▍ 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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"How long you been riding?" His voice is quieter now, softened around the edges, like he genuinely cares about the answer.
I hesitate for a moment, letting the memory form before the words slip out. "Daddy put me on my first pony when I was three." The words come out softer than I expected, tugging a bittersweet smile from me. My gaze drifts to the faded daisies Laney and I had painted on the wall all those years ago. Colt's expression shifts, his smile softening, more genuine now, with just a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "No kidding," he says, his voice low and easy. "I grew up around horses too. Sometimes I get along with them better than people."
A small laugh escapes me, light but distant, as I keep brushing Honey. "I don't know. I think I'm more of a people person. Horses are a bonus."
The words leave my mouth, but even as I say them, a quiet, unspoken doubt lingers at the edges of my mind. Was that ever really true? Maybe once, back when the world felt simpler—when life wasn't wrapped up in a tangle of grief, expectations, and the never-ending pressure to live up to a legacy that wasn't even mine. People had seemed easier then. But now? Now, the quiet of the stables, the scent of hay and leather, the way Honey leans into my touch—it feels safer. More certain.
Colt doesn't respond immediately, just bends down with a practiced ease, running his hand down Honey's leg as though the horse belonged to him. His touch is confident, assured—too assured for my liking. His bottom lip juts out slightly in concentration, and that effortless command of his, that calm way he moves, stirs something sharp inside me. Does he really think I don't know how to care for my own horses?
Honey, patient as ever, gives me a knowing look. If she could speak, I swear she'd be saying, Are you sure about this guy?
I inhale, steadying myself, trying to keep my voice even. "I beg your pardon, but I assure you that's not necessary," I say, the irritation lacing through despite my best efforts.
Colt doesn't even glance up, not bothered in the slightest. "Just checkin' on her," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. He scratches Honey gently behind the ears, like he knows exactly where it'll calm her, before moving to the other hoof. His actions are so deliberate, so unaffected by my annoyance, that it only fans the slow burn of frustration in my chest.
It's like my reaction doesn't even register to him, like he's so sure of himself that he doesn't see any need to ask if it's okay. But isn't that the way it's always been with Colt? Steady. Unfazed. As though nothing I say could ever knock him off balance. And maybe that's what frustrates me the most—that he's always so damn composed, while I feel like I'm barely holding it together.
And the worst part? I can't decide if I hate it or admire it.
I clenched my teeth, feeling the irritation flare up beneath my skin, raw and uninvited. "She's in peak condition, Colt," I said, my voice sharper than I intended, despite the fact that I am trying to rein in the rising frustration.
