▍ 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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Life on the ranch had slowed to a crawl since Colt came home from the hospital. Not the kind of slow that feels restful—this was the kind that hangs heavy in your chest, a dull throb under everything. Like the whole place was holding its breath and didn't know how to let go.
The rodeo chaos was long gone now, replaced by something quieter but no less demanding. Chores still needed doing, animals still needed feeding, and the sun still rose whether we felt ready for it or not. But each day felt like I was moving underwater—repetitive, aching, and strangely detached, like I was watching myself go through the motions from someplace else.
The pain in my ribs had settled into something permanent. Not sharp anymore—just a slow burn that made itself known every time I lifted a bale wrong or twisted too fast. It had become part of my rhythm now. Like the limp I didn't want, or the scar I hadn't asked for. I'd stopped expecting it to disappear. Some aches just stay.
Colt wasn't faring much better. He still carried himself like a man untouched by weakness, but it wasn't true anymore. His movements had changed—slower, tighter. That left shoulder of his didn't lift like it used to. He'd grit his teeth and work through the pain, but I could see it. I always saw it.
He wouldn't let me help—not really. Wouldn't admit when he needed a break, wouldn't let me carry the heavier buckets even if his good arm was trembling under the weight. That kind of pride, that kind of stubborn—it's carved into a man like him. Maybe it was always going to be.
But there were cracks now. Small ones. I saw them in the quiet. In the way his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was looking. In the long pauses between words. There was something new in him—a kind of tired that went bone-deep. It didn't speak loud, but it was there. And I didn't know how to fix it.
When I came up from the barn that morning, sore and covered in dust, the sight of him leaning against the fence didn't surprise me. Red and Honey were at his side, brushing their noses against his hand as he fed them sliced carrots from the pocket of his coat. He was talking low, voice barely above a whisper, like he thought they were the only ones worth sharing his truths with.
I stopped in the grass and watched him for a beat longer than I should've. There was something about that moment—soft and unscripted—that made it hard to look away.
At least he was sticking to the lighter work, like I'd asked. That was a start. I'd practically had to fight him to rest at all. I'd offered him the books to organize, the feed schedules to map out, even the vendor calls. Things he could do sitting down. But that wasn't what Colt needed. He didn't know what to do with stillness. His body was used to moving, to fighting, to breaking and mending. He didn't know how to just... be.
I watched the way his fingers curled around the fence post—tight, stubborn. He was holding back, barely. Like if he let himself go full still, he might disappear.
