POV: Emma
The paintbrush glides over the canvas, the crimson melting into gold like a sunset I'll never glimpse from a Manhattan penthouse again.
I step back and study the painting. Bold colors, simple shapes—, the kind of art my fifth graders will adore. Art that makes them believe they can create something beautiful too.
"You ready to roll, girl?"
I spin around. Savannah's leaning in the doorway, all denim and attitude, her red curls catching the golden afternoon light that spills through the classroom windows. She's rocking boots that have probably seen more mud than my entire wardrobe combined.
"What's the plan again?" I set my brush down, wiping paint off my hands on the apron that's already stained beyond saving.
"Delilah's losing her mind." Savannah pushes off the frame and saunters in like she owns the place. She moves with that kind of confidence, bold, unapologetic, everything I'm still trying to learn. "Larry mentioned this horse trainer in Wears Valley. Says the guy's got magic hands. Can calm anything with four legs and a bad attitude."
I raise an eyebrow. "And why exactly do I need to come?"
"Because you love me," she grins, shameless. "And because you need to get out of this classroom before you turn into a hermit who only talks to paint tubes and eight-year-olds."
She's not wrong. Two weeks in Tennessee, and I've barely left my little cottage except for school and groceries. I'm hiding—still glancing over my shoulder, waiting for my mother's security team to drag me back to New York.
"Fine." I untie my apron and grab my purse. "But if this horse kills me, I'm haunting you."
"Deal."
Outside, Savannah's white Ford F-250 gleams under a layer of Tennessee dust. The three-horse trailer hitched behind it rocks slightly, metal clanging as something inside shifts.
"Is that Delilah?" I peer at the trailer.
"Yep. And she's not happy about the ride."
We climb in. The truck smells of hay and leather and something wild I can't quite name. Savannah cranks the engine, country music blasting through the speakers.
As we pull out of the school parking lot, the trailer sways. Another clang echoes through the cab.
"She's really worked up." I glance at the side mirror, catching glimpses of buckskin hide through the slats.
"Acting like a wild mustang." Savannah's jaw tightens. "You can feel it, right? That nervous energy?"
I nod. It's like electricity in the air, crackling through the truck and settling in my bones. "Yeah. It's intense."
"That's why I had to buy her." Savannah's voice goes rough. "Couldn't let her end up with a kill buyer. Those bastards strip the soul right out of a horse. Sell 'em for dog food, glue—whatever makes a buck."
My stomach twists. "That's awful."
"It's the dirtiest secret in the horse world." She grips the steering wheel until her knuckles whiten. "But this trainer we're going to? He's the real deal. If anyone can figure out what's got Delilah spooked, it's him."
I reach over and squeeze her arm. "You'll figure it out. You're amazing with horses."
"Thanks, Iz." She catches herself. "I mean, Emma. Sorry."
"It's okay." But my chest tightens. Isobel. My middle name. The one Savannah has called me since college. The one I can't use anymore because Emma Isobel Lawson is too searchable, too findable.
Just Emma now. Emma Nobody.
"You should ride with me more," Savannah says, turning onto a winding country road. Trees arch overhead, branches forming a leafy canopy. "You've got a natural seat."
"Horses scare me." The words slip out small.
"They're big and strong and they'll test you," Savannah says softly. "But you'll get there. You just have to trust yourself first."
We drive in comfortable silence, the trailer rocking behind us. The road climbs into the mountains, civilization fading until it's just us, the trees, and the sky.
My phone buzzes in my purse.
I ignore it. It's been buzzing for two weeks, Sebastian, my mother, lawyers. Threats, promises, demands to come home.
Home. Like that gilded cage was ever home.
"You okay?" Savannah glances over.
"Yeah." I force a smile. "Just thinking."
"About the wedding?"
"About everything I left behind." I stare out the window. "Do you think I made a mistake?"
"No way." She says it so fast and fierce it makes me laugh. "Emma, you were dying there. I watched it happen. Every time you came back from New York, there was less of you—like they were erasing you piece by piece."
Tears sting my eyes. "I miss my dad."
"I know, honey." Her hand finds mine in the console. "But he'll understand. He always did."
The truck slows. Savannah turns onto a gravel drive marked with a hand-carved wooden sign: HAYES TRAINING.
My pulse quickens for no clear reason.
The drive winds through pastureland, horses grazing lazily in the sun. A red barn stands ahead, paint faded but sturdy. Beyond it, a sprawling ranch house nestles against the tree line.
And in the middle of it all, a round pen.
Where a man works with a horse.
Even from here, I see how he moves. Slow, deliberate, like he's speaking a language only the horse understands. The animal circles him, tossing its head, but he doesn't flinch. He just stands there, patient as stone.
Savannah parks near the barn and cuts the engine.
"That's him?" I ask.
"That's him." She grins. "Let's see if the magic's real."
We climb out. Delilah kicks the trailer again, the clang echoing across the property.
The man in the round pen pauses and turns.
And my whole world tilts sideways.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a battered cowboy hat, faded jeans, and a t-shirt that clings to muscles that shouldn't exist outside of magazine covers. But it's not his body that steals my breath.
It's his face.
I know that face.
I've seen it on sports channels, in tabloids, on the news two weeks ago when footage of a rodeo accident went viral.
Colton Hayes. NHL superstar. Nashville Predators' newest scorer. The playboy cowboy who almost died on a bull named Tornado.
And apparently, the horse trainer Savannah's been raving about.
He walks toward us, and I notice a slight hitch in his step. The way he favors his left side. The white bandage peeking out from under his sleeve.
He's hurt. Still healing.
And he's walking straight toward me.
"Afternoon, ladies." His voice is pure Tennessee honey, deep and smooth, just rough enough to be dangerous. "I'm Colt Hayes. You must be Savannah."
"That's me." She shakes his hand. "And this is my best friend, Emma."
His eyes shift to mine.
Hazel. Gold-flecked. The kind that see too much.
"Emma." He tips his hat. "Pleasure."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Those eyes scan my face like he's trying to solve a puzzle. Like he recognizes something he can't quite place.
And suddenly, I'm terrified he'll figure it out.
That beneath the paint-stained jeans and messy ponytail, I'm Emma Lawson. Runaway heiress. The girl whose wedding disaster still makes headlines.
"Nice to meet you," I finally manage.
His smile is slow, dangerous. "Let's see what we can do about that mare of yours."
He turns toward the trailer and I finally breathe.
But Savannah leans in, whispering, "Did you see the way he looked at you?"
"Stop."
"I'm just saying, if I didn't know better, I'd say Colton Hayes just got struck by lightning."
I elbow her. "Focus on your horse."
But my heart's racing, and I can't stop watching him approach Delilah's trailer.
This man is trouble.
The kind that makes front-page news, breaks hearts, and lives dangerously enough to ride bulls while playing professional hockey.
And something in his eyes says he's already decided I'm his next challenge.