▍ 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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Sleep didn't come easy.
It never does when your body's wrecked and your mind's worse off. It came in fits—shallow, twisted stretches of half-dreams that kept dragging me back to the dirt, to the sound of Colt's breath leaving him, to the look in his eyes.
Every hour or so, a nurse would slip in and take my vitals. Gentle hands, soft murmurs. I didn't blame them, but each time I stirred awake, it felt like surfacing from underwater just long enough to remember I was drowning. They'd offer more pain meds, and I'd take them—not because I wanted the relief, but because it gave me an excuse not to feel anything at all.
They'd put my arm in a sling. Every time I rolled over, I felt it there, pressing down on my ribs like the weight of everything I couldn't stop.
By the time morning crept through the blinds, I felt hollowed out. A dull hum of pain beneath my skin reminded me that I was still here, still breathing—though I wasn't sure why. The tray in front of me held what they must've called breakfast. Scrambled eggs that looked like they'd been wrung dry. Bacon limp and pale. Toast sweating under a dome of condensation. I took a bite anyway, just to feel something. Swallowed it down like dust.
I was forcing down a sip of lukewarm coffee when the TV flickered. Some local morning show, cheerful and rehearsed. I didn't pay attention—not until I heard his name.
Colt Langmore.
I looked up fast, like I'd been yanked by a string.
There he was—plastered on the screen like nothing had changed. Footage of him riding Outlaw from weeks ago, maybe months. That same crooked grin, eyes squinting into the sun, all swagger and silence and grit. A photo from some previous ride, probably pulled from the circuit files. They always used the pretty pictures—never the aftermath.
The news anchor didn't flinch as she spoke, voice bright like she was reporting on a school fundraiser. "...injured late last night at Canyon Ridge Center. Both Langmore and barrel racer Lemon Odell were taken to nearby hospitals after an incident involving a loose bull. Langmore underwent emergency surgery. Officials have not yet confirmed the source of the breach, but competition is expected to resume this afternoon."
And then, softer: "Odell is said to have fared better."
I stared at the screen, stomach curdling. My hands clenched in the blanket. I pushed the tray away, the clatter sharper than I meant it to be.
They didn't know. None of them did. Not the reporter in her pressed blazer, not the rodeo officials lining up to keep the show rolling. They didn't know what it felt like to kneel in the dirt beside someone and not know if they'd ever open their eyes again. They didn't know the sound of silence after a scream. That awful, breathless pause where you start to believe maybe this is it.
The TV kept going, flashing more footage, more noise. I couldn't listen. I slid my legs over the side of the bed, muscles stiff and reluctant, and reached for the clear plastic bag labeled PATIENT PROPERTY. My boots were still caked in dried dirt and blood, the laces stiff. At the bottom of the bag, my phone—screen cracked, black in one corner—sat like a reminder of the night I hadn't quite walked away from.
