Chapter 36 #2
They cross the line clean, no hesitation, no faults.
For a heartbeat, the arena is silent.
Then it erupts.
Applause crashes in. Cheers erupt. Addie throws one hand into the air before she can stop herself, grin splitting her face wide open.
I feel it then—this overwhelming swell in my chest that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with pride.
This is ours.
This moment. This horse. This win, whatever place it earns.
We built this.
As Addie rides out of the arena, still grinning, still buzzing, my hands finally loosen on the rail. My breath comes shaky, my eyes burning just a little.
I should be thinking about what happens next.
About Eli. About what I still haven't said.
Instead, all I can think is this:
No matter what comes after—
This was real.
***
Addie dismounts the moment she clears the gate, breathless and glowing, helmet already coming off as she jogs over.
"That felt perfect," she says, eyes bright, hands shaking just a little. "Did it look perfect?"
I don't hesitate. "It was perfect."
The colt nudges her shoulder like he knows exactly what she's talking about, breath warm against her arm. She laughs and wraps both arms around his neck, pressing her face into his mane.
"You did it," she murmurs. "We did it."
People gather around them in quick bursts—congratulations, pats on the shoulder, quiet murmurs of approval. The energy in the warm-up area shifts, anticipation buzzing sharp and electric.
We wait.
Competitors finish their rounds one by one, each name called over the loudspeaker tightening the coil in my chest a little more. Addie paces. Sits. Stands again. The colt stands calmly at her side, unbothered, like he's already decided how this ends.
I tell myself not to look for him.
I do anyway.
Across the arena, near the scoreboard, Eli stands with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in that way that means nothing about him is casual. His gaze is fixed on the numbers as they update, face unreadable, jaw set.
He doesn't look at me.
Not once.
The announcer's voice cuts through the noise, and the crowd quiets in a rush.
"And in first place—"
Everything stops.
"Addie Dawson."
The arena explodes.
Mae's arms are around me before I even process the words, crushing me into a hug that knocks the breath from my lungs. Chace lets out a shout so loud it echoes off the rafters. People clap and cheer and surge toward us in a wave of celebration.
Addie stares at the scoreboard like she doesn't quite believe it, then breaks, laughing and crying at the same time as she buries her face in the colt's neck.
"I can't believe it," she keeps saying. "I can't believe it."
Hands reach in from everywhere—patting the colt, clapping Addie on the back, voices layering over each other with congratulations and disbelief.
People surge toward us—not just friends, but other ranchers too. Faces I recognize from the circuit, competitors, trainers. A woman I don't know shakes Mae's hand, her expression warm.
"Heard you were shutting down," she says. "Glad to see that wasn't true. You taking on any more boarders?"
Mae's eyes light up. "We might have room for the right horse."
"I'll call you next week."
Another man approaches, older, weathered. "That's some quality training. You do outside clients?"
"We do now," Mae says, and I hear the satisfaction in her voice.
This is what winning does. Not just proves the colt is good—proves Clark Ranch is back.
I catch snippets of conversation around me—people asking about Mae's training methods, about boarding rates, about whether we're taking new clients for spring. The win isn't just Addie's. It's advertising. Proof of concept. Validation that the business model works.
This is it—proof the ranch works. Proof the training works. Proof that everything we poured into this mattered.
I should be flying.
I am—almost.
But even as the celebration swirls around me, my eyes keep scanning the crowd, searching instinctively.
Looking for him.
Because none of this means what it should until I know he's still there.
The celebration continues around me—Addie accepting congratulations, Mae beaming with pride, people already talking about next season. I'm scanning the crowd for Eli when I notice Mae step away from the group, moving toward the rail with that deliberate walk that means she's handling something.
I follow her gaze.
Cole Maddox.
He's approaching from the parking area, dressed too nice for the venue—pressed shirt, expensive boots that have never seen real work. That opportunistic smile firmly in place.
I start moving toward them, but Mae's already turning to face him. Her posture shifts—shoulders back, chin up. Ready.
"Ms. Clark." Cole stops a respectful distance away, gesturing toward where Addie stands with the colt. "Impressive showing today. That colt of yours just proved what I've been saying—you've got real potential here."
Mae doesn't respond. Just waits.
"With the right financial backing," Cole continues, voice smooth, "you could build on this. Expand the operation. I'm prepared to make a very generous offer—"
"Ranch isn't for sale," Mae interrupts. Her voice is pleasant. Dangerous. "Never was. Never will be."
Cole's smile tightens but holds. "I understand you're protective of your family's legacy. But Ms. Clark, one good ride doesn't guarantee the future. Winter's coming. The bank still holds your note. I'm simply offering security. Stability."
"We're doing just fine without you," Mae says quietly.
He shifts tactics, leaning in slightly. "I admire your determination. Truly. But sentiment doesn't pay bills. Let me help you—"
"And whatever happened with those fence lines a few weeks back?" Mae's voice stays level, but steel runs underneath now.
Cole goes very still. His expression flickers—surprise, then calculation, then that careful neutral mask sliding back into place.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says.
"Good." Mae holds his gaze. "Because we can't prove it. Yet. But we're watching, Mr. Maddox. Very carefully. You understand me?"
The air between them goes taut.
Cole's jaw tightens. He glances around—at the celebration, at the people watching, at Addie still glowing with her win. When he looks back at Mae, the friendly mask is gone.
"I was trying to help," he says, voice colder now.
"We don't need your kind of help." Mae takes a small step forward. Not aggressive. Final. "You're not welcome here. And you're not welcome on my property. Ever. Are we clear?"
For a long moment, Cole doesn't move. Then he nods once, sharp and controlled.
"Crystal clear."
He turns and walks away, back stiff, hands in his pockets. Mae watches him go all the way to his truck, doesn't move until his taillights disappear from the lot.
I reach her side. "Mae?"
She turns to me, something satisfied in her expression. "Just making sure certain people understand where things stand."
I follow her gaze, understanding settling. This wasn't just about shutting down another offer. It was about showing Cole Maddox that Clark Ranch isn't dying. That we're not prey anymore.
"Think he'll try again?" I ask quietly.
Mae considers. "Eventually. Men like that don't give up easy. But he won't be coming around here anytime soon."
She squeezes my arm once, then heads back toward the celebration, leaving me standing there with the knowledge that we just closed one threat.
Even if others are waiting.
I turn back to the celebration, heart still racing from the confrontation. But the moment of satisfaction fades when I scan the crowd again.
Looking for him.
The crowd parts for a moment, bodies shifting, and suddenly there's a clear line between us.
Eli stands at the edge, hands in his pockets, watching the celebration with an expression I can't read from here.
For a second—one suspended second—we just look at each other.
The noise fades. The movement blurs.
His hands come out of his pockets. Not reaching. Just… uncurling. Like maybe he's about to step forward. Like maybe this changes something. Like maybe—
Someone bumps into him from behind, breaking the spell.
His face shutters.
His hands come together in that slow, deliberate clap. Once. Twice. Measured. Respectful.
Not celebration. Acknowledgment.
The difference guts me.
The sound barely reaches me over the noise, but I see it clearly. The way his shoulders lift with each clap. The way his jaw tightens like he's holding something in place.
Our eyes meet.
For one heartbeat, the world narrows again. The cheers fade. The movement blurs. It's just him and me across the space between us.
For a heartbeat, I think he might come over.
Think he might close the distance the way I've been too afraid to all day. Think that maybe this changes something. That this—this win, this proof, this moment—matters enough to pull him back toward me.
Then he drops his hands.
Turns.
And walks away.
Not rushed. Not angry. Just deliberate.
He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't glance back. Doesn't pause to see if I'll follow.
He threads through the edge of the crowd with the same steady purpose he brings to everything, and I watch him go because I can't do anything else.
Ten feet. Twenty. Fifty.
He reaches his truck.
I'm still standing there, frozen in the middle of the celebration, people laughing and talking all around me while my heart cracks open in a way that has nothing to do with joy.
The engine turns over.
Mae's hand settles on my shoulder. "Go," she says. Firmer this time.
"He just left," I whisper. "During the win. He just—"
"So go after him," Mae interrupts.
Something in me finally gives.
I turn and run for the truck.