Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
Hazel
The barn is awake before the sun is.
It's been four days since Eli told me he won't do this again. Four mornings of walking into this barn alone. And today is the day I have to give Denver my answer—accept the promotion or walk away for good.
The colt nickers when he hears my boots on the packed dirt, ears pricked forward, expecting the routine we've built together.
Expecting both of us. I check my phone. 3:58am.
No messages. Eli would already be here. Four days ago, he would've been leaning against the rail with coffee in hand, that quiet half-smile like we're sharing some private joke.
Now I'm alone in the barn aisle, trying to remember what that felt like.
I tighten the girth strap and lead the colt out to the round pen. He follows easy, trusting. I clip the lunge line and send him forward, watching his movement. He's good. Better than good. Ready for tomorrow. My eyes slide to the rail anyway—to the empty space where Eli should be.
Footsteps sound behind me. I turn, something lifting in my chest despite myself.
Addie. Helmet tucked under her arm, coffee thermos in hand. She pauses when she sees me, something careful in her expression.
"Morning," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
"Morning." She sets her thermos down, eyes tracking the colt as he moves. "How's he feeling?"
"Good. Ready."
She nods, jaw tight. The silence stretches, filled with all the questions she's not asking. Finally she says, "Fall Classic is tomorrow."
"I know. I feel really good about it"
She looks at me then, really looks at me. Takes in whatever's written on my face. "You okay?"
"Fine." The lie tastes bitter. "Let's just focus on the ride."
"Okay." She reaches for her helmet, fingers fumbling slightly with the chin strap. "Let's make sure we're ready then."
We work in silence after that. I call out adjustments, she corrects without argument. The colt performs beautifully—every transition clean, every cue answered. It should feel like victory. Instead it feels like evidence of everything I'm about to lose.
By the time Addie leaves with a wave that's too cheerful, the sun has burned off the morning chill. I head to the tack room because my hands need something to do. There's always work, always something that needs attention.
I reach for a bridle hanging on the rack, start checking the stitching automatically. My hands are shaking badly enough that I have to set it down. I pick up another piece of tack. Set it down. Can't focus long enough to actually accomplish anything.
I end up just standing there, staring at the wall of leather and metal, not really seeing any of it.
That's how Mae finds me—motionless in the middle of the tack room, a bridle clutched uselessly in my hands.
"When's the last time you ate?" Mae's voice cuts through the quiet, gentle but firm.
I look up. She's in the doorway, arms crossed, worry lines deepening around her eyes. "I had breakfast."
"That was yesterday." She steps inside. "You came straight to the barn this morning."
She pulls a wrapped sandwich from her jacket pocket and holds it out. I take it automatically, the wax paper crinkling in my shaking hands.
Her gaze drops to my hands—the tremor I can't control, the raw red spot where the lead rope rubbed wrong, the dried sweat at my wrists. "You've said 'I'm fine' every day this week."
"I'm just busy." I pick at the edges of the sandwich without really seeing it. "Fall Classic is tomorrow. Addie needs—"
"Fall Classic isn't why you're in here staring at walls." Mae's voice stays soft but steel edges underneath. "And we both know it."
I look up. She's watching me steadily, face serious.
"I'm trying," I say, and my voice cracks on the words.
"I know you are, honey." She settles beside me on the hay bale. "But you're trying the way your daddy used to try when he didn't want to stop long enough to feel something."
The sandwich goes still in my hands, forgotten.
"Stop," I say, sharper than I mean to. "I'm handling it."
Mae's face shifts—not hurt, just careful. "I'm not saying you're not. I'm saying you're handling it the way your daddy did. Like if you just don't stop moving, you won't have to feel it."
My throat closes. I want to argue, want to tell her she's wrong. But the words stick because maybe she's not.
The silence stretches between us. Mae doesn't push, doesn't fill it. Just lets her observation sit there.
"I don't know how else to do it," I finally admit, so quietly I'm not sure she hears.
Mae nods once, understanding in her expression. "I know, honey. But you're gonna have to figure that out today." She stands, brushing off her jeans. "You let me know when you're ready to talk about what you actually want instead of what you're afraid of."
She leaves, and I'm alone with the truth of her words.
I force myself to unwrap the sandwich, take a bite. Then another. It tastes like nothing but I keep going because Mae's right and I need to stop pretending she's not.
She's right. I have been running myself ragged to avoid feeling any of this.
She leaves, and I'm left staring at the sandwich in my hands.
Three bites in, and my stomach turns. I set it down and walk outside, needing air.
I've thought about driving to his place a hundred times this week.
Picked up my keys. Started the truck once.
But I always stop before I get there because what would I even say?
I haven't decided yet is the truth, but it's also the problem.
The exact thing that made him draw his line in the first place.
I lean against the barn wall now, staring at the horizon where his land meets ours. Somewhere over there, he's going about his day. Existing without me.
He meant it. The line he drew. I won't do this again.
And I've spent four days proving him right.
I see his truck then—just for a second, a flash of dark paint moving along the far fence line on Dawson property. Too far to make out details. Close enough that my chest aches.
He's there. Right there.
And he might as well be in another state.
***
Shae doesn't knock. Just walks in through Mae's front door late that afternoon, boots loud against the hardwood.
I'm at the kitchen table, staring at my laptop without seeing it.
She sits down across from me, no preamble. "So you're just gonna let the deadline pass?"
My jaw tightens. "I'm thinking."
"You've been thinking for four days." Her voice isn't mean, just direct. "At some point thinking becomes stalling."
I close the laptop. "It's not that simple."
"It is, actually." She leans forward. "You want to stay or you want to go. Pick one."
"I haven't—"
"Decided yet. I know." She cuts me off. "That's what you told Eli too, right? And now he's not here."
The words hit harder than I expect. My throat tightens.
"I saw him yesterday," Shae says, quieter now. "At the feed store. He looked..." She pauses, searching for the word. "Sad, Hazel. Really sad. Not angry. Just... sad."
My chest aches.
"You did this five years ago," she continues. "Couldn't decide, so you just left. Didn't even tell him you were going." She holds my gaze. "You gonna do that to him again?"
"That's not fair—"
"Isn't it?" She stands, pushing back from the table. "Fall Classic is tomorrow. Your deadline is today. At some point you have to stop waiting for the perfect answer and just choose."
She heads for the door, then stops. "He's not chasing you this time. He told you what he needs. Now you decide if you can give it to him."
The door closes behind her.
I sit there in the silence, her words echoing.
At some point you have to stop waiting for the perfect answer and just choose.
She's right.
I've been waiting for certainty that's never going to come. Waiting to feel ready. Waiting for someone else to make this easier.
But no one's coming to save me from this choice.
***
Three o'clock comes too fast.
I'm in the barn, leaning against the tack trunk, arms crossed tight. One hour. That's all I have left. This morning it was nine hours. Then seven. Then five. Now it's one.
Footsteps echo. Mae sits down beside me without a word, settling into the quiet.
Finally, she speaks. "What do you want, Hazel?"
Not what I should want. Not what makes sense. What do I want.
My throat closes. "There's too much at stake."
"There always is," Mae replies. Gentle but firm. "But you still have to choose. What do you want Hazel?"
I shake my head. "There's Fall Classic tomorrow, and work is calling, and Eli—" His name catches. "I don't know if he'll even—"
"I didn't ask about any of that." Mae turns to face me. "I asked what YOU want. Not what everyone else needs. What do you want?"
The answer is right there. Burning.
I try to shape it smaller. "I don't want to make the wrong choice."
"That's not an answer."
My hands curl into fists.
"I'm scared," I admit quietly. "Of choosing something and realizing I can't carry it."
Mae nods. "I know you are."
She doesn't tell me not to be. Just sits with it.
"Your daddy loved this ranch so much it scared him sometimes," Mae says after a moment. "Scared him that something that good could be taken away. So he worked himself into the ground trying to prove he deserved it. Trying to earn what was already his."
My breath catches.
"I watched him do that for years. Watched him run himself ragged because he couldn't just accept that this life was his to have." She looks at me. "Don't do that. Don't spend your life trying to earn something you already have permission to want."
The words settle into my chest, heavy and true.
"I want to stay," I whisper.
Mae doesn't smile. Just nods like she already knew.
"I want him," I continue. "I want this. The ranch. The mornings and the work and all of it. I want this life."
There it is. Clean. Undeniable.
Relief hits hard. Then fear, just as fast.
Mae takes my hand. Squeezes. "Then stop being so damn scared of having it."
"What if it's too late?"
"That's not your choice to make," Mae interrupts gently. "Your choice is what you want. His choice is what he does with that."
She stands, brushing off her jeans. "But wanting it isn't enough. You have to choose it. Out loud. To yourself first, then to everyone else."
She heads toward the doors, stopping at the threshold. "Fall Classic is tomorrow. But right now, you make your own choice. Not for anyone else. For you."
Then she's gone.
I don't make the call right away. I stay in the barn a few more minutes, letting Mae's words settle.
I dial before I can talk myself out of it.
Lauren answers on the second ring. "Hazel. I was starting to think I wouldn't hear from you."
"I'm not going to accept the offer." The words come out steady. "I'm actually resigning."
Silence stretches. Then: "Hazel. This is a significant decision. You've worked hard to get here. Are you certain?"
My stomach twists. "I'm certain."
"We can extend the timeline if you need more time—"
"I don't need more time. I've made my decision."
Another pause. "I have to be honest, I'm surprised. This was a huge opportunity. VP track within two years. You're throwing away a very promising career."
"I know what I'm giving up."
"Do you? Because this won't be waiting if you change your mind. We're moving to our second candidate tonight."
"I understand."
"Hazel—" She stops, regroups. "You're talented. Don't let fear make you walk away from something you've earned."
The words land hard. Because she's not wrong about the fear. She's just wrong about what I'm afraid of.
"Lauren, I'm grateful. I really am. But I'm done. I'll send the formal resignation tonight and help with the transition however you need."
A long exhale. "Alright. I respect your decision. HR will be in touch."
We exchange a few more logistics. Nothing personal. When we hang up, the call ends cleanly.
I lower the phone and stare at the dark screen.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then everything does.
My stomach drops. What have I just done? I just walked away from everything I spent five years building. Panic flares sharp and immediate.
And then—relief. Deep and undeniable. Like I can finally breathe.
Both feelings at once, tangled and overwhelming.
I sit down hard on a hay bale, pressing my palm to my sternum. This isn't about Eli. Not really. This is about not running again. About choosing a life that feels grounded instead of safe.
About finally admitting that this place—this ranch, this land my father loved enough to die working—is home. Not a obligation I inherited or a burden I'm supposed to carry. Home.
And maybe that's enough. Maybe choosing to stay and build something here, to carry forward what he started, maybe that's its own kind of hope. Its own kind of legacy.
Eli is part of the life I want. But he isn't the reason.
I stay there a while, letting the reality settle. There's no undoing this.
When I finally stand, my legs feel steadier.
Fall Classic is tomorrow. The thought settles differently now—heavier but clearer.
I don't reach for my phone to text Eli. Not because I'm scared. Because this isn't the moment. I could drive to his cabin right now, but what if I'm too late?
I can't face that answer tonight. Not when Addie needs me focused.
I'll tell him after. When I can handle whatever his answer is.
Tomorrow matters. Addie matters. The work matters. They deserve better than me showing up desperate the night before the biggest competition.
So I'll wait. I'll get through Fall Classic. Then I'll tell him I’m staying—that I chose this, that I chose him.
And hope to god I'm not too late.
The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky orange and purple. I watch it for a moment, breathing in dust and hay and evening air.
I look out at the ranch—the barn weathered and familiar, the pastures stretching toward the mountains, the fence line where our land meets Dawson property. All of it bathed in twilight.
For the first time in five years, I feel lighter.
The grief that drove me away—the weight of my father's death, the suffocating pressure of this place—it's softer now. Not gone. Just... manageable. Like I can finally breathe around it instead of drowning in it.
I don't know if Eli will forgive me. Don't know if I've already lost him.
But I know I'm home. Really home. Not visiting, not hiding, not proving anything.
Just home.
And that has to be enough for tonight.
I head inside to write the resignation letter. For the first time in four days, my hands are steady.