Chapter 36
Chapter thirty-six
Hazel
The barn is quiet in that pre-dawn way that feels intentional. Like the world is holding its breath.
I move through the aisle alone, lights low, boots soft against packed dirt. The colt lifts his head the second he hears me, nickers once, then settles. Familiar. Steady. I press my forehead briefly to the stall door before I go in.
This part I know how to do.
Brush in hand, I work down his neck in long, even strokes. Check his legs. Pick each hoof. Adjust the blanket. Everything is slow. Methodical. Routine as armor.
On the surface, I'm calm.
Underneath, terror hums sharp and constant.
I chose to stay. The truth of it sits solid in my chest now, undeniable and heavy. But I haven't told him yet. Haven't said the words that matter most.
And today, there's nowhere to hide.
I tighten the girth, double-check the stitching on the saddle, run my fingers along the reins like they might steady me too. The colt shifts, patient, trusting, ready.
I breathe with him. In. Out.
This is the work. This is what grounds me.
In a few hours, I'll have to face Eli.
And everything I've chosen will finally be standing in front of me.
Addie shows up ten minutes later, energy already buzzing off her like static.
She's dressed and ready, helmet under her arm, braid tighter than usual. She stops short when she sees me in the aisle and grins, too wide, too bright.
"Morning," she says. "Or… whatever this counts as."
"Morning," I reply, brushing down the colt's shoulder. "You sleep at all?"
"Barely." She bounces once on her heels, then catches herself and forces stillness. "Big day."
"Yeah," I say evenly. "Big day."
She paces the length of the aisle, then stops near the tack rack, eyes flicking around like she's checking boxes only she can see.
"So Chace is hauling us, right?" she asks. Casual. Almost.
"Yeah," I say. "He'll be here any minute."
She nods, relief flashing across her face before she reins it in. "Okay. Good. I just wanted to make sure."
She doesn't say Eli's name.
Neither do I.
The absence hangs there anyway, obvious as an empty stall. Addie glances toward the far end of the barn once, then squares her shoulders and looks back at the colt.
"He feels good," she says. "I mean—really good."
"He is," I tell her. "You've done the work. He's ready."
She exhales, slow and deliberate. "You sure I am?"
I turn to face her fully. "You're ready. He's ready. Don't get inside your head today."
She nods, taking it in like instruction instead of reassurance. "Okay."
Headlights cut across the barn doors a moment later.
Chace pulls in with the hauling rig like it's any other morning. Efficient. Unhurried. He hops out, already focused on straps and angles and the practical work of getting us where we need to go.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning," I reply.
We load the colt smoothly, practiced movements falling into place without conversation. Chace checks the ramp, secures the latch, gives the divider a final tug. The colt steps in easy, calm as if he knows exactly where he's headed.
Mae appears at the edge of the barn as we finish, cardigan pulled tight against the chill, a travel mug in her hands.
She presses it into mine without a word.
Her eyes meet mine, steady and knowing. "You got this," she says quietly.
It's not about the competition.
I nod. "Thanks."
The drive to the arena is quiet.
Addie stares out the window, jaw set, replaying patterns in her head. Chace keeps his eyes on the road, radio low. I watch the landscape roll past, fences and fields slipping by in the growing light.
Every mile tightens the knot in my chest.
We're moving now.
Toward the arena. Toward the crowd. Toward my future.
And there's no turning back.
***
The arena parking lot is already chaos when we pull in.
Trailers lined up at odd angles. Horses nickering, pawing, calling to one another. People moving with purpose, voices raised over engines and slamming doors. The air smells like dust and coffee and anticipation.
I jump down from the truck and move automatically, hands busy, mind quiet in that narrow way it gets when I focus on logistics. Unlatch. Check straps. Walk the colt back a step so Chace can drop the ramp.
I don't mean to look for him.
I just… do.
My gaze sweeps the lot without conscious thought, skimming familiar trucks and faces, cataloging movement the way I always have. And then—
There.
His truck is parked on the far side of the lot, angled toward the arena. He's leaning against it, arms crossed, weight settled into one hip like he's been standing there a while.
He isn't watching the arena.
He's watching our trailer.
Our eyes meet across the distance.
Everything stops.
He doesn't wave. Doesn't smile. His shoulders tense, barely visible from here, but I see it. His weight shifts forward half an inch, like his body wants to move before his brain can stop it.
My hand lifts without permission. Just a fraction.
For three seconds, we're frozen there. Pulled toward each other by something neither of us is willing to name.
Then his expression shutters.
He looks away, pushes off the truck with deliberate force, and walks toward the registration building like he just passed a stranger.
My stomach drops so hard I have to grip the trailer rail to stay standing.
Addie's voice cuts in beside me. "Is Eli here?"
I can't look away from where he disappeared. "Yeah," I manage. "Just saw him walking in."
We move fast after that, momentum carrying us forward whether I'm ready or not. Through the gate. Toward the barns. Toward the warm-up ring.
I help Addie tack up in silence, hands working from muscle memory while my pulse hammers. Saddle pad straight. Girth snug. Bridle adjusted just so. My fingers tremble slightly when I tighten the last strap, and I curl them into the leather until they steady.
The colt stands perfectly still, ears flicking back toward my voice when I murmur to him. Calm. Ready. Everything we hoped for.
Addie swings into the saddle and heads toward the warm-up ring.
Eli takes his place at the rail, eyes tracking the colt's movement with practiced focus.
I stop ten feet away on the opposite side of the ring.
I keep my eyes on Addie, on the colt, on anything but him. But after a minute I can't help it—I glance over.
He's watching the horse, arms crossed, jaw tight. But his body is angled just slightly toward me. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that I notice.
Then he looks at me.
We both freeze.
For three seconds, everything else disappears. Just him and me and ten feet that might as well be miles.
Then he snaps his attention back to Addie so fast it might as well be a wall slamming between us.
My chest aches.
Addie circles past on the colt, oblivious, calling out, "How's he look?"
"Perfect," Eli and I say at the exact same time.
Our voices overlap, tangle, fall apart.
We still don't look at each other.
The announcer's voice crackles over the loudspeaker. "Rider thirty-two, fifteen minutes out."
Addie rides toward the gate for her final check-in, leaving me standing alone at the rail.
The announcer calls Addie's number, and the world narrows to the gate.
She rides in like she belongs there.
Helmet steady. Shoulders relaxed. Hands quiet on the reins. The colt steps into the arena with his ears forward, body loose and focused, like he knows exactly what's being asked of him.
My hands tighten on the rail.
Mae is beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush. Chace stands on my other side, jaw set, eyes tracking every step.
Eli is… somewhere.
I don't look for him. I don't have to. I can feel him the way you feel a storm before it breaks.
But I catch sight of him anyway when Addie clears the second obstacle.
He's standing behind a small group of spectators, jaw set. His eyes never leave the arena. Never leave her.
But his hand—his right hand—is curled into a fist at his side, knuckles white.
Not angry. Tense.
Like he's fighting to stay exactly where he is instead of moving closer. To me. To the rail. To this thing we built together.
He looks like he's barely holding himself in place.
Then he looks away, jaw working, and I understand—he's been tracking my presence the whole time, even while watching her ride.
The buzzer sounds.
Addie moves the colt forward, confident but controlled. No rush. No hesitation.
The colt lifts his feet like he's been doing this his whole life, stride even, balance perfect. Addie guides him through without a single correction, posture calm, eyes already on the next mark.
I exhale without realizing I'd been holding my breath.
Second obstacle—better.
A smooth transition into the turn, tight and precise without losing momentum. The colt listens, adjusts, responds instantly. Addie's hands barely move, trust flowing clean between them.
Mae murmurs something under her breath. A prayer. Or pride. Or both.
My chest aches.
This is what we built at four in the morning when no one was watching. What we worked for through heat and exhaustion and doubt. This moment, right here.
The third obstacle looms—the tricky one.
A tight gate with an awkward approach, the kind that trips up even seasoned riders if they come in wrong. I feel my pulse spike, fear clawing up sharp and sudden.
Addie shortens the reins just a fraction. The colt gathers himself, shifts weight back without losing rhythm.
For one second, everything stops.
Then he does it.
Clean. Fluid. Like the obstacle never existed at all.
A laugh breaks out of me before I can stop it, breathless and sharp with relief. Mae grabs my arm, fingers digging in.
"That's it," she whispers. "That's it."
Addie's face changes then—concentration cracking just enough to let joy flicker through. She reins it in immediately, refocuses, drives toward the final obstacle.
The last stretch is a blur of motion and sound. The colt moves like he's floating now, energy coiled but controlled, Addie guiding him with absolute trust.
Final obstacle—perfect.