▍ 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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Colt had noticed. Somehow, in the quiet moments between all the work, all the unspoken things that lay between us, he'd paid attention. Not just to the big things, but to the smallest detail—the way I drank my coffee, something I hadn't even thought to mention. And he'd done it so casually, without drawing attention to himself. Just like he did everything else.
I took another sip, slower this time, letting the sweetness settle on my tongue, a warmth spreading through me that had nothing to do with the coffee itself.
It was such a small thing, barely worth noting. And yet, it was everything. It was intimacy without touch, understanding without words.
Tossing the last bale over the fence, I watched as the cattle lumber forward, their low grunts breaking the quiet morning. The wind tugged at my hair as I made my way back to the house, its bite sharper now, but the lingering warmth from the coffee still buzzed through me, spreading from my fingertips into something deeper. It settled into the spaces between my ribs, a quiet reminder of something I wasn't ready to name. The way Colt had made the coffee, exactly how I liked it, played on a loop in my mind, gentle but persistent.
Sweet. Smooth. Thoughtful.
I shook my head, trying to clear it as I reached the porch. The wooden steps creaked underfoot, the familiar groan of this old house wrapping around me. I stepped inside, the door creaking softly behind me, the scent of pine and fading embers from the wood stove welcoming me into the stillness. The house felt untouched by the outside chill, the warmth spreading lazily from the stove in the corner, its last log sputtering with the last of last night's fire. It was the kind of warmth that seemed to come from more than just the stove—the kind that had lingered since Mama kept it alive, even when the winters gnawed at the walls.
The light from the window barely touched the edges of the room, soft and silver as dawn still clung to the sky outside. My boots echoed across the wooden floor, the creak of each step familiar as it pulled me toward my room, that little corner of the house that still felt like mine. I paused at the threshold, my fingers brushing against the worn frame as I stepped inside, the soft gray walls catching the first light of morning.
The bed, neatly made, was dressed in white linen and crowned with the quilt Mama, Laney, and I had stitched together, each square a reminder of quieter nights spent threading together stories, laughter, and memories. The weight of it hung on my heart for a moment, but I shook it off, knowing that today wasn't for lingering in the past. Today was for the rodeo.
The thought alone was enough to tighten something in my chest, like an invisible hand had reached in and twisted. I didn't have the sponsors. Didn't have the shiny new gear, the names embroidered across my back like a declaration of victories long past. There were no glittering endorsements to dress me up, no sleek jacket to show off wins that I hadn't earned. All I had was what I'd always carried with me—gear that was as worn and weathered as my determination. Soft from use, shaped by every hard ride, every fall, every time I'd picked myself back up when no one was watching.
