Chapter 17
ELLA
Cole brings Aria to the training ring just after eight, the morning sun still low enough to cast long, pale shadows across the arena.
The air is that perfect Texas blend of warm and crisp, the kind that smells faintly of hay, horseshoe metal, and everything familiar.
We agreed it’s best to train in the mornings before the sun gets too hot.
The Texan sun is especially harsh in the summer.
Aria hops out of the truck with the sort of excitement only nine-year-olds can inspire—a bounce in her step, her helmet tucked under her arm.
I meet her near the gate, and she grins at me the way kids do when they trust someone enough to be fully themselves—open, bright, and unguarded.
Every time she looks at me like this, something deep and aching inside me settles a little more.
“Ready, champ?” I ask, lightly nudging her shoulder.
She nods vigorously. “Ready!”
Cole stands beside me long enough for me to feel the residual warmth of yesterday slip between us. He smells like sawdust, cologne, and the faintest trace of my skin still on his neck.
Deep down, I’m fighting the ridiculous urge to lean into him, to claim just one more touch in the open where anyone can see.
His fingers brush my lower back—barely a touch, but enough that my breath catches.
When our eyes meet, there’s a softness there, a knowing, the kind of silent intimacy that makes yesterday feel like the beginning of something instead of just a moment.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.
I know why he’s asking. He caught me in the most vulnerable state and helped me through it.
I hate that he had to see me like that, but I’m also grateful for it, as it’s brought us closer.
Now he’s no longer talking of keeping distance between us or throwing the word “professional” around as if we’re blind to our feelings for each other.
“I’m great,” I assure him.
He assesses me for a long beat before nodding after seeing that I’m not lying. That’s because I’m not. I’m used to recovering from my nightmares on my own, but yesterday I had him, and that made it all better.
He clears his throat after a beat, slipping back into father mode, but the awareness lingers. “Call me if you need anything,” he says to me, but the look he gives is warmer, deeper, like he’s saying I’m here for you too, even when he’s walking away.
And there it is again, that pull in my chest that wants to chase him, reach for him, and drag him back into my arms. But I force myself to stay in instructor mode, focused on Aria, because that’s what I promised, and it’s supposed to be good for me too.
I take Aria’s hand as we walk toward the stables. “Today we’re going to work on your turns. Are you ready?”
“Yes!” She nods eagerly.
Her trust in me is immediate and total, and that tiny fact alone presses a knot of emotion into my throat.
Because training her, being on this dirt, walking these lines, hearing hoofbeats—it’s more than teaching.
It’s stepping back into the version of myself I used to be, the girl who once lived and breathed barrel racing like it was her birthright.
The girl who had dreams so bright they lit the inside of her ribcage.
Before they shattered.
Before I shattered.
But this—helping Aria chase her own magic—is healing in ways I didn’t expect.
After grooming and tack-up, we enter the arena again. I bring my mare, Juniper, so I can demonstrate the lines, but Aria is the one who does the practice. She mounts her horse with practiced ease, eyes sharp with focus.
“Okay, sweet girl, let’s start slow,” I call out. “Walk the pattern. Feel the rhythm.”
She moves the horse into a walk, guiding him around the barrels, posture straight, shoulders soft. It’s good. Really good. She has a natural talent she doesn’t even understand yet—the kind of balance and instinct that can’t be taught, only shaped.
I ride alongside to demonstrate a smoother turn. “See here?” I point out as I tip my horse around the barrel, close and tight. “Use your inside leg to push him out just a little. Don’t let him dive too early.”
“Like this?” Aria tries, and she nails it.
“Yes! Exactly like that!”
She beams, and pride blooms warm and full in my chest.
We run the pattern again, this time in a trot. She’s focused and confident. My heart lifts watching her, and for a few minutes, everything—the past, pain, and memories—quiet enough for joy to take up space inside me again.
But when we move to a canter, something shifts. Not wrong, just… different. Her horse becomes eager. A little too eager.
“Steady,” I shout. “Sit deep. Let him come to you.”
She tries, listens, and adjusts, but when she takes the second barrel turn, her outside foot slips too far out of the stirrup—a tiny mistake, barely a thing, but enough to tilt her weight at the wrong angle.
“No—Aria—inside leg—“
It happens in a blink.
Her horse clips the barrel. It wobbles, he panics as his front hooves scramble for purchase in the dirt, and in the next breath, Aria is airborne.
My world narrows to the shape of her small body, hitting the ground with a sickening thud, a cry bursting from her as she lands hard on her wrist before rolling into the dust.
“Aria!”
My heart stutters violently, my hands go cold, and vision blurs for a fraction of a second.
It’s not a full blackout, but a dizzy, disorienting flash of seventeen-year-old me flying through the air, the snap of bone, the taste of dirt, the moment my entire life turned inside out.
My breath catches, sharp, painful, but I force myself forward.
I’m off my horse before she even stops moving, reins dropped in the dirt as I sprint toward Aria.
My breath catches, sharp, painful, but I force myself forward. I’m off my horse before she even stops moving, reins dropped in the dirt as I sprint toward Aria.
I fall to my knees beside her. “Oh God, baby—Aria—“
She’s crying, clutching her wrist to her chest, curled on her side in the dust.
“It hurts, Ella,” she gasps, voice trembling.
“I know, sweet girl, I know. I’ve got you.” I gently brush her hair back, my hands shaking so badly I can barely keep them steady. “Talk to me. Tell me where it hurts. Is it your legs? Your head?”
She shakes her head frantically. “Just my wrist.”
Thank God.
Thank God.
But the relief is tangled with something darker. Something clawing up my throat. Because I should’ve been closer. I should’ve seen the way her horse was carrying tension. I should’ve pulled her up before the turn. I should’ve—
This is my fault. I’m her trainer. I’m responsible for her.
“Okay, Aria,” I whisper, trying to steady my breath. “We need to get you to the hospital.”
Duncan, who must have seen Aria fall, is running toward us, phone pressed to his ear. “Ambulance is on the way,” he informs me.
I nod, unable to speak.
Minutes blur into motion—Aria clinging to me, crying through every touch, my own body quivering like it’s been stripped of bones and replaced with wires. When the ambulance arrives, I climb in without asking permission, without looking back.
“Where’s Daddy? I need my dad,” Aria cries.
Oh God, Cole! He’s going to hate me for this. And just when we had managed to cross a huge hurdle in our relationship.
“Tell Cole to meet us at the hospital,” I inform Duncan just as the ambulance’s doors close.
“It’s okay, sweetheart, he’ll meet us at the hospital,” I console her.
She curls into my side, head pressed to my ribs, tears dampening my shirt. I hold her tightly with one arm, the other hand resting on her bandaged wrist on the cushion beside her.
Her pain crawls under my skin like it’s mine; her fear feels like a mirror.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper before I can stop myself. “I should’ve— I should’ve been faster, sweetheart. I should’ve—“
“It’s not your fault,” she sniffles, though her voice is thin and shaky.
But the guilt is already rooted. Already heavy.
Because who am I to think I can be someone’s stepmother, someone’s safe place, when I can’t even keep her from falling?
That thought is a blade pressed right against my ribs, sharp enough to make my lungs burn.
When we reach the ER, they rush her back for imaging, leaving me to my panic. My breathing is too fast, vision jumping in and out of focus, palms slick with sweat.
I’m spiraling. I know it. I can feel it, and I’m powerless to stop it.
By the time Cole bursts through the automatic doors—chest heaving, boots thudding, eyes wild with fear—I’m shaking so hard I can barely stand.
He takes one look at me and his face changes. His eyes soften, focusing on me.
“Ella.” His voice is low, rough, grounding. “Baby, hey, look at me.”
I try. I really do, but the second I meet his eyes, everything breaks.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, words spilling fast, frantic, uncontrollable. “I should’ve— I should’ve stopped her— I should’ve seen the horse— I— Cole, I messed up, I messed up, I—“
My chest seizes, lungs refusing to move, hands trembling violently, knees weakening until he catches me, arms sliding around me with such sureness it undoes the very last of my composure.
“Hey, hey—breathe,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine as if he can pull my fear out just by touching me. “Shiloh, listen to me. Listen. Breathe in slow. Come on. In. Out. That’s it. I’ve got you.”
I grip his shirt so tightly my knuckles ache.
“I let her fall,” I whisper, voice breaking. “How could I let her fall? I’m supposed to protect her. I’m supposed to—“
“Stop.” He cups the side of my face, forcing me gently but firmly to meet his eyes. “You didn’t let anything happen. Horses panic. Kids fall. Riders fall. That’s the life of a rider. It’s normal. You know this.”
“But she was hurt,” I insist, voice barely audible.
“And she’s going to be okay,” he assures me, but I don’t believe him.
He’s about to say more when the doors to the imaging wing slide open and a woman in scrubs steps out, scanning the waiting room.
“Family of Aria Dawson?”
Cole and I both answer at the same time. “Yes.”
The doctor walks toward us, holding a tablet, her expression calm but focused.
“Aria is doing well,” she begins gently. “She’s stable and talking away.”
My lungs burn with relief, but I can’t breathe yet—not until I know everything.
“What about her wrist?” Cole asks, voice steady even though I can feel the tension rolling off him.
The doctor turns the tablet toward us, showing the X-ray. “She has a small hairline fracture right here.” She taps the faint white line on the image. “It’s minimal. Clean. No displacement.”
I swallow hard, tears gathering behind my eyes.
“She’ll need a brace for a couple of weeks,” the doctor continues, “but she won’t need a cast. And she’ll heal completely.”
My knees weaken, and Cole’s hand comes to the small of my back, steadying me.
“She was worried she’d done something really bad,” the doctor adds with a small smile. “But her fall was controlled enough that the injury is very manageable. She must have a very good teacher.”
“She does,” Cole affirms, gazing at me.
I cover my mouth with my hand as a sob breaks loose—half relief, half guilt.
The doctor’s smile softens. “You can go in and see her now. She’s asking for you.”
I nod, choking on a thank-you, but when I try to step forward, my body betrays me—chest tightening all over again, breath stalling, vision tunneling for a split second.
Cole catches my arm, leaning close, his mouth near my ear. “Hey… look at me. She’s okay. She’s right there. You did good.”
I exhale shakily, grounding myself in the sound of his voice.
The doctor steps aside, gesturing toward the hallway. “Room five. Take your time.”
Cole squeezes my hand, and together we walk toward Aria, my heart still raw, relief still shaky, but now guided forward by the certainty that she’s safe.
Aria is sitting up—small and exhausted, but smiling when she sees us.
“Ella,” she says, holding up her bandaged wrist. “Look! They put a brace on. And they gave me stickers.”
Something inside me warms, then melts completely.
I kiss her forehead carefully. “You scared me, sweetheart.”
“I scared me too,” she whispers, then giggles.
When she looks up at me again, her eyes are clear, trusting, and completely unshaken by me.
Cole leans down, brushing her hair back. “You’re a tough one, baby girl.”
She beams at him, but she reaches for my hand. Just mine. And something in my chest loosens, the sharpest part of the guilt dulling.
We take her home together. Cole drives, glancing at me every few seconds like he’s making sure I’m still breathing. I sit in the back with Aria, holding her hand the whole way, letting her talk about the horse, how she wants to try again once she heals, and how she’s not scared, not really.
When she leans into me, head on my shoulder, sighing softly, I close my eyes and rest my cheek on her hair. This closeness, trust, and little girl choosing me fills me with a kind of certainty I’ve never known.
Even if I messed up today, even if I panic, even if I’m flawed, scared, and healing from things I still don’t have names for—Aria doesn’t see me as a failure; she sees me as hers, and that is enough to make me believe I can try again tomorrow.
When we walk her inside, Cole pulls me back gently by the wrist, his thumb brushing the rapid pulse there.
“You did everything right today,” he assures quietly. “You saved her. Don’t ever doubt that.”
He pulls me into him, a soft groan of relief leaving his chest. I let myself melt into the safety of his arms because after everything that happened today…
I finally believe him.