Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Hazel
Icut across the yard instead of going around it.
The late afternoon sun sits low over the barns, spilling gold across the packed dirt and catching in the dust that hangs in the air. Somewhere near the back fence a horse snorts, the sound lazy and familiar. The ranch looks almost peaceful, which feels like a lie.
My mind is already racing ahead of my steps, lining up what I need to say.
If I'm going to save this place, I have to start now.
The colt is green but promising. Addie has the seat for it, the patience too.
The Copper Ridge Fall Classic is four weeks out—trail class division, or ranch horse if we can get him solid enough.
The first show that really matters before winter sets in.
Four weeks isn't much time, but if we can get the colt ready, if Addie can put in a clean ride, people will notice. Word spreads. Boarders might come back. It's not a magic fix, but it's a starting point.
And then what?
The question sits in my chest, uncomfortable and unavoidable.
I don't know. I honestly don't know.
Part of me wants to stay here, rebuild what Dad built, prove I can do this. Another part keeps thinking about Denver, the career I worked so hard for, the life I built there. Five years of climbing, learning, becoming someone who isn't just John Clark's daughter.
I can't just throw that away.
Can I?
Eli will understand. He has to. Once I explain the plan, show him it could work, he'll see I'm trying. That has to count for something.
I cross the space between the house and the barn at a quick pace, boots kicking up small clouds of dust. As I draw closer, I hear the steady rush of water from around the back side, rhythmic and loud against the quiet of the afternoon.
Watering the horses, I assume.
I round the corner of the barn—
And stop dead.
Eli stands under the wash hose, head tipped back, water streaming down bare skin. No shirt. Just him and the water and late afternoon light turning everything gold.
Heat hits me so fast I forget how to breathe.
He's all lean muscle and sun-darkened skin, water sliding down his back, his shoulders, catching in the hollow of his spine. His jeans are soaked, clinging low on his hips, and I can't—I shouldn't be staring but I can't make myself look away.
My hands clench at my sides. My pulse kicks into a rhythm that has nothing to do with the walk over here.
He shuts off the hose. Silence drops like a weight.
My pulse is everywhere. Throat, chest, low in my stomach where warmth pools insistent and impossible to ignore. Everything feels too warm, too tight.
He rolls his shoulders, slow and easy, water dripping from him in the quiet. Then turns.
Not startled. Deliberate. Like he knew I was there the whole time.
Our eyes meet.
The air between us feels electric. Too close.
Heat crawls up my neck, floods my face. He sees it. I know he sees it.
My eyes drop—I can't help it—to his chest, his stomach, the soaked waistband riding low enough that—
"How'd the meeting go with Cole?"
The words register slow. Too slow.
I blink, trying to process, my brain still cataloging the way water clings to his skin, the way his chest moves when he breathes, how unfairly good he looks dripping wet and half-dressed in barn light.
"I—" I start, then stop.
He's still looking at me. Like he knows exactly what he's doing.
I shift my weight and his gaze tracks the movement. Drops briefly. Comes back up.
I try again. "I—"
Nothing.
Eli doesn't move. Doesn't reach for the towel two feet away. Just stands there, water dripping, and watches me fumble for words.
"I'm sorry," I blurt finally, jerking my gaze away. My face is on fire. "I didn't—I was just—I thought you were—"
I spin halfway toward the door.
Behind me, he laughs. Low and surprised, the sound making my stomach flip.
"It's fine," he says, and I hear fabric shifting as he reaches for his shirt. "You look like you walked in on a crime scene."
I force myself to turn back.
He's pulling the shirt over his head now, damp hair falling forward. Water immediately darkens the collar, makes the fabric cling to his shoulders, his chest.
Still unfair.
"There's showers in the bunkhouse," I say, trying for casual and landing somewhere between nervous and strangled. "You know. With doors."
"Shower's been broken for weeks," he says flatly.
Right. Of course it has.
I clear my throat. Try to find the thread of why I came here in the first place.
The list. The plan. The colt. Mae. Cole's offer. The Fall Classic.
Four weeks.
The words come back slowly.
"I know things have been... difficult between us," I say finally. My voice is steadier than I expect. "And I know we have a lot to talk about."
Eli's hands still on the hem of his shirt.
"But right now, I need your help," I continue. "I need us to work together if we're going to save this place."
He doesn't interrupt. Doesn't look away.
Just listens.
"I know it means as much to you as it does to me," I say quietly. "Maybe more."
That lands.
I see it in the way his jaw relaxes, the way something shifts in his expression.
I take a breath and keep going.
"There's a show in four weeks. The Copper Ridge Fall Classic.
Trail class or ranch horse division." I meet his eyes.
"It won't solve everything overnight. But if we can place well, we use that to start calling Dad's old clients.
The Hendersons. The Collins family. A good showing gives us credibility again. Proof we can still train."
He's silent for a long moment.
"Mae's actually considering Cole's offer," I continue. "She's got eight, maybe ten months before things get critical. This buys us time. We train the colt, compete, bring boarders back. Build the program over the next six months. But we have to start now."
"And you’ll be back in Denver by then."
My stomach drops.
Actually, it's sooner than that. "Two weeks," I correct quietly. "My boss gave me three weeks. That was a week ago."
Eli goes still. "So you're already—"
"I'll ask for an extension," I say quickly. "Tell them I need more time. They'll understand."
I hope.
His expression tells me exactly what he thinks about that plan.
"I can make it work," I continue, pushing forward. "Four weeks to get the colt ready, get Addie riding him. We don't even have to win. We just have to show we're producing solid horses again. Then we—"
"And then what?" he cuts in. "You go back to Denver and we hire some stranger to keep it going?"
The question sits between us, sharp and unavoidable.
I don't have a good answer.
"I don't know yet," I admit. The honesty scrapes out of me. "I want to help. I want to save this place. But I don't know if I can just... throw away five years of work. A career I built. A life—"
"A life that wasn't here," he finishes quietly.
"Don't do that."
“I just need the truth, Hazel." He steps closer. "I need to know if you're going to disappear again."
My chest tightens. "I'm here now. I'm asking for your help instead of running."
"For four weeks."
"For as long as it takes."
"Until Denver calls." He watches me. "You haven't quit that job, have you."
It's not a question.
I look away.
"That's what I thought," he says quietly.
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.
"You can't do this halfway," he says finally. "You can't set something in motion and then disappear. Mae needs someone who'll be here. Not someone counting down days until they can leave."
The words land harder than I expect.
"I'm trying—"
"I know you are." His voice softens slightly. "But trying isn't the same as committing."
I swallow hard.
Eli is quiet for a long moment. I can see him weighing it—my offer to help against my refusal to promise anything.
"Four weeks," he says finally. "We train the colt. Get Addie ready. You do what you came here to do."
Relief floods through me.
"But," he continues, and the word cuts sharp, "you're going to have to choose. For real this time."
"I know—"
"Do you?" He holds my gaze. "Because once we start this, once we bring clients back and get Addie competing, this ranch needs someone committed. Not someone with one foot out the door."
The weight of that settles in my chest.
"After the Fall Classic," he says. "Four weeks from now. That's when you decide. You tell me—and Mae—if you're staying or going. Face to face. No more 'maybe' or 'I'll figure it out.'"
A deadline.
He's giving me a deadline.
"Okay," I say quietly.
"Okay?"
"I'll decide. Before I leave for Denver. I promise."
He studies me like he's trying to decide if that promise means anything.
"If I say the colt's had enough, we stop," he says. "If Addie isn't ready, we don't push her. And if you decide halfway through that Denver is more important, you tell me. You don't just disappear."
"I won't."
"You did before."
The truth of that sits between us, undeniable.
"I know," I say. "And I'm sorry. But this time is different."
"Is it?"
"I'm trying to make it different."
He looks at me for a long moment. Then nods once, sharp and final, like the decision cost him something.
"We start tomorrow," he says. "Four a.m. Colt needs consistent work if we're going to make this timeline."
"I'll be there."
He turns toward the parking area, boots crunching over gravel.
At his truck, he pauses.
Looks back.
"It's not that I can't stand being around you, Hazel," he says, his voice low and stripped of its usual edge. "It's that it feels too easy when I am."
Then he climbs into his truck and drives off down the ranch road, heading toward Dawson Ranch, leaving me standing in the fading light with my heart pounding and his words settling slowly into my chest.
Four weeks.
Four weeks to prove I can do this. To save the ranch. To figure out what I actually want.
Four weeks to decide if I'm brave enough to choose.