Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Hazel
The colt sidesteps again, ignoring the cue I know I'm giving correctly.
Or correctly enough that it should count.
It doesn't.
I've been at this for nearly two hours. Sweat dampens the back of my shirt.
Dust clings to my boots, my jeans, my hands.
The colt's ears flick back, then forward, attention scattering everywhere except where I need it.
I exhale through my nose and reset, frustration creeping in where confidence should be.
I want this to work.
Not just today. Not just with him.
I want to prove the ranch still has what it takes. That it didn't lose its edge when my dad died. That the knowledge he poured into it didn't disappear with him, leaving behind only land and memory and a version of myself that never quite felt finished.
Patience, Hazelnut. That's all it takes.
My dad's voice echoes in my mind.
My mind drifts, unhelpful and persistent.
To the books I pored over last night, pages dog-eared and smudged with dust. To the years when boarding and training kept this place moving, steady income flowing in even when cattle prices dipped or repairs stacked up faster than checks cleared.
Horses have always been the quiet backbone of the ranch.
The part that worked even when everything else strained.
If we can train this colt well, really well, it could mean something. A win. A name getting passed around again. Boarders coming back, trailers lining the drive like they used to.
My phone buzzed this morning. Denver. My boss checking in, careful and neutral, reminding me the time was there without pressing on it. I didn’t call her back.
The colt spooks at nothing, jerks sideways, and I barely catch it in time. My reaction is slower than it should be.
That scares me more than his resistance does.
"Hazel."
The voice comes from closer than I expect. I startle, reins tightening instinctively as I turn.
Eli stands just inside the fence line, hat low, arms relaxed at his sides like he's been there longer than I realized. His gaze is on the colt, not me, reading the tension like it's written plainly across muscle and breath.
"If you keep thinking about other things while working him," he says, calm but certain, "you're never going to get through to him."
I still. The colt shifts, sensing the pause.
Of course he knows.
I don't have to say a word. Don't have to explain the spiral, the pressure from Denver, the leaving that's already half-built in my head. Eli has always known when I'm somewhere else, even when my body stays put.
That used to feel normal. Easy.
Now it lands heavier.
I draw a breath and bring my focus back where it belongs. On the colt. On the line of his neck, the tension in his shoulders, the way his weight shifts before his feet do. I soften my hands, ease the pressure I hadn't realized I was holding.
The change is immediate. Not dramatic. Just enough.
The colt flicks an ear back toward me, then forward again. Listens.
"That's it," Eli says quietly.
I adjust, try again, slower this time, less force, more intention. The colt hesitates, then gives me a half step of what I'm asking for. My mouth curves before I can stop it.
Eli moves closer, boots crunching softly in the dirt. "You don't need to crowd him," he says. "Just be clear."
I nod, eyes still on the colt. "I know."
"I know you do."
The colt spooks again, smaller this time, more uncertainty than defiance. I shift to correct him, but my footing slips on loose dirt. For half a second, everything tilts.
Eli's hand comes to my waist without hesitation. Solid. Grounding. Another hand catches my arm, steadying me before I even fully stumble. It's brief. Practical. Exactly what it needs to be.
"Got you," he says.
I regain my balance and straighten, pulse loud in my ears. I turn my head, meet his eyes.
We hold.
Just a second too long for it to be nothing.
Eli lets go first, hands dropping back to his sides like they were never there. The space between us resets, but the heat doesn't disappear. It lingers, low and quiet, tucked under the work waiting to be done.
I swallow and refocus, guiding the colt through the movement again. This time, he follows through fully. Clean. Responsive.
I exhale, something loosening in my chest. Progress. Real progress.
An image forms without effort. Trailers in the drive again. Horses in the paddocks that aren't mine. Riders coming in from out of town. Lessons. Training. The steady, patient work my dad built this place on—not flashy, but reliable. Profitable.
I work the colt through another pass, then another, confidence threading back into my hands. When I glance over, Eli is watching me now, not the horse. His expression is unreadable, but there's something settled in it. Something like recognition.
He doesn't say anything.
He doesn't need to.
He sees it in the way I move. In the way I don't rush. In the way I stay with the colt even when it's hard.
Action, not promise.
We work the colt like that for the next hour.
Not perfectly. Not effortlessly. But together.
I settle into the rhythm of it, the quiet exchange of pressure and release, correction and reward.
Eli doesn't crowd me. He circles when needed, steps in only when something small could turn into something wrong.
A reminder to soften my hands. A murmur to wait half a beat longer.
Each adjustment lands cleanly, not as instruction but as confirmation of things I already know.
The colt responds. Slowly at first. Then with more consistency. His steps even out, ears less restless, attention lingering where it had skittered before. I feel it in my hands, in the way his movement starts to flow instead of fight.
It feels good.
Not just the progress. The doing. The steadiness of it. The way my body remembers before my doubts can interfere. Sweat runs down my spine. Dust coats my boots. Purpose settles in my chest like something reclaimed.
By the time we finish, the colt is calmer, head lower, breath steady.
I lead him back to the barn, unsaddle with practiced motions, muscles easing as routine takes over.
I run a curry over his coat until the dust lifts and his skin ripples beneath it.
Check his legs. Pick out each hoof carefully, tapping stones loose, brushing shavings away.
I lead him into his stall, spread fresh shavings, fluff the hay, top off the water. He lowers his head immediately, content enough to eat.
Routine. Familiar. Grounding.
I latch the stall door and lean back against the rail, my breathing slowing, the echo of work still humming through me. Eli stands a few feet away, arms resting on the top board, watching the colt settle like he's checking more than just the horse.
I wipe my hands on my jeans. Hesitate. The moment stretches, waiting for me to either speak or let it pass.
"I've been thinking about the boarding program," I say finally. "What my dad had going before."
Eli's attention sharpens, his posture changing in a way I recognize immediately. "Yeah?"
"We could bring some of that back. Training. Boarding." I push on before doubt can catch up. "Get this colt ready and have Addie show him at the Fall Classic."
He stills.
“He’s good. You know he is.” The words come faster now, momentum building. “If we can show the progress—prove what we can do with a horse like him—it brings attention back to the ranch. Clients. Income that isn’t just cattle.”
Eli stays quiet. Too quiet.
"I've been looking at the numbers," I continue. "The years before things started slipping. That side of the ranch kept things afloat even when cattle prices dipped. Even when repairs stacked up."
I meet his eyes now, tentative but steady. "If we could build a reputation again—"
"How long are you planning to stick around for this?"
The words land heavier than I expect, cutting straight through the momentum I've built.
"That's unfair," I say, too quickly.
He straightens, jaw setting. "It's a legitimate question."
"I'm here now, aren't I?"
"For how long?" Eli steps closer, the careful restraint he's held cracking just enough to let the truth through. "A month? Two? Until your boss calls one more time and you realize you miss the city?"
"That's not—"
"You don't get to breeze back in here like you didn't take off," he says. "Like you didn't leave all of this behind."
The barn feels smaller suddenly, the space between us filled with everything we haven't touched yet.
"You don't know what it was like," I say, quieter now but holding my ground. "Being here after he died. Everywhere I looked—"
"I know exactly what it was like." His voice is rough now, raw. "I was here too, Hazel. I stayed."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"You think I didn't grieve him?" Eli continues. "You think watching you fall apart didn't gut me? You think I wouldn't have done anything to make it easier for you?"
"I didn't ask you to—"
"No. You didn't ask for anything. You just left.
" He looks at me then, really looks at me, eyes dark with something that's been waiting a long time to be said.
"Do you have any idea what the last five years have been like?
Holding this place together on my own? Watching Mae try to pretend everything was fine when it wasn't?"
"I know I hurt you—"
"You're not the only one who lost your dad."
The words sit between us.
He looks away first. Jaw tight. Something working behind his eyes that isn't anger.
"I taught myself not to think about him," he says, quieter now. "Because every time I did, I'd think about you too. And that was worse."
My chest tightens. "I understand how I left was wrong."
"Do you?" Eli's hands curl into fists at his sides. "Because you're standing here right now talking about building something back up, and you can't even tell me if you're staying long enough to see it through."
"It's not that simple."
"It is that simple." He steps back, the distance between us suddenly a chasm. "Are you staying or not?"
The question hangs in the air, waiting.
I open my mouth. Close it. The answer should be easy. Yes or no. But my throat closes around the words, and nothing comes out.
"That's what I thought," Eli says quietly.
"I have a life in Denver," I say finally, the words scraping out. "A job. A career I worked for. I can't just—"
"I'm not asking you to throw your life away." His voice is tired now, the anger draining into something worse. Something that looks like resignation. "I'm asking if you want to be here. If this place matters enough to fight for it."
"Of course it matters—"
"Then prove it." He holds my gaze. "Don't talk about training programs and Fall Classics and building reputations if you're just going to leave again when it gets hard."
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair, Hazel." Eli's jaw works, like he's holding back more than he's saying. "I'm not saying you staying would've changed everything. But it would've made the burden easier to carry."
The truth in that sits between us, impossible to argue with.
Before I can find a response that doesn't sound like defense, before I can explain the leaving or the fear or the way I hadn't known how to stay without breaking, Eli turns and walks away. His boots crunch against the dirt as he heads toward the far side of the barn, shoulders tight, back rigid.
I stay where I am.
The colt shifts softly behind me, hay rustling. Dust settles around my boots. The quiet stretches, broken only by the sound of Eli's truck starting outside, gravel crunching as he drives away.
My hands grip the rail, knuckles white.
I still don't have an answer to his question.