Chapter 10 Barrel Racing Dreams & Broken Trust
Chapter ten
Barrel Racing Dreams & Broken Trust
Avery
The smell hits me first, saddle soap, warm leather, and the faintest trace of dust and horse sweat clinging to the air like a memory that refuses to fade.
It’s the same scent that used to cling to my hair after every race, after every long night in the barn whispering secrets to a mare who knew me better than anyone else.
I run my fingers along the worn leather of the saddle, the familiar creases fitting against my skin like an old glove.
This was the first saddle my dad ever let me pick out on my own, mahogany brown with silver conchos that caught the sunlight like tiny stars.
I used to sit for hours in it, even when I wasn’t riding, pretending I was at Nationals or galloping across open fields. Every scratch, every scuff tells a story, and pressing my hand against it now feels like touching a piece of him.
Of us. The one that’s been tucked away in the corner of the barn for years.
My dad never got rid of it, even after I left. He couldn’t. Maybe because he believed I’d come back one day. Or maybe because letting go of it would’ve meant letting go of me.
The leather creaks as I lift it onto the saddle stand, my muscles remembering the motion even if it’s been nearly a decade since the last time I competed. Back then, I was fast, faster than most of the boys.
I had grit, drive, and a hunger to prove I could make something of myself, not just in the arena but beyond it.
And then everything changed.
Life, they say, has a funny way of yanking dreams out from under your boots. One bad fall. One torn ligament. A handful of doctors shaking their heads.
And suddenly, I was no longer Avery Blake, rising barrel racing star. I was just another girl with a limp and a resume full of what-could-have-beens.
But right now, in this dusty barn, surrounded by the ghosts of who I used to be, I feel her, the girl who used to chase barrels like they were finish lines to a better life. I miss her. I miss her fire.
I step out into the paddock where Dusty waits, his ears flicking toward me as I approach. I don’t even need a lead rope. He knows me. Always has.
And as I rest my palm on his neck, something inside me shifts, like maybe I can find her again.
That fearless, reckless version of myself who wasn’t afraid of falling. I remember one summer night at the county fair, weaving through barrels under the stadium lights, the roar of the crowd drowning out every fear I’d ever had.
My dad had whooped from the stands, pride thick in his voice, and afterward, we’d celebrated with funnel cake and orange soda until midnight. I can still smell the fried sugar, still feel the sticky sweetness on my fingers as he’d told me I was born for this life.
That memory rushes back now like Dusty’s steady breath, familiar, grounding. Maybe that girl isn’t gone. Maybe she’s just been waiting for me to saddle up again.
“I used to be somebody,” I whisper to him, my throat tightening. “Someone who didn’t second-guess every damn thing. Someone who knew where she was going.”
Dusty nudges my shoulder like he understands, and maybe he does. Maybe he remembers those nights under the stars, just the two of us and the quiet ache of ambition.
I glance back at the barn, at the saddle, at the empty arena beyond the fence. It’s not much, not like the championship circuits I once dreamed of, but it’s enough.
I mount Dusty slowly, carefully, my muscles stretching in ways they haven’t in years. The leather creaks. The breeze lifts my hair. And for a moment, it’s like time rewinds, the weight of everything else slipping away.
I nudge him forward.
One loop. That’s all I want. Just one loop around the arena to prove I still can.
We move together, not fast, but steady. My hands remember the reins, my body remembers the cues. And when we round the final barrel, the rush hits me so hard I laugh, loud, wild, and real. The kind of laugh that cracks something open inside me.
Maybe I can’t go back to who I was. But maybe I don’t have to. Maybe I can be something new. Stronger. Wiser. Still a little broken, but not beaten.
When we come to a stop, Dusty snorts and paws the dirt like he’s ready to go again. And I smile, really smile, because for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m not running away from my past.
I’m riding straight through it.
Back at the barn, I’m all adrenaline and aching limbs, but I don’t stop. The rodeo’s coming up fast, and if I’m serious about entering, even just for fun, I need to shake the rust off and get back into the rhythm.
Just as I’m pulling out the practice barrels from the storage shed, a burst of hammering echoes from the other side of the house. The construction crew Cash hired must’ve shown up while I was in the arena.
Their voices carry over the paddock, mingled with the hum of drills and the occasional clang of wood against wood.
They’re updating the whole place, replacing weathered siding with fresh cedar planks, new roof, adding insulation, fixing up the sagging wrap around porch, and the house, even gutting the old kitchen and rewiring the ancient electrical system.
It’s not just cosmetic, it’s like they’re rebuilding something that was on the verge of collapse. And standing here, hearing the walls of my childhood home being shored up and brought back to life, I can’t help but wonder if I’m doing the same thing.
Maybe these repairs aren’t just about the house. Maybe they’re about me too. About stitching together the frayed edges of a life I thought I’d left behind and seeing, for the first time, that I might still belong here.
Dusty flicks his ears at the racket, but doesn’t spook. He’s used to chaos. So am I.
There’s something soothing about it all, checking tack, looping reins, brushing out his mane while the sun climbs higher in the sky. Movement and focus, that’s what I need.
A distraction. Something to keep me from spiraling over Cash and his infuriating mix of charm and secrets.
Because the truth is, I don’t know where I stand with him. Not after yesterday. Not with that look in his eyes one moment and the cold distance the next.
So I bury it. I bury him. At least for today.
I take a few more slow loops around the barrels, refining angles, tightening turns, training my muscles to remember what winning felt like. Sweat trickles down my back, and my thighs burn from the strain, but it’s worth it. The old rhythm creeps back, faster, tighter, cleaner.
Each lap is a rebellion. A declaration.
I’m still here.
I dismount and lead Dusty to the fence line, letting him cool down while I sip from my water bottle. I stare out over the paddocks, the rising heat turning the horizon into a soft blur. And still, I don’t think of him. Not really. Not until I hear the crunch of boots behind me.
I don’t turn around.
I don’t have to.
It’s him.
And just like that, the focus I worked so hard to build flickers, because no matter how far I ride, some things can’t be outrun.
"You're pushing too hard," Cash says, his voice low but edged.
I wipe my forehead with the hem of my shirt and still don't look at him. "I'm training."
"You're punishing yourself," he says, stepping closer. "That’s not the same thing."
I spin around, frustration prickling just beneath my skin. "And what would you know about it?"
His jaw tightens. "I know what running from something looks like."
"Then maybe you should look in the mirror." The words come out sharper than I mean, but I don't take them back.
Cash's eyes flare. "You think I’m hiding something?"
"Aren’t you? Every time I think we’re getting somewhere, you pull back. Every time I ask you to trust me, you give me that damn look like I’m just passing through."
He closes the distance between us, jaw clenched. "Because that’s what you said. You said you’d be here for a year, then what, Avery? You’re gone again?"
"Because I don’t know if I belong here yet!" My voice cracks. "I’m trying to figure it out, and you, You keep shutting me out."
The air between us buzzes, electric and bitter. My fists curl at my sides, and I feel the tight pull of breath in my chest.
My pulse pounds against my throat like it’s trying to escape. Every nerve stands on edge, caught between fight and flight, but I hold my ground, barely.
"I don’t want to get hurt," he says finally, voice quiet but intense.
"Neither do I," I whisper.
But it hangs there between us, this invisible wall built from pride and pain and a thousand words we haven’t said.
I cross my arms tightly. "And then there's Melissa. You and her, talking like nothing ever happened. Like I wasn't standing right there."
Cash freezes. "That wasn’t anything. You know that."
"Do I? Because from where I was standing, it felt like a punch to the gut."
He exhales hard. "Avery, Melissa means nothing to me. Whatever you think you saw, it wasn’t like that."
"Maybe. But it still hurt."
He takes a step back first.
"Good ride," he says, and then turns away.
The sound of his boots crunching across the gravel is the only thing keeping me from breaking.
Because what I want, more than anything, is for him to turn back.
But he doesn’t.
Not this time.
I watch him walk away, each step pounding like a gavel against everything that almost was. My fists clench at my sides, not from anger, but from this ache in my chest that won't stop gnawing at me.
Why does it always come back to this? Me, chasing someone who can’t give me what I need. Me, feeling like I’m not enough, or maybe too much, for the men in my life. First my dad, then Emmy’s father, and now Cash.
A hard laugh escapes my throat, bitter and sharp. I bend to pick up a dropped rein, but my hands shake.
“I don’t need him,” I whisper to no one in particular.
But it doesn’t feel strong enough. Not loud enough. So I straighten, chest heaving, and say it louder, like I’m trying to exorcise the ghost of what just happened.
“I don’t need him!” The words tear out of me like a battle cry, echoing off the barn walls.
Harper rounds the corner just then, half-covered in dust and holding a scrub brush. Her brows lift, eyes wide as she freezes.
“Damn,” she mutters, setting the brush down. “Should I come back, or...?”
I huff, brushing past her toward the house. “No need. I’m just done being jerked around by cowboys who think brooding is a personality.”
She jogs after me, expression unreadable. “Avery.”
“I mean it,” I say, turning to face her. “I’ve got a daughter. A ranch to fix. A life to rebuild. I don’t have time for someone who treats trust like it’s a landmine.”
Harper watches me carefully, then nods. “Well, okay then. You swear you don’t need him?”
“Swear it.”
She smirks. “Then I guess I’ll cancel the emergency ice cream and tequila stash.”
I groan, half laughing, half ready to crumble. “Actually...maybe just hold it. Just in case. Because even if I’m done with him, that doesn’t mean the ache disappears overnight.
It doesn’t mean I stop hoping, just a little, that he’ll fight for me the way I’ve fought for everything else in my life. But until then, I need something sweet and something strong to remind me I can stand on my own.”