▍ 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 words felt sweet on the surface, but they landed heavy.
I swallowed, throat dry. The barn suddenly felt too still, like the whole place was holding its breath.
"I should get her fed," I said, patting Honey's side like she'd asked for the out. "Long ride in the morning."
Maggie didn't argue. Didn't follow. Just nodded once, like she'd been expecting me to pull away.
She turned, slow and graceful, her dress catching the air like it was made to move. The kind of fabric that doesn't wrinkle. Doesn't stain. Money clings to clothes like that.
The click of her heels echoed against the old barn floor—sharp, deliberate. Not boots. Not scuffed-up leather or shit-kicked spurs. Something finer. Expensive. You could hear it in the way they hit the wood.
She paused at the doorway, half in the light, half in the shadow, and glanced back over her shoulder. That same soft smile still hanging on her mouth like it belonged there. But her eyes... her eyes didn't smile at all.
"Take care of that fire," she said. Voice smooth as silk pulled tight across a blade. "It's not meant to burn quiet forever."
And then she was gone.
I stayed in the stall a while after Maggie's footsteps faded—long enough for the hush to settle back in, for the smell of hay and horse sweat to replace whatever perfume she'd dragged in with her. The air felt thicker now, like it had soaked up too many words that hadn't belonged.
I finished brushing Honey with slow, steady strokes, not because she needed it, but because I did. The rhythm kept my hands moving, kept my thoughts from fraying too far out.
But the noise from the arena was growing, rising up from the dirt like a storm brewing just past the ridge. That announcer's voice cracked through the speakers, too loud and trying too hard, until one name cut clean through it all.
Jasmine Morrison.
Of course.
I barely had time to collect myself before a flash of gold streaked into the arena, catching the last of the dying light. Jasmine Morrison. She was a vision atop her palomino stallion, Strike Command, gliding into the space as if the world had been sculpted just for her. Everything about her was too perfect—blonde hair cascading in soft waves, loose and free so everyone could see the way it shimmered like spun silk in the evening sun. No hat, no helmet. She didn't need one. Jasmine wasn't here to protect herself. She was here to be seen.
And she knew how to make you look.
Watching her now, I could feel that familiar twist in my gut—the one that always showed up when Jasmine stepped into a room. It was the way she carried herself, effortless and elegant, like she belonged to something bigger, something grander than this dusty rodeo world. Every movement was deliberate, rehearsed, like she knew exactly what kind of power she wielded and how to use it.
