▍ AN ORIGINAL ╱ western romance
There's a kind of wild you can't outrun.
Lemon Odell knows this better than anyone-the kind that lives under your skin, that shapes the way you move, the way you fight, the way you break. Born into a bloodline stitch...
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The first bead of sweat gathered at my brow, sliding down the curve of my face, only to be swallowed by the thick heat of the day. My mother's voice, sharp as ever, whispered in the back of my mind: Ladies should glow, not drip. I could almost hear her scolding tone, as if she were right there, reminding me that a daughter of an Odell name should be flawless even under the unforgiving sun. But there was no room for flawlessness here—not when the heat of the afternoon bore down on me like a hammer, and I was so damn close to clearing that jump.
Honey's hooves clipped the hurdle again, and my heart sank—just a little. I could feel it, though, the power in her muscles, the way they coiled and released like she was ready to spring into something more, something greater. She was close. I was close. But close wasn't enough, not for either of us. The taste of it hung in the air, like something just out of reach, and no matter how much I pushed, I couldn't seem to grasp it.
"You've got this, girl," I murmured, running my gloved hand down the length of her sweat-slicked neck, feeling the warmth of her beneath the leather. Her coat shimmered in the late light, glowing with effort. She was giving everything, and I needed her to know I saw that. "You're strong. We're going to get this."
But not today.
This time the jump was even messier, and my heart clenched against the disappointment threatening to take root. I pressed my legs to her sides, guiding her back toward the stables. The tension slowly bled out of me, but that knot of frustration—of yearning—stayed, lodged somewhere deep inside. I couldn't shake it, and a part of me despised that we were so close and yet it still wasn't enough.
"You did great today," I whispered up, my voice barely audible over the rustle of the breeze through the dry grass. My fingers moved through her mane, and I hoped she didn't hear the lie that clung to my words. "Tomorrow, we'll take it easy. No jumps, just a nice long walk."
Honey tossed her head, her nostrils flaring as she trotted toward the water trough, muscles quivering beneath her sweat-soaked coat. She dipped her head to drink, and I slid off the saddle with a groan, my legs aching from the ride, heavy like they had taken on the weight of my frustration. My shirt clung to my skin, damp and uncomfortable, but I didn't care. The sweat, the dirt, the ache—they were proof. Proof that I was still pushing, still fighting for something I couldn't quite name.
I moved beside Honey, loosening the girth, slipping the saddle off her back with practiced ease. She shifted beneath my touch, still skittish, still green, but her energy was undeniable. She was wild in the way that only creatures with something to prove could be. The name they'd given her—Revenge Is Best Served Cold—never suited her. Honey wasn't cold, wasn't calculating. She burned, fierce and untamed, always reaching for more. Always striving.
And wasn't that why I'd chosen her? Because she mirrored the same fire in me—the same relentless, aching desire to prove that I could be more than just Tex Odell's daughter. She was nervous, yes, but that fire? It made her resilient. It made her like me.
