Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Eli
Ishouldn't have fucking kissed her.
The thought lands the second I wake up, sharp and unwelcome, like it's been waiting for me to open my eyes.
Because I know how this goes.
Five years ago, I let myself touch her. Thought it meant something.
The next morning, she was gone.
I sit up before the memory can dig in deeper, boots already halfway on, because staying still gives it room.
The ranch is quiet in that early-morning way that feels earned. No music. No voices. Just the low creak of boards and the distant shuffle of horses shifting in their stalls. I like it better like this. Before people. Before thoughts.
I head straight for the trailers.
They've been sitting too long. Dust filmed thick over the metal, tires half a breath from flat. The sight of them twists something in my chest I don't have time to examine. We used to haul out all the time. Used to circle dates on the calendar instead of crossing them off.
That was before everything else took priority.
I grab the hose and start checking pressure, crouched low, hands already dirty. The air smells like dust and old leather. Familiar. Solid. This I can fix.
We'll need these soon enough. Fall Classic or something before. Eyes bring interest, and interest brings boarders, and boarders keep the ranch breathing. We screw this up and it's another door quietly closing. Ranch first. Always.
I move through the tack room methodically, laying everything out the way I remember it being done. Saddles, bridles, clean pads—anything frayed gets set aside. Anything questionable gets replaced. No shortcuts.
That's when her voice slips in where it doesn't belong.
Not real—not yet—just memory.
Hazel laughing in the truck. Hazel teasing me about my dancing. Hazel pressed against me on the porch, warm and sure, like nothing had ever ended.
Like five years didn't happen.
My stomach drops.
She didn't say she was staying.
I tighten a cinch strap until my hands ache, then loosen it a notch because too tight breaks things just as fast as too loose. The lesson sticks. Always has.
I don't ask for what won't be offered.
That's the rule now.
The door creaks behind me and I don't look up. I already know who it is. I can feel the shift in the air, the way the space fills without sound.
My hands still on the bridle.
Last night rushes back—her mouth under mine, the way she gasped into the kiss, how her body felt pressed against the door.
But underneath that is older memory. Stronger. The kind that lives in your hands and won't let go.
The weight of her. The sounds she made. The way she fit against me.
I force my hands to keep moving.
"You're up early," Hazel says.
Neutral. Easy. Like last night didn't happen the way it did.
"Plenty to do," I answer, keeping my focus on the tack in front of me.
I still haven't looked at her. Can't. Not yet.
Because if I look at her now, I'll remember too much. And if I remember, I'll want.
I already know how that story ends.
She steps further in. I hear it in the soft scuff of her boots, the pause she takes like she's reading the room. She's good at that. Always was.
"Looks like you're getting ready to haul," she says.
"Just checking gear."
"Making sure it's ready?"
I nod once. Still not looking at her.
Silence stretches. Not awkward. Charged. The kind that presses instead of fades.
"I was going to start working the colt," she says finally. Practical. On task. Like this is just another morning.
"I've got it," I say, too quick.
Her breath changes. Small thing. But I catch it.
"I didn't say you didn't," she replies.
I glance up then. She's standing near the doorway, arms crossed, expression calm but watchful. Not defensive. Not retreating.
The old rhythm hums between us, immediate and dangerous.
"Help me load the tack," I say.
It's not an invitation. It's a decision.
She doesn't hesitate. Just steps forward and grabs the other end of the trunk like she's always known where to stand. We lift together, muscle memory slotting into place like it never left.
That's what scares me.
We work without talking for a few minutes, moving around each other with practiced ease. She brushes past me reaching for a bridle, close enough I catch the scent of her—soap and something else I remember from last night when she was pressed against me.
My jaw tightens.
I step to the side, putting distance between us. Not enough. Never enough in a space this small.
She knows where everything goes. Knows what I'll check twice. Knows which straps I'll trust and which ones I won't.
And I know how her mouth tastes. How her hands feel fisted in my shirt.
I shouldn't know that again. Shouldn't want to know it again.
But I do.
"You think the weather's going to hold?" she asks.
I glance outside. The sky's already starting to bruise at the edges, clouds stacked higher than they should be this early.
"Forecast says it will," I say.
She hums, unconvinced. "It's shifting faster than they said."
I don't respond. I don't want to give the worry more space than it already has.
We finish loading and step back, taking in the trailer together. It looks right. Ready. The sight settles something in me I hadn't realized was off.
A gust of wind hits the barn hard enough to rattle the loose tin along the roof. Somewhere down the line, a gate slams. A horse squeals, sharp and high, followed by the hollow bang of metal.
Hazel turns her head toward the sound at the same time I do.
"That's not good," she says.
I'm already moving. "The pasture gate."
The first drops of rain hit the dirt as we reach the barn doors, big and cold, leaving dark spots that spread fast. The air shifts, heavy and electric.
Then I see him.
The colt. Out in the pasture, head high, already agitated. The gate swings wide behind him, one hinge torn loose, chain dangling.
"Shit," I breathe.
"He's loose," Hazel says, already moving.
The rain doesn't ease in. It comes down hard.
Fat drops turn the dirt slick in seconds, the air cooling fast. Wind whips through the yard, and thunder cracks overhead like a gunshot.
The colt bolts.
He runs the fence line, panicked, whites of his eyes flashing. Another crack of thunder and he spins, hooves sliding in the mud.
"He's going to hurt himself," Hazel shouts over the wind.
"I know."
We break into a run, boots skidding as mud grabs at the soles. Rain slants sideways now, stinging my face, plastering my shirt to my back. The colt is at the far end of the pasture, spinning in tight circles, fear taking over.
"Spread out," I call to Hazel. "We need to corner him toward the gate."
She nods, already angling left. No hesitation. Just moving.
The rain pounds harder. Wind screams. The colt tosses his head, nostrils flaring, trying to decide which way to run.
"Easy," I say, voice low and steady despite the chaos. "Easy, boy."
He doesn't believe me.
He lunges right, toward the fence. I cut him off, arms wide. He spins back toward Hazel.
She stands her ground, calm, hands out. "Hey. I've got you."
The colt dances in place, trapped between us, sides heaving.
"Slow," I say to Hazel. "We move together."
We close in, step by step. The colt's ears flick back and forth, calculating. Thunder cracks again and he rears, forelegs striking air.
"Shit—"
Hazel moves without thinking, closing the distance fast, and grabs for the halter still on his head. The lead rope dangles, soaked and heavy. She catches it.
The colt jerks hard, nearly pulling her off her feet.
I lunge forward, grabbing on beside her, both of us hauling back with everything we've got.
"We need to move," I shout over the wind. "Now."
"The barn's too far," Hazel yells back. "He won't make it."
She's right. The barn is a hundred yards across open ground. He's already panicking. If we try to force him that far in this storm, he'll fight us the whole way. Could hurt himself. Could hurt us.
I scan fast.
The equipment shed. Thirty yards. Enclosed. Solid.
"There," I point. "The shed."
"Can we get him in?"
"We don't have a choice."
The colt surges again, pulling hard against both of us. My boots slide in the mud. Rain pours down, cold and relentless.
"I need you," I say, not looking at her. Not soft. Not emotional. Just fact.
"I'm here," she answers, immediate.
We move together, bodies angled in, both pulling, both fighting to keep control as the colt tries to bolt. Mud sucks at my boots. Rain blinds me. Thunder keeps cracking overhead, each one making the colt jerk harder.
Thirty yards feels like thirty miles.
But we make it.
I yank the shed door open, wind tearing at it, and haul the colt inside with Hazel right there beside me, both of us soaked through, both of us moving on instinct.
The door slams shut behind us, cutting off the worst of the storm.
The space is tight. Close. The air heavy with damp hay and sweat and rain.
The colt finally stills, sides heaving, fear giving way to confusion.
I suck in a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
And then I make the mistake of looking at her.
Hazel's hair is plastered to her neck, her shirt clinging to her shoulders, outlining every curve. Water drips from her jaw. Mud streaks her arms. She's breathing hard, chest rising and falling.
Fuck.
I've seen her like this before. Breathless. Flushed.
My jaw tightens. I look away fast.
Because we're alone. In a space barely big enough for the three of us. Storm raging outside. Adrenaline still pumping from the run, from fighting the colt, from being this close.
"That was close," she says, voice slightly breathless.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
The shed creaks around us as the storm keeps throwing itself against the walls, rain rattling the roof. The colt shifts, calmer now, finally registering that he's safe.
But I'm not calm.
Because she's standing three feet away, soaked and muddy and breathing hard, and my hands remember exactly how she feels.
"Eli," she says quietly.
I make the mistake of looking at her again.
Her eyes are on mine. Dark. Searching.
"Yeah," I manage.
"About last night—"
"Don't," I cut her off. Too fast. Too sharp.
Because if we talk about the kiss, we'll have to talk about what comes after.
Her mouth closes. Something flickers across her face.
The air between us feels electric. Charged.
Not from the storm.
From us.
I take a step back, hitting the wall. Putting distance where it should be.
Even though every part of me wants to move forward instead.
"We should wait for the rain to ease," I say, voice rough.
She nods slowly. Doesn't look away.
The shed feels smaller by the second.
The colt lowers his head at last, breath slowing, fear bleeding out of him in uneven huffs.
I wish I could do the same.
The storm doesn't sound like it's letting up anytime soon.
I tell myself we'll wait it out. That this is just weather. Just work. Just another crisis.
That I can stand here three feet from her without wanting to close the distance.
That the kiss was a mistake I won't repeat.
But standing here, boxed in by rain and walls and memory—her soaked clothes clinging to her body, her eyes still on mine—I know I'm lying to myself.
I've already crossed the line I spent five years drawing in the dirt.
And the worst part is—I'd do it again.
I'd kiss her again. Touch her again.
Even knowing exactly how this story ends.
That's how fucked I am.