▍ 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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What I remembered most was the feeling of his hands in mine.
Rough, sure. Cracked from the sun and streaked with old dirt that never fully washed out. But warm, always warm. Even in winter. Even when the rest of him felt far away. Those hands were worn like the reins he wrapped them around: creased, calloused, marked by every beast he'd ever broken, every fence he'd built, every sin he never talked about.
They weren't soft like Mama's, and thank God for that. I didn't need soft. I needed steady.
Those were the hands that hoisted me out of the creek when I fell in headfirst at six, that patched me together with electrical tape and baling twine when we ran out of first aid supplies on branding day. Hands that pressed band-aids onto bloodied knees with the same care he used to tie a cinch strap—firm, but never cruel.
I was proud of those hands.
They pulled me through arenas thick with dust and the metallic breath of adrenaline, through tunnels of clapping palms and vendor calls and sun-cracked bleachers where men tipped their hats and women tilted their heads to see if I looked more like Evelyn or Tex.
Weston. Harlan. Blake. Names Daddy spoke like gospel, like each syllable was a stone he was laying beneath my boots so I could cross the river he'd already walked. He'd lean down, the brim of his hat brushing mine, breath warm against my cheek, and murmur, "You need to know these people, Lemon. Someday, it'll be you in the spotlight."
I was twelve. Barely clearing the rail. Still trying to tuck my hair right under my hat. But to him, every conversation was a door. Every nod, every calloused palm, a seed planted in the soil of some future he believed in harder than I did.
He'd tug me forward with that grin- the one that said he saw farther than the rest of us. Like he could already picture the buckles in my hands, the way my name would echo through speakers over the roar of the crowd. And I let him lead. Every time. Because he made it look easy. Like being great wasn't something you chased; it was something you remembered.
To the rest of the world, Tex Lamar Odell was larger than life. Bronze and bone and legend. The kind of man who filled up a room before he even walked in. But to me, he was just Daddy. The man who carried peppermint in his coat pocket and never minded when I cried over things he'd long learned not to. He had made space for my softness, even as he hardened me for the world. Reminded me, with every quiet glance, that I was the thing he was proudest of—even when I messed up. Especially then.
When it was his turn to ride, he'd crouch beside me, one hand anchored to my shoulder, the other pointing toward the stands. "Right here, Lem. Don't move. No matter what you hear." But I always did. The second his name rang out, I was already moving—pink boots kicking up dirt, breath lodged somewhere behind my heart, hands clutching that fence rail like it could hold back the world.
