24. Delilah
— ? —
Delilah
I wake up in his lap.
His hand is in my hair, stroking slowly, gently. The rhythm is familiar - he used to do this on Sunday mornings, before everything went wrong, when we’d lie in bed past noon and pretend the outside world didn’t exist.
“What are you doing?”
His hand stills. “Sorry. I just couldn’t resist-”
I sit up quickly, putting space between us. The blanket falls away from my shoulders. Morning light filters through the cracks in the stable doors, pale and dust-muted.
“Don’t confuse what happened at midnight.” My voice comes out harder than I intend. “Nothing happened.”
Something flickers in his eyes - hurt, definitely, and something else I don’t want to name. But he nods.
“Okay.”
We stand. Brush off straw and dust. My leg is stiff from sleeping on the ground, every joint protesting as I force myself upright.
Storm is on his feet. Not quite himself - his coat still dull, his movements still slow - but better. Steadier. His ears prick forward when he sees us moving, and he huffs at me through the stall bars.
“Hey, beautiful.” I reach through to stroke his nose. “Feeling better?”
He nudges my hand. Not the demanding nudge of his healthy days, but an acknowledgment. I’m still here.
Mr. Velez appears in the doorway, covered in dust, exhaustion written in every line of his body. He must have stayed up all night securing the equipment.
“He’s doing better,” he says, relief evident in his voice. “The medicine helped.” His gaze moves between Lucas and me, something knowing in his expression. “Or maybe he just needed both of you here.”
I don’t respond to that. Can’t.
“You can do this, boy.” I face Storm, both hands on his coat now, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my palms. “You’re going to be okay.”
“I texted Dario before you woke up,” Lucas says behind me. “Asked him to download all the security footage from the night of the rodeo and send it to my email. It should be ready by now.”
The investigation. Right. That’s why we’re doing this - not because of whatever happened last night, not because of the kiss I’m pretending never occurred. Because Aimie might have sabotaged my run. Because someone might have tried to kill me.
“Let’s go,” I say.
The walk to the house is silent. My leg aches. My heart aches. Everything aches.
The aftermath of the dust storm is everywhere - debris scattered across the paths, a fine layer of grit covering every surface, the sky still hazy with particles. Workers are already out, cleaning up, repairing damage. No one looks at us twice.
Allana is at the kitchen table when we arrive, Rosa braiding her hair into two neat plaits.
“Mommy! Daddy!” She bounces in her chair. “You came home together!”
Rosa’s eyes sweep over us - the straw in our hair, the wrinkled clothes, the way we’re standing just a little too close together. I see the conclusions being drawn.
“I noticed you two were out all night,” she says carefully. “So I’m getting her ready for school.”
“Thank you, Rosa.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” I add quickly. “We just got stuck in the stable. Storm wasn’t feeling well.”
“Oh yes, I heard Storm wasn’t doing well.” Rosa’s expression is perfectly neutral, but I’ve known her long enough to see the tiny smile she’s hiding. “Is he feeling better?”
“He’s improving.”
“Good.” She ties off the second braid with a practiced twist. “Maybe he just needs the two of you riding him again. Horses get sick when they miss their owners - that’s what my grandfather used to say. Especially horses who have two owners they love.”
Lucas catches my eye.
I feel heat climb my cheeks. Look away.
“We should check the footage.”
His office is exactly as I remember it. The same leather chair behind the massive desk. The same dark wood shelves lined with trophies and photographs. The same window overlooking the training arena.
And there, on the corner of the desk, a photograph in a silver frame. Our wedding photo. His hand on my waist, my head thrown back in laughter, both of us young and stupid and so in love we couldn’t see straight.
I don’t let myself linger on it.
Lucas pulls up the footage on his computer, and I move to stand behind his shoulder. Close enough to see the screen. Close enough to smell him - dust and sweat and something underneath that’s just him.
Focus. Focus on the evidence.
The quality is grainy, dark - the arena was poorly lit that night. But Dario has done good work. The recovered footage plays in segments, time stamps jumping, but the progression is clear.
The setup before the event. Workers arranging barriers, checking equipment. The crowds filing in, a blur of faces. The first few runs - other riders, other horses.
Then mine.
I watch from a distance - tiny figure on a tiny horse, circling the barrels at speed. The crowd cheers. My body moves in perfect synchronization with Stella’s, years of partnership translated into fluid motion.
And then the fall.
Even from this angle, even with the grainy footage, I can see it. Stella’s front leg catching on something. Her body pitching forward. Mine flying through the air.
I flinch. Look away.
“Go back,” I say. “Before the run.”
Lucas rewinds. Pauses.
There. In the shadows behind the barriers. A figure, small and dark, moving toward the arena.
“That’s her.” I lean closer, pointing at the screen. “Look - the ponytail. That’s her signature ponytail.”
The figure bends down. Places something on the ground. Then straightens and disappears back into the shadows.
“That bitch,” I breathe. “She actually-”
Lucas is about to say something when I grab his arm.
“Wait. Look.”
I point at the corner of the screen. Another shadow. Larger. Broader shoulders. A man.
He’s standing near the gate, almost like he’s keeping watch. When the ponytailed figure finishes and moves away, he follows. They disappear into the darkness together, seconds before the arena lights brightened for my run.
“There’s someone else.” My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “She wasn’t alone.”
We watch again. And again. The second figure is indistinct - too dark, too grainy - but the silhouette is unmistakable.
Aimie had a partner.
Someone else wanted me to fall. Someone else with access to the arena. Someone else who stood to gain from my injury.
“Who the hell is that?” Lucas’s voice is tight with anger.
“I don’t know.” I straighten, my mind racing. “But she has a partner. Someone helped her.”
“The footage is too dark. It could be anyone.”
“Then we need more.” I turn away from the screen, away from the image of my fall frozen on the monitor. “We need to go back to the arena. Look for something the cameras might have missed.”
Lucas stands. His jaw is set, that determined expression I know so well.
“Let’s go.”