Sneak Peek #2
Sable shifts under me, restless, and the announcer’s voice booms again, my cue, my window.
Colton steps back just enough to clear my path. He doesn’t look at me this time. Doesn’t need to.
The gate crew waves me up. I nudge Sable past them, heart pounding, aware of him in my peripheral vision like gravity.
Behind me, Travis laughs softly. “Guess we’ll see how steady you still are.”
I don’t know if he’s talking to Colton or me.
Maybe both.
***
The sound of hooves and shouting swells again as I get into position, but my pulse hasn’t caught up yet. It’s still tangled somewhere behind me, in the lane, in the shadow Colton left behind.
I tell myself not to look for him.
I look anyway.
He’s a few yards off now, turned half away, already disengaging like the moment meant nothing. Like he didn’t just step into a line of fire without raising his voice or his hands. Like he didn’t rearrange the air simply by standing there.
Gratitude hits first. Sharp. Uncomfortable.
Then resentment follows close behind.
I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t need saving. I had it handled.
So why does my chest feel tight, like something I didn’t know I was bracing for finally eased?
I force my attention back to Sable. Her ears flick back toward me, checking in. I slide my hand down her neck, grounding myself in the familiar warmth of muscle and hide, the steady truth of an animal that responds to clarity, not history.
History is the problem.
I catch myself noticing things I shouldn’t, the way Colton’s shirt pulls tight across his shoulders when he shifts, the dust streaked along his jaw, the heat that seems to cling to him even at a distance. Denim. Leather. Sun. The same pieces as always, rearranged into someone stronger. Harder.
Different.
The memory comes without warning, hay dust suspended in late light.
Their barn years ago. His hand warm at my waist as he lifted me down, laughing under his breath like the world was simple and we were invincible. My back pressed to a stall door. His mouth at my ear.
We were young enough to think wanting was the same as knowing.
I shove the image away before it can root.
Not now.
I adjust my glove, tugging the leather snug, checking my reins, my stirrups. Routine. Control. My breath evens as I move through the checklist I’ve followed a thousand times. This is where I’m strongest, inside the details, inside my body, inside the work.
I don’t look at Travis. I don’t look at Colton.
I look at the pattern burned into my mind.
Three barrels. One shot.
The gate crew waves me forward. The announcer’s voice booms, warm and familiar, rolling my name across the stands like a promise. The crowd noise spikes, then fades to a low roar behind my ears.
I lean forward, murmuring to Sable, and feel her gather beneath me, ready.
Whatever this is, old feelings, old ghosts, men who think they still get a say, it can wait.
Right now, there’s only the run.
I square my shoulders, set my jaw, and nod to the gate.
Control over collapse.
Always.
The gate snaps open.
Sable explodes forward.
Sound drops out, crowd, announcer, everything, until there’s only wind and dirt and the hard, beautiful drum of hooves. I sink into the saddle and let her run, hands low, body quiet. We hit the first barrel fast.
Too fast.
I check her a hair late and feel the slide start. Dirt sprays. My heart spikes.
Easy.
Sable answers, gathering, hind end digging in as we wrap tight. So tight my knee brushes blue paint. So tight I smell the oil on the barrel. We snap out clean.
Second barrel.
This one I trust.
I give her her head and let the turn open, riskier, faster. The crowd comes back in pieces, shouts, whistles, but it’s muffled, like I’m underwater. We fly past the barrel with inches to spare.
Third.
Everything narrows.
I lean forward and whisper her name. Sable surges, muscles burning under me, stride eating ground. The third barrel looms and for a split second I think about nothing at all. No Travis. No Colton. No past.
Just this.
We wrap it clean.
Home stretch.
I ask for everything and Sable gives it. The world tilts. The fence blurs. My lungs burn. We cross the line and I sit back hard, breath ripping out of me as the timer flashes.
For one suspended heartbeat, there’s silence.
Then the place erupts.
The announcer’s voice cuts through the noise, bright with excitement. “That’s a blazing run by Ellery Shaw, put her at the top of the board!”
I pull Sable down to a jog, hands shaking now that it’s over, and glance up at the board.
Best time of the season.
A small, fierce smile breaks loose before I can stop it. I lean down and press my forehead to Sable’s neck, murmuring thanks into her damp coat. She tosses her head, proud, blowing hard.
I lift my gaze without thinking.
Colton stands at the rail.
He looks breathless.
The look on his face isn’t surprise. It’s recognition. Like he’s seeing something he never forgot and doesn’t know what to do with now that it’s back in front of him.
The moment hits harder than the run.
I look away first.
As I guide Sable toward the out gate, I catch movement in my peripheral vision. Travis is near the chutes, jaw tight, smile gone. He claps once, slow and sharp, eyes locked on Colton like he’s already lining up the next shot.
The announcer’s voice booms again, riding the noise. “And coming up next in bull riding, give it up for hometown legend, Colton McAllister!”
The crowd surges to its feet.
My stomach drops.
I turn back despite myself.
Colton’s already moving, calm and focused, hat low, stride relaxed like he’s about to step into something dangerous and familiar. As he passes the rail, his eyes find mine.
Just for a second.
Don’t care, the look says.
I care anyway.
Too much.
***
The noise crests and breaks, rolling over me in waves as Sable settles, sides heaving, sweat darkening her neck. I keep moving, because stopping would mean standing still with the feeling that’s lodged under my ribs.
Colton disappears behind the gate crew, swallowed by bodies and boards and the low thunder of anticipation.
The announcer keeps talking, stats, hometown pride, war-hero shine, but the words smear together.
All I see is the line of his shoulders as he goes, loose and ready, like danger is a familiar rhythm.
“Hey, Elle.”
Travis’s voice is right there.
Too close.
I rein Sable another step forward, but he paces us, boots crunching in the dirt. The crowd’s focus is shifting toward the bull chutes now; attention thins around us. This is what he wanted.
“Hell of a run,” he says lightly. “Guess the music hasn’t slowed you down.”
I don’t answer.
He leans in, lowering his voice until it’s just for me. “You might want to keep your eyes on the rail today.”
My hand tightens on the reins. “Move.”
He smiles. “Wouldn’t want you distracted. Especially with everything going on at McAllister Ranch.”
The words land wrong. Not like a taunt. Like a key sliding into a lock.
I look at him then.
His smile sharpens. “Banks don’t love sentiment, Ellery. And land like that?” He gives a small, thoughtful shrug. “It gets real expensive to keep.”
Anger flashes hot and immediate, but underneath it is something colder. Fear I didn’t invite.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
He straightens, all innocence again. “Just rodeo gossip. You know how it is.”
I know exactly how it is.
He steps back as the chute gate slams and the crowd roars, throwing his voice away from me like it never mattered. Like he didn’t just slip a blade between my ribs and twist.
I turn, heart hammering, searching the arena without meaning to.
Colton’s already mounted up, helmet on, rope in hand. For a second, just one, his eyes lift and find mine across the chaos.
There’s a warning in his gaze.
Don’t.
Don’t ask. Don’t worry. Don’t care.
I swallow, forcing my expression neutral, forcing my body still. He nods once, like we’ve agreed on something without saying it.
The bull surges. The crowd explodes.
I don’t watch.
Because the truth has already settled, cold and heavy in my chest.
Travis didn’t say it outright. He didn’t have to. Whatever he’s circling, banks, land, pressure, it isn’t distant or abstract. It’s close. It’s deliberate.
Colton is standing right in the middle of it.
Caring doesn’t feel brave.
It feels like standing in open ground, knowing someone is lining up a shot.
Chapter 2
Colton
The buckle on my glove sticks. My knuckles tighten as I jiggle it loose, jaw setting against the small, stubborn resistance.
I work it with my teeth, taste leather and dust, and force my hands to stay steady. The arena lights spill through the gaps in the panels, too white, too clean. The roar of the crowd hits the chute like a physical thing, reverberating through my bones.
My pulse is too steady.
That’s the tell.
When I’m keyed up, heart hammering, it’s easy. Adrenaline is familiar. When everything in me goes level like a flatline, that’s when the edges start to blur. That’s when my brain decides it should be somewhere else.
Not here.
I drag in a breath through my nose. Count.
One.
The air smells like sweat and manure and iron. Like work. Like animals. Like Montana. I keep pulling it in anyway.
Two.
My braided rope coil sits on the rail. I run my fingers along it, checking for frays, testing the give. The motion is a ritual, but it’s also real. Rope fails, you fail.
Three.
Outside, the announcer is talking about hometown legends and war heroes as if they’re the same thing. I don’t flinch. I don’t smile. I don’t give him anything. The words slide off.
Four.
A stockhand leans over the gate. “You want him tight or loose?”
I don’t look up. “Tight,” I answer.
He grunts and reaches down, adjusting the flank strap on the bull beneath me. The animal shifts, thick muscle rolling like a wave. He’s a dark-backed brute with a white blaze up his face, breath punching warm into the narrow air.
I focus on him.
Solid.
Shoulder line.
The way his hide twitches when the strap tightens.
Kick pattern, maybe. Left-right-left if he’s like the others that came out of this pen tonight.