Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Hazel
Iwake to the sound of the shower running and Eli's side of the bed already cold. Not just cool. Cold like he's been up for a while.
Gray pre-dawn light filters through the curtains. His cabin bedroom. I've woken up here enough times now that it should feel familiar.
Today it doesn't.
My body aches in that good way. Last night—after the party—we couldn't keep our hands off each other. That feels like a week ago suddenly.
The shower cuts off.
I sit up, reaching for my shirt from the floor. By the time I've pulled it on, he's coming out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, hair dripping.
"Morning," I say.
"Morning." He doesn't look at me. Just crosses to the dresser and pulls out clothes.
I watch him dress. Jeans. T-shirt. Boots. Efficient movements. No lingering. No glance over his shoulder to catch my eye.
"You're up early," I try.
"Four a.m.'s in twenty minutes."
"I know. I just meant—" I stop. He's already heading for the door. "Eli."
He pauses, hand on the doorframe. Looks at me.
His expression gives me nothing.
"Nothing," I say. "I'll be out in a minute."
He nods once and disappears down the hall.
I sit there staring at the empty doorway. The unease from last night hasn't gone anywhere. It's settled in my chest like a stone.
He's just tired. We stayed late at the lake. Drank too much. That's all.
Except it doesn't feel like that's all.
I push off the bed and get dressed fast. Pull on yesterday's jeans, find my boots by the door, run my fingers through my hair without bothering with a mirror.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, he's already got coffee going. He hands me a mug without a word, our fingers not quite touching.
"Thanks."
"Mm."
We drink in silence. Not the comfortable kind we've built over these past weeks. The kind where we don't need words because everything's already said.
This is different. This sits heavy.
I watch him over the rim of my mug. He's staring out the window at the dark yard, jaw tight, shoulders set like he's bracing for something.
"You sure you're good?" I try.
"Yeah." He doesn't look at me. "Just a long day ahead."
That's not what this is, but I don't push. Don't know how.
"Addie's going to want to work on transitions today. I was thinking we could set up cones for the pattern, maybe—"
"Whatever you think is best."
The words are fine. His tone is fine.
But he's looking out the window when he says it. Not at me.
"Okay." I set my mug down. "We should go."
He drains his coffee and sets the mug in the sink. "Yeah."
He's out the door before I can say anything else.
I follow, chest tight, and climb into his truck without a word.
The drive to Clark Ranch is quiet.
Usually his hand finds my thigh within the first mile. Usually I lean into him, or he makes some comment about how I look half-asleep, or we talk about the day ahead. Small things. Easy things.
Today his hands stay on the wheel, ten and two, eyes on the road.
I sit with my coffee, watching the dark landscape pass through the window, and don't know how to bridge whatever gap opened up overnight.
The fence line between properties appears on the left. Dawson land ending, Clark land beginning. I've crossed this line a hundred times in the past few weeks until I stopped noticing where one ended and the other started.
Today I notice.
When we pull up to the barn, his truck barely stops before he's out, heading for the tack room without waiting for me.
I sit there for a second, hands wrapped around my mug, the engine ticking as it cools.
Something's wrong.
The words sit in my throat. I swallow them.
I get out and follow him inside.
The barn smells like hay and leather and horses settling into morning routines. The colt nickers when he hears us approaching his stall, head over the door, ears pricked forward.
Eli's already got the halter and lead in hand, movements efficient as he opens the stall door.
I step in beside him, reaching to run my hand down the colt's neck. "Hey, buddy. Ready to work?"
The colt leans into my touch, warm and solid. Eli clips the lead without looking at me.
"I'll take him out," he says.
"I can help—"
"I've got it."
Not sharp. Not mean.
Just final.
I step back and watch him lead the colt out into the aisle, then toward the round pen in the growing dawn light.
Addie's truck pulls up just as they disappear through the gate. She hops out, bright-eyed despite the early hour, her energy a sharp contrast to the weight sitting on my chest.
"Morning!" She grabs her helmet from the truck bed. "How's he looking today?"
"Good." I force a smile. "Eli's getting him warmed up now."
We walk to the pen together. The sky's starting to lighten, streaks of pink and orange cutting through the gray. It's going to be a clear day. Hot by afternoon.
Good riding weather.
Eli's already moving the colt through groundwork when we reach the rail. Lunging him at a walk, then a trot, his focus absolute. Every cue precise. Every movement intentional.
Nothing wasted.
Not even a glance in my direction.
Addie starts talking about her plan for today's ride—working on lead changes, tightening up the pattern for Fall Classic, making sure the colt's responsive to subtle cues. I nod along, answering when she asks questions, but my attention keeps drifting to Eli.
To the way he's standing with his back to us.
To the way he hasn't looked at me once since we got here.
"Hazel?"
I blink. "Sorry, what?"
Her eyes narrow slightly. "I asked if you think we should add barrels to the pattern today or wait until tomorrow."
"Oh. Uh—" I refocus. "Tomorrow. Let's make sure the colt's solid on the basics first."
"Okay. Cool." She adjusts her helmet and turns back to watch Eli work.
He brings the colt over a few minutes later, handing the lead to Addie without ceremony. "He's ready for you."
"Thanks." Addie takes the lead and moves to mount up.
I step closer to Eli. Close enough that our arms almost brush. "You want to work him from the center or the rail?"
"Rail's fine."
"Okay."
I wait for him to look at me. To give me anything that feels like us.
He doesn't.
Just moves to the far side of the pen, positioning himself where he can watch Addie work.
I stay where I am for a second, throat tight, then move to the opposite rail.
We work like that for the next hour. Calling out instructions to Addie. Adjusting her position. Praising the colt's responses. Both of us professional. Efficient.
And with the entire pen between us.
The colt moves beautifully. Responsive to every cue, confident in his stride, trusting Addie in a way that makes my chest tight with something like pride. Three weeks ago he was green and uncertain. Now he's ready for competition.
We did this.
Me and Eli and Addie and everyone who's put work into this ranch.
But standing here, watching Addie ride while Eli stays on the opposite side of the pen, it doesn't feel like victory.
When Addie finally dismounts, grinning and breathless, she doesn't seem to notice the tension radiating between me and Eli.
"He felt amazing today," she says. "Like, really amazing. I think we're ready."
"He looked good," Eli says.
"Really good," I add, forcing warmth into my voice. "You're both ready."
Addie beams and leads the colt toward the barn to cool him down, already talking to him in that soft voice she uses when she's pleased.
Leaving me and Eli alone in the pen.
I turn to face him. He's already heading for the gate.
"Eli."
He stops. Doesn't turn around.
"Are we okay?" The words come out quieter than I meant them to.
For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Just stands there, shoulders tight, hands flexing at his sides.
Then he turns. Meets my eyes.
And there's something in his expression that makes my stomach drop.
Not anger. Not coldness.
Resignation.
"We're fine," he says.
The word lands wrong.
He walks away before I can respond.
I stand there in the empty pen, dust settling around my boots, and feel the distance between us stretch into something I can't cross.
By noon, we're in the east pasture repairing fence.
The work is mindless in the best way. Physical. Pull wire. Hammer staples. Move to the next post. The sun beats down, sweat soaking through my shirt within the first twenty minutes, and I focus on the rhythm of it.
Anything but the distance between us.
Eli works ten feet away, methodical and silent. We've repaired fences together a hundred times over the years. Knew how to do it as teenagers. We know the rhythm. Who moves where. When to hand off tools. When to step back so the other person has room to work.
Today it feels choreographed. Careful.
I yank wire tight and hammer a staple into place, the impact jarring up my arm. Move to the next post. Repeat.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again. Then a third time in quick succession.
Eli glances over. Doesn't say anything. Just looks.
I pull the phone out, chest already tight.
Caller ID: Lauren - Manager
My boss.
My stomach drops.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the decline button. It rings once more, the vibration insistent against my palm.
Eli's watching now. Not obviously. But I feel his attention shift. Feel the weight of his gaze even though he's pretending to focus on the fence.
"I need to take this," I say, hating how my voice sounds. Apologetic. Guilty.
He nods once and goes back to hammering.
I walk away, boots crunching on dry grass, putting distance between us until I'm far enough that he won't hear.
I answer on the fifth ring.
"Lauren. Hi."
"Hazel! Finally. I've been trying to reach you all morning." Her voice is bright, energetic. The way it always is when she wants something. "You got a minute?"
I glance back at Eli. He's hammering a staple, shoulders tense, focused on the work.
"Yeah. What's up?"