present.
I feel it land low in my chest.
"You always had a feel for this," I say before I think better of it. I nod toward the colt, calm now beside her. "Just like your dad."
The shift is immediate.
Her smile doesn't disappear, but it falters, like a muscle that catches unexpectedly.
Her gaze drops to the dirt at her feet. Not dramatic.
Just enough. I see it pass across her features, that brief, private grief she never announces.
The kind that shows up in the smallest ways.
A tightening around the mouth. A breath taken a little too carefully.
She swallows.
"Yeah," she says softly.
For a moment, I wish I hadn't said it. Not because it isn't true, but because some truths carry weight whether you mean them to or not.
Then she adjusts her stance, grounding herself the way she always has. She brushes her hands together, dusting off nothing, and lifts her head again. The sadness doesn't vanish, but it settles. Makes room for something else.
She's quiet for a beat, gaze drifting out toward the pasture where the land rolls open and wide.
"I've been thinking about the ranch," she says finally. "About what it used to be. What it could be again."
I still.
She keeps going, eyes on the horizon. "I want to understand how it all worked. What Dad built here. The whole operation."
I study her then. Really study her.
The way she's speaking now isn't casual. It isn't reactive. It's deliberate. She's thinking ahead. Planning.
"Good," I say. The word is simple, but I mean it. "That'll help."
She glances back at me. "You think people would come back? If we rebuilt what he had?"
"Maybe," I reply. "Better to know what you have before someone tries to take it."
She nods, absorbing that. "That's what I figured."
She's quiet for another beat, then adds, "I'm going to go through his notebooks. The ones in his office. See what he kept track of. Maps. Rotations. Anything that might help."
Something eases in my chest at that. Respect, mostly.
"He was thorough," I say. "If anyone kept notes, it was him."
"That's what I'm hoping."
I nod once. "If you want another set of eyes, let me know."
She looks at me then, full-on. The gratitude there isn't dramatic. Just real. The kind that doesn't need words to make it bigger than it is.
"Thank you," she says.
Her smile comes back, softer this time, quieter, but no less warm. It hits me the same way it always has—like something I misplaced and only just realized I'd been missing.
She glances toward the house, the porch light just starting to glow as the sun dips lower. "I should probably head in. Help Mae with dinner."
"Yeah. She'll put you to work."
She laughs under her breath. Then she hesitates. Just a fraction longer than necessary.
"You could come in," she says. Doesn't quite meet my eyes. "For dinner."
The invitation settles between us, heavier than it has any right to be.
I picture it easily. The kitchen. Mae bustling around, pretending not to notice anything while noticing everything. Hazel moving through the space like she belongs there, because she does. The easy rhythm of it. The way it would feel to slide back into that orbit without resistance.
It would be easy.
Too easy.
"I better not," I say finally. "Still got a few things to check before it gets dark."
She searches my face, then nods, accepting the answer without pushing. "Okay."
She turns and walks toward the house, her stride unhurried, confidence settled back into her bones. I watch her go, same as I always have. The way she fits into the landscape like she never left it. Like the land recognizes her even if the town hasn't yet figured out how to.
I stay where I am long after she reaches the porch.
It would be easy to follow her. To step inside, let familiarity carry me forward. Easy to forget why distance matters.
Hazel has always been gravity for me. Not a choice. Just pull.
Dangerous if I let it be.
She left once without looking back. Grief, probably. Fear of a future she didn't choose yet. I stood too close to that future—already rooted, already certain. She needed to run and I was in the way.
I get it.
Doesn't mean I'm ready to stand there again.
I exhale slowly and turn back toward the pen. The colt waits in the fading light.
Trust, earned inch by inch. Not rushed. Not assumed.
Some things, once broken, need space to mend.
Even if part of me still wants to chase what once felt like home.