Love & Pain: One and the Same, The Houchens Name

The dust kicked up around the Orange County warmup pen didn’t just coat your throat—it sat heavy on your tongue, tasting right much like rusty iron and day-old, warm beer. The humidity thick enough to cut with a pocketknife, tight to her skin, pressing down on her chest, the way Virginia summer air does. Samantha, standing just outside the heavy steel of the entry gate, Samantha didn’t seem to mind the baking heat one bit. The “tink” of a thick, solid, scratched up horseshoe nail she has worn bent tight around the curves of her middle finger. The “clink” hitting a cold bottle of Budweiser now in the firm grip of her fingers. She wasn’t just killing time before it was her “turn and burn” time. Now, to somebody who didn’t know any better, she might’ve just looked like a long-legged distraction standing by the rail, all sharp edges and a mean, quiet grace. She wore a snug black crop top that left her midriff out to brave the heavy air, meeting a pair of high-waisted denim jeans that hugged her hips and showed off the kind of wiry, coiled-up strength you learn not to mess with. Her real armor, however, was strapped right over that faded denim: thick, custom-fit black leather chaps made for taking a beating and holding on for dear life. Carved deep down the side of each leg into that scarred-up hide, shining out in bright silver inlay, was her personal gospel: *Heavenly Ride to Hell’s Rodeo*. Down below, her cowboy boots were dug deep into the packed red clay, beat to hell, scuffed up, and worn dull from years of grinding against stirrup irons and living hard. Up top, a pitch-black Stetson sat pulled way low over her brow, throwing a dark, dangerous shadow straight across her eyes and making the hard, unforgiving set of her jaw look just a little bit meaner. She was still as a stone, anchored to the dirt, just waiting on her turn.

A few yards away, Buckshot, her immense sixteen-hand Thoroughbred gelding, was tied securely to the top rail of the holding pen. His powerful frame was drawn dangerously tight with restless energy. He chewed aggressively on his steel bit, thick white foam gathering at the corners of his mouth as he shifted his colossal weight with explosive, violent impatience, stamping his massive hooves into the ground. Samantha took a slow, deliberate pull from her beer, the amber liquid a sharp bite against the dust in her throat, before setting the bottle on the top rail. She stepped smoothly into the horse’s personal space, flattening her gloved hand against his damp, quivering neck in a steadying gesture.

“Easy, old man,” Samantha muttered. The horse was already slick with anticipation and nervous sweat; the dense muscles of his broad shoulder twitched visibly beneath his dark, glossy coat. A mechanical, cold efficiency took over her mind, hardening her focus and shutting out the surrounding chaos.

She checked her braided reins, running the stiff, oiled leather through her fingers to make sure the split was perfectly even and balanced for a clean, instant response. She crouched slightly, adjusting the heavy iron stirrups, ensuring they sat at the exact angle needed for maximum control and stability. Finally, she double-checked the wide leather cinch, pulling it tight enough to keep the saddle from rolling under the brutal centrifugal force of a sharp turn, but just loose enough to allow his immense ribcage to fully expand under lung-burning exertion. Satisfied, Samantha stood tall and leaned in close to Buckshot’s frantically twitching ear. She breathed the words she delivered to him before every single run, a ritual as mandatory and ingrained as tightening the girth before the gate ever opened.

“Chaos is a friend of mine, creating a wild soul with the highest of vibes, fearless spirit, and a heart of gold a country mile wide.”

It wasn’t just superstitious bullshit whispered for luck before a deadly sprint. It was her absolute gospel, the hard, unyielding creed she lived by. It was literally carved into her flesh, deep and permanent. The words ran in stark, stinging black ink down the entire length of Samantha’s side, hidden beneath the black crop top and denim she wore like armor. The letters traced a path of old pain from the hollow of her underarm, over the sharp curve of her hip, down the outer muscle of her thigh, ending abruptly at the bend of her knee. It was a permanent, physical reminder that the brutal, unpredictable chaos of life wasn’t an enemy to cower from or beg mercy from. It was a beast to be ridden, fought, and mastered. It was something to be shown who was boss, who held the reins, who ran her life. Samantha ran it, every wild, brutal second of it. Nobody else.

She stepped back, retrieving her half-empty Budweiser from the rail just as a thick, lazy drawl cut through the idling diesel exhaust and the musky scent of horseflesh.

“Well, well, well, that’s why it’s so damn hot out here tonight, all of a sudden.”

The voice came from her left, low and deliberate. A tall cowboy, reeking of stifling cologne, stale tobacco, and cheap whiskey, leaned arrogantly against the chain-link fence. He stared her down like she was a prize calf at auction, something to be judged, priced, and claimed. He wore a crisp, collared pearl-snap shirt that looked like it had never seen a hard day’s work in its life, all clean lines and empty show, unbuttoned just enough to expose a silver flask tucked into his front chest pocket like a cheap badge of swagger. He pushed off the fence, his eyes doing a slow, insulting, and highly visible crawl over the silver inlays of her leather chaps, up her exposed ribs, and finally settling on her crop top like he had every right in the world to look.

“Samantha Houchens. Where you been, girl? You come to just embarrass these amateur gals tonight, or do you actually like winning more than they do? Hard to tell from that permanent resting bitch face you always got on, like you ain’t impressed by a damn thing.”

He didn’t wait for an invitation, a smile, or any kind of answer. He stepped squarely into her personal space, crowding her without a fraction of hesitation. The overwhelming, sour heat of his whiskey-soaked breath rolled over her. Before Samantha could even register a warning glare or shift her weight away, his heavy, presumptive hand clamped down hard on her waist. His thick fingers hooked aggressively into her front belt loop, digging in, and with a drunken, entitled smirk, he yanked her hips flush against his with rough, careless force.

Samantha didn’t flinch or recoil. She didn’t gasp or make a sound. She didn’t play the victim, nor did she give him the fearful reaction his bruised ego desperately wanted. She just moved. Fast, and without a single second of hesitation. In a blur of practiced, violent, fluid motion, her left hand shot out and seized his wrist like a steel vise. She pivoted sharply on her boot heel, using his own drunken momentum and clumsy forward lurch flawlessly against him. She torqued his arm outward and violently up toward his shoulder blade, forcing the joint past comfort, past warning, and straight into searing pain.

A sharp, ugly pop echoed over the dull roar of the arena crowd. She wrenched his arm impossibly high behind his back, forcing him to fold completely forward at the waist. A strangled, pathetic yelp of shock and pain ripped from his throat. She held him there, bent in half and utterly helpless, for two agonizingly long seconds. She let him feel the absolute lack of mercy in her iron grip, making sure his alcohol-soaked brain fully comprehended the cold, undeniable reality that she could snap his rotator cuff like a dry winter twig if he so much as took a breath the wrong way.

“Touch me again,” she whispered, leaning down so her voice was a dead, flat rasp directly in his ear, cold and unmistakably serious, “and you’ll be drinking your meals through a plastic straw for the next six months while your jaw heals.”

She shoved him hard into the dirt, releasing her grip at last. He stumbled wildly, his expensive boots slipping in the loose, churned ground, cursing under his breath as he clutched his fiercely throbbing shoulder. Without missing a beat, Samantha’s right hand darted out and snatched the silver flask straight from his pearl-snap pocket. She unscrewed the metal cap with her teeth, spat it casually into the dirt at her feet, and took a long, stinging sip of the cheap whiskey inside. It burned like battery acid all the way down, hot and bitter in her throat, washing away the taste of the arena dust. She lowered the flask, leveled a dead-eyed, terrifying stare at the cowboy, and slowly tipped the container over in her hand. The remaining amber liquid splashed steadily over the toes of his polished, expensive leather boots, darkening the fine leather and dripping into the red clay below. Samantha tossed the empty metal flask directly at his chest; it bounced off his collarbone with a hollow, metallic thud. She flashed him a slow, wicked smile that completely failed to reach her eyes—cold, humorless, and terrifying—tipped her black Stetson with casual contempt, and turned her back on him without the slightest hint of hesitation.

She strode over to the rail and untied Buckshot’s thick lead rope with quick, practiced hands. Most riders needed a mounting block to get a leg over a sixteen-hand beast that big and high-backed. Samantha didn’t. She grabbed a tight fistful of his coarse black mane, planted her left hand firmly on the swell of the saddle, and in one fluid, incredibly powerful motion swung her long, chapped leg high over his muscular croup, settling effortlessly and securely into the worn leather seat.

Suddenly, cutting through the droning mechanical hum of the idling trucks and the dusty, restless noise of the holding pen, the rapid-fire *click-whir-click* of a high-speed camera shutter broke her fierce concentration. Samantha turned her head sharply. A man who had absolutely no business standing in the filthy dirt of a rodeo holding pen—wearing a crisp, expensive polo, tailored designer jeans, and spotless boots that had clearly never seen a single day of real work—was leaning halfway over the aluminum rail. He had a sizable, high-end DSLR lens pointed dead at her and Buckshot, firing off frames in rapid succession as if he had just struck gold.

“You make a habit of shooting women without permission, or am I just the lucky catch of the day?” Samantha drawled, her voice sharp and cold, edged enough to cut raw meat.

The man lowered the camera, completely unapologetic and utterly unbothered by her venom. His eyes quickly took in the harsh, striking contrast of her rugged leather chaps, the sharp, muscular curve of her waist, and the lethal glare shadowed beneath the black Stetson, studying each detail with open, clinical interest.

“I apologize,” he said, stepping a little closer to the chain-link fence, his voice smooth, practiced, and almost too polished for the gritty environment. “It’s just, you’re a real cowgirl. I’ve been here for three hours, and half the girls out here look like they bought fake dirt by the pound along with their rhinestones and polished boots just to play the part. I’m shooting a spread for a Virginia tourism brochure, and they want to show true Virginians. The kind with grit, authenticity, and nothing staged about them. You’re exactly it. Unfiltered and real.”

He reached into his tailored pocket and pulled out a sleek, embossed black business card, holding it through the diamond wire of the fence with an easy, practiced confidence.

“But honestly? The brochure is just a side gig to pay for lenses and travel. I scout for a major modeling agency out of New York, one that is always looking for faces with something real. You’ve got a raw, gritty look that cannot be faked in a studio, the kind of look they pay serious money to put on magazine covers and full-page campaigns. I really think you should come in and meet with us. Let me get you out of the dust and into something bigger.”

Samantha looked down at the expensive, embossed card pinched between his manicured fingers, taking in its polished edges and tailored elegance. She didn’t reach for it. Instead, she shifted her weight and leaned down heavily over the saddle horn, the thick, worn leather creaking loudly in protest beneath her as if echoing her absolute refusal. She locked her dark eyes onto his and flashed a slow, wicked smirk that was equal parts Southern honey—lazy and sweet on the surface—and rusted razor wire, sharp enough to draw blood underneath.

“Bless your heart,” she purred, the drawl thick, seductive, and entirely lethal. “But trust me, sugar. You don’t want this face selling your pristine little brochures, and your shiny, polished agency sure as hell doesn’t want my last name attached to its carefully built reputation. My family’s been in enough local articles, gossip columns, and front-page news to last a few lifetimes, and never for anything good.”

She let the unspoken history hang between them, heavy, dark, and unmistakable. She didn’t need to elaborate on the crushing bankruptcies, the bloody bar fights, or the spectacular, highly publicized collapse of her father’s horse-training business, which had left her scrambling for years to pay off his mounting debts and clean up the sprawling mess he left behind. The Houchens name was already a local legend, tied intrinsically to scandal, heartbreak, and hard luck. A glossy magazine spread wouldn’t erase the stain or polish over decades of damage; it would only invite the vultures to look closer at the wreckage and pick through her family’s ruins.

“I think I’ll stick to the dirt,” she finished coldly, stripping the fake sweetness from her tone. “It’s a lot more honest, a lot less polished, and a whole lot easier to trust.”

Before the stunned scout could even process the blunt rejection or formulate a counter-pitch of his own, the blown-out arena speakers cracked violently to life directly above their heads, blasting through the humid air with a sharp squeal of feedback that drowned him out entirely.

“Next up in the alleyway, let’s hear it loud for Orange County’s own rising rider… Samantha Houchens!”

Samantha didn’t give the New York photographer another millisecond of her time. She gathered her reins tight and spurred Buckshot forward, leaving the man holding his useless card in a thick, choking cloud of kicked-up red clay and dust. She rode hard and fast toward the towering steel entry gates ahead, pulling her worn Stetson down tight against her forehead, sealing herself off from the world. She was heading into battle. Then, cutting cleanly through the blaring, bass-heavy country music and the metallic clanking of the steel gates, she heard a laugh.

Sharp. Distinct. Low, close, and deeply, terribly familiar. It was rich with buried memory and absolutely impossible to mistake.

It hijacked her pulse instantly, freezing the blood almost solid in her veins and locking her entire body in a sharp, breathless paralysis. She refused to look. She felt him first, like the severe, suffocating drop in barometric pressure right before a violent valley storm tears the roof off a barn and sends splintered wood flying into the dark. When the physical suffocation finally broke her iron restraint and crushed through her last thread of control, her head snapped to the right.

Gene. Fucking. Holloway.

The name hit her like a physical blow to the ribs, sharp and brutal. He was leaning casually against the thick iron spectator rail right by the alleyway chute, wearing the exact same faded, grease-stained denim jacket he had worn on a hundred freezing, beautiful early mornings in her kitchen, back when the coffee was cooling on the counter and daylight was just starting to creep through the windows. His own Stetson shadowed his eyes, but she could feel the crushing, oppressive weight of his stare from clear across the space, heavy and inescapable. He was looking at her like unfinished business, like a gaping wound between them had been left sitting open and bleeding for far too long.

Three years. Three goddamn years since he kissed her goodbye at the front door after waking up warm, safe, and tangled in each other’s arms. Three years since they started what felt like another perfect, normal morning together, only for him to walk out to his truck, start the engine, and sever their entire shared history with a cowardly, gutless text message ten minutes later—without even looking her in the eye. Three years since he broke something fundamental and irreplaceable in Samantha’s chest, a fracture she had never fully managed to put back together.

Buckshot felt the immediate, violent spike in her heart rate straight through her inner thighs, translating her shock into pure kinetic energy through every tense muscle in her body. The massive gelding threw his large head up, the steel bit clanking sharply against his teeth. His ears pinned flat against his skull in a terrifying show of pure, unchecked aggression and rising agitation, dancing sideways in the dirt.

The gate man, entirely oblivious to the ghosts suddenly haunting the narrow, dust-choked alleyway, grabbed the heavy steel latch with one rough, gloved hand.

“You ready, Houchens?”

Samantha ripped her eyes away from Gene, using every ounce of her formidable willpower to refuse him the satisfaction of seeing the shock flashing across her pale face. She locked her gaze dead onto the churned-up red clay of the alleyway, the uneven, deeply rutted dirt leading straight into the blinding, white-hot stadium lights. Her jaw clenched so hard her molars ached with the immense pressure.

“Open it now.”

The electronic timer chirped its high, piercing tone, sharp and unmistakable in the charged, electric air. Samantha dug her roweled spurs in hard, driving the cue home without a single microsecond of hesitation.

Buckshot detonated with terrifying, explosive force. He went from zero to thirty miles per hour in three massive, ground-eating strides, each one violently devouring the arena dirt. The sheer G-force of the acceleration hit her core like a physical blow, a raw, terrifying strength that threatened to unseat anyone who was not perfectly balanced and locked deep into the swell of the saddle. The violent determination and pure, unadulterated speed sent her flying straight toward the first barrel with breathtaking, reckless force. The stadium lights above blurred into dizzying streaks of blinding white, and the deafening roar of the packed crowd was swallowed entirely by the rushing wind tearing at her Stetson, whipping at her hair, and the rhythmic, earth-shattering thunder of iron-shod hooves hammering the dirt beneath them.

Right turn. She drove him straight and hard to the absolute brink of disaster, playing a breathless, suicidal game of chicken with physics, gravity, and momentum. She could feel his immense heart hammering a frantic, vibrating rhythm against her calves, each pounding beat perfectly matching the thunder of his monstrous stride. She waited until the last possible microsecond, until the metal turn was nearly on top of them, before dropping all her weight deep into her heels, violently engaging her core, and pulling sharply back on the braided leather reins.

Buckshot obligingly planted his hind hooves, sliding three full feet through the deep, loamy red clay. He dropped his powerful, heavily muscled shoulder to pivot sharply and flawlessly around the metal drum. Her left knee skimmed mere inches from the dirt, so perilously close it nearly brushed the loose earth. A thick, wet wave of damp red clay blasted upward, stinging her cheek like flying shrapnel and peppering her skin with fine grit.

He launched out of the sliding turn into a full, lung-busting diagonal sprint straight across the center of the arena. The muscles fired like heavy engine pistons beneath her saddle, bunching and releasing in a powerful, mesmerizing rhythm to propel them forward with terrifying, beautiful fluidity and raw speed.

Second barrel. Left turn. She checked his speed aggressively, dropping her inside hip to cue the shift and keep the turn dangerously sharp. He wrapped around the painted steel drum so tightly and cleanly that the side of her worn leather boot loudly scraped the metal with a harsh, ringing shriek. The weighty barrel wobbled precariously on its rim, threatening to tip, draw a devastating five-second penalty, and ruin the entire run—yet it miraculously stayed upright. It balanced on a prayer, pure forward momentum, and the narrowest, most razor-thin edge of control.

Third barrel. The final, make-or-break turn before the long homestretch. Nail this one perfectly, break fifteen seconds flat, and she would take the cash, the coveted belt buckle, and the win home to pay off the suffocating winter hay bills. She set up the pocket perfectly, hitting the ideal spot in the dirt for the tight turn. She shifted her weight for the final, brutal pivot, preparing to drop her hand and give him his head for the dead sprint down the homestretch to the finish line.

And then, she made a fatal, amateur error at the absolute worst possible moment. She looked up. Just for a fraction of an instant.

Gene hadn’t stayed at the alleyway chute. He had moved farther down the long fence line, positioning himself directly at the exit gate. He gripped the top metal pipe, his knuckles shining stark white under the harsh arena lights, with a single boot hooked on the lower rung, pushing him up as he leaned intently, almost urgently, over the gate. Her eyes instinctively met his for one brief, terrible instant. He was looking directly at her, tracking her every single micro-movement with a sharp, predatory focus that missed absolutely nothing. The raw, piercing intensity of his dark gaze hit her like a steel bat straight to the chest, sudden and brutal, knocking the air clean from her lungs.

It stole exactly one-tenth of a second—a tiny, microscopic sliver of time that still critically mattered in the treacherous physics of a barrel turn. She inhaled sharply, a quick, startled breath of dusty air. Her core tensed up in shock instead of relaxing fluidly into the turn, and her body weight inadvertently shifted to the right, leaning away from the barrel at the worst possible, most vulnerable moment.

Buckshot, a highly sensitive horse wired entirely to her minute physical cues and every subtle change in pressure, felt the sudden, jarring loss of support on his inside shoulder. Confused by the mixed signal from his rider, he hesitated for a fraction of a heartbeat. To protect his own balance through the perilous turn, he swung his colossal frame a full foot too wide on the exit to compensate for her shifted weight.

“Damn it!” Samantha hissed through tightly clenched teeth, the curse sharp with bitter frustration and boiling anger.

She instantly spurred him brutally forward, asking for everything he had left to reclaim the lost, precious ground and make up every fraction of a second she could. They tore through the invisible electronic eye at the finish line in a towering, blinding cloud of kicked-up red dust and flying grit.

“14.9 seconds!” the announcer roared over the massive speakers, his voice booming like thunder across the stadium, and the crowd erupted into a wild, stamping, deafening frenzy. “Despite a wide finish on that third turn, folks, that is our best time of the night, and a blazing run by any standard!”

Samantha didn’t hear a single cheer from the crowd. Not one shout or sharp whistle cut through the frantic, rhythmic pounding of blood in her ears. She geared Buckshot down to a hard, heavily blowing trot, her hands shaking so violently from the adrenaline dump that the braided leather reins trembled in sync with every jarring step and heavy breath the horse took. The adrenaline crash hit her central nervous system like a runaway freight train, leaving her shaky, physically sick, and barely able to think straight. She needed to load up the trailer, slam the battered Dodge into drive, and get the hell out of this county fast, before Gene Holloway stopped being a painful ghost of the past and became a very real, breathing, catastrophic problem in her present.

Through the slowly settling haze of red dust near the exit gate, Gene clapped. Slow, loud, and deliberate, each sharp, rhythmic beat carrying effortlessly through the charged, heavy air.

*Too late to run,* she thought bitterly, seeing him standing there, physically blocking the path like he owned the whole damn arena exit. He casually pushed open the solid heavy steel gate to let her through, doing it with a slow, sweeping motion as if he were doing her some kind of grand favor. The sheer, unadulterated arrogance was a tangible, suffocating force he gave off before he even opened his mouth, filling the entire space between them. It had always been a core part of his persona, as natural to him as breathing.

*Guess it still is,* she thought, her blood boiling hot enough to fry an egg right there on the dirt.

“Takin’ a break from the flirting cowboys and cameramen long enough to win, I see. Hell of a ride, Houchens,” Gene said. His voice was a low, gravelly drag with a sharp, mocking edge that scraped violently against her already frayed, exhausted nerves.

“Since when did hell start giving vacation days?” Samantha shot back instantly. Her voice came out harsher, meaner than she intended, razor-sharp with three years of festering resentment, but she followed up immediately, stepping on his oxygen before he had a second to react. “You come all the way back here just to watch me win, Gene, or were you hoping to say something after all this time?”

Gene didn’t flinch at the venom dripping from her words. He didn’t even blink. He just stood there, completely unbothered, hooking his calloused thumbs casually into his front belt loops like he had all the time in the world. Up close under the harsh, unforgiving arena lights, she could see he had changed in subtle ways the distance had hidden. There were fine, bitter lines carved deeply around the corners of his dark eyes that hadn’t been there three years ago, and a pale, faded scar cutting cleanly through the dark stubble along his hard jawline, sharp and unmistakable. He looked rougher, harder, deeply weathered by whatever miserable road he’d been dragging himself down since he left, as if every mile had left its permanent mark on his skin. But he let his dark gaze travel slow and deliberate over Buckshot’s heaving, sweat-slick sides before letting it crawl up and settle dead center on her face, unblinking, heavy, and intent. That look—the exact same devastating look that used to make her feel like he was reading the fine print of her soul, peeling back every protective layer and knowing all her deepest, most guarded secrets—hadn’t changed one single bit in thirty-six long, agonizing months.

“I’ve been to every show, little do you know,” he replied quietly. His voice dropped a full octave, forcing her to strain to hear it over the roar of the crowd cheering for the next rider tearing into the arena, the pounding hooves and crackling announcer nearly swallowing his heavy words. “Just stayed back in the shadows. Watching from a distance. Figured you weren’t ready for the light yet, not with everything still hanging between us.” Samantha felt a violent, furious heat rise flush in the back of her neck, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the thick, choking Virginia humidity pressing down around them. She tightened her iron grip on the reins, pulling back hard enough that the bit dug sharply, making Buckshot dance a nervous, highly agitated sidestep in the dirt, sending a massive clod of red clay flying straight at Gene’s worn boots. “Ready? I’ve been ready for three years, Gene. Ready for you to stay gone. Ready to forget that a grown man could look me dead in the eye, kiss me like he actually meant it, and then end a whole damn life together—every plan and promise we ever made—with a thumb and a glowing screen, without so much as the spine or basic human decency to look me in the face.” She leaned down aggressively over Buckshot’s sweaty, lathered neck, bringing her face dangerously close to his, her dark eyes narrowed into flinty, furious, venomous slits. “You’re exactly three years too late for ass-kissing, and you are about a lifetime too late for an apology, or any pathetic excuse you think might pass for one. So take a step back from my gate before my horse runs you over and grinds your boots into the dirt.” Gene didn’t move a single inch. In fact, the stubborn bastard leaned in even closer, deliberately crowding her space. The deeply familiar scent of sharp cedarwood and cheap, sweet tobacco—the exact smell that used to mean home, safety, and warmth to her, the same smell that had clung stubbornly to her own pillows for weeks after he left—invaded her personal space. It messed with her head, stirring up old, dangerous memories and twisting her stomach into a tight, nauseating knot of grief and fury. “I didn’t come to apologize, Sam,” he said softly, the quiet words hitting like heavy stones dropped in deep, still water. “I know you don’t take ‘em, and God knows I sure as hell ain’t good at giving ‘em. I came down here because I saw that wide turn on the third barrel. I saw the way you hesitated just enough to lose your line. You’re overthinking every move out there. You’re letting the noise in, all of it, and it’s getting in your way.” “The only noise I’m hearing is you breathing down my neck,” she snapped, the words sharp and biting like the lethal crack of a bullwhip across still, dead air. Without waiting for a response, she brutally spurred Buckshot forward with a sharp, punishing kick to his flanks. The massive horse lunged forward with a furious snort and a violent toss of his heavy head, forcing Gene to finally step back quickly or get trampled under a thousand pounds of bone, muscle, and steel shoes. She cleared the iron gate and kept riding hard into the dark, shadowy cooling-down area behind the maze of horse trailers, where the night air finally felt cooler against her flushed skin and the deafening noise of the arena began to fade into a dull, throbbing roar. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. If she turned her head, she knew she might see that he was still standing there, still watching her from the rail. And much, much worse—she might remember exactly why she had ever let a flawed, reckless, destructive human being compete with a horse for her guarded heart in the first place, with all the chaotic trouble, beautiful tenderness, and inevitable heartbreak that had come with it.