POV: Emma
His boots crunch on the gravel as he closes the gap between us, each step slow and deliberate. That white bandage peeks out from under his sleeve every time he moves—a sharp reminder of the viral rodeo clip I watched over and over last week, telling myself I wasn't interested.
"Afternoon, ladies." His voice rolls out smooth as Tennessee honey but with just enough grit to keep you on your toes. "I'm Colt Hayes. You must be Savannah."
"That's me." Savannah shakes his hand with that confident swagger she owns. "And this is my best friend, Emma."
His hazel eyes flick to me, gold flecks glinting in the sun, and my heart skips. "Emma." He tips his hat, and something in that look makes my pulse stutter. "Pleasure."
I reach out to shake his hand. His grip is steady, rough with calluses, not the soft hands of some city slicker skating on ice, but the hands of a hard-working cowboy.
"Nice to meet you," I say, trying to sound braver than I feel.
He smirks slowly, dimples digging in. "Can I have my hand back now, ma'am?"
Heat floods my cheeks and I drop it like it burned me.
Behind the trailer, Delilah kicks again, the clang sharp and urgent across the property.
Colt's easy charm fades instantly, replaced by a razor focus. His eyes narrow as he watches the trailer rock. "What's going on with her?"
"That's why we're here." Savannah nods toward the trailer. "She's been like this since I bought her three weeks ago. The previous owner had her in a kill pen."
Colt's jaw tightens. "Those places are hell." He limps toward the trailer, the hitch in his stride more obvious now. "She's been through something terrible. Question is, what?"
I follow, captivated by his quiet strength, confident despite the injury, tough despite the pain.
He stops beside the trailer, boots sinking into the gravel. Inside, Delilah breathes ragged and harsh, but just standing there, calm and grounded, Colt seems to soothe her.
Her breathing slows. Her eyes flick to him, uncertain.
"May I?" he asks, nodding toward the trailer door.
"Go ahead." Savannah's voice is curious.
He opens the door gently, murmuring low, "Easy now. Nobody's gonna hurt you, girl. I promise."
Delilah's ears swivel forward, then back, then forward again.
Colt reaches out and she flinches—but he holds steady, patient as stone until curiosity wins. She stretches her neck, nostrils flaring, sniffing his palm.
"There you go." His smile softens, genuine. "Not so scary, huh?"
Savannah leans in, whispering, "Is it just me, or is this the hottest thing you've ever seen?"
"Shut up." But I can't look away.
Colt's hand trails down Delilah's neck, murmuring words I can't catch. The mare twitches but stays put, no kicking, no pulling away. She's deciding whether to trust him.
"You've got good instincts," he says to Savannah without breaking gaze with the horse. "Saving her. Most wouldn't bother."
"I couldn't leave her there," Savannah's voice roughens. "Not knowing what would happen."
"Yeah." A dark shadow crosses Colt's face. "I know."
He closes the trailer door gently. "I can work with her. But it'll take time. Real trauma. Can't rush it."
"How long?" Savannah asks.
"Depends on her. Weeks, maybe months." Then he looks at me. Those hazel eyes pin me down. "Ever worked with horses, Emma?"
My throat dries up. "No. They scare me."
"Why's that?"
"They're big and unpredictable. I don't know how to read them."
His smile returns, slow, dangerous. "I could teach you."
The air shifts, charged between us.
Savannah clears her throat. "So, what's your rate?"
"First session's free." He tips his hat, revealing bruises along his temple, still purple, still healing. "After that, we'll figure something out."
"You're not charging me?"
"I don't do this for money." He shrugs. "Horses don't lie. They don't play games. They're honest in ways people aren't."
His words hit me hard—because he's right. Horses can't fake it. They don't hide behind designer labels or trust funds or fake smiles.
Unlike me.
"When can you start?" Savannah asks.
"Tomorrow. Bring her by around nine." He glances at me. "And bring Emma too."
My heart skips. "Me? Why?"
"Because you're scared." His eyes lock on mine. "And the best way to stop being scared is to face it."
Before I can protest, his phone buzzes. He pulls it out, frowns, and his carefree charm evaporates. His jaw tightens.
"Sorry, ladies. I gotta take this." He steps away, phone to ear. "What do you want, Victoria?"
From the other end, a sharp female voice cuts through.
"We need to talk, Colt. You can't keep ignoring me."
"There's nothing to talk about." His voice drops low, dangerous. "We're done."
"You don't get to decide that."
"Yes, I do. We were never serious, you know it."
"That's not how I felt."
He rubs the back of his neck, frustration radiating. "Look, I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea. But it's over. You need to move on."
The call ends. He stares at his phone, like it might bite him.
Before he turns back, it rings again.
His expression shifts from frustration to caution. "Coach."
This time, a man's angry voice booms.
"Hayes, I need to know if you're coming back or if I need to find a replacement."
"I'm healing. Doc says two more weeks."
"Two weeks? Playoffs start in three. I need you on the ice, not playing cowboy on some farm."
Colt's shoulders tense. "I'll be ready."
"You better be. Because if you're not, you're done. People are already questioning if you're worth the trouble. Don't give them more."
Line goes dead.
Colt looks up, jaw clenched.
When he faces us again, no trace of that easy charm remains. His face is carved from stone, eyes hard.
"Sorry about that." He forces a smile without warmth. "See you tomorrow. Nine sharp."
He limps back toward the barn, favoring his left side more.
I watch him go, heart pounding.
Savannah grabs my arm. "Well, that was intense."
"He's got a lot going on." I whisper.
"And you're already hooked." She grins. "I can see it all over your face."
"I'm not hooked. We just met."
"And he just invited you back." She climbs in. "This is gonna be something."
I slide into the passenger seat, eyes on Colt disappearing into the barn.
Colton Hayes. NHL player on borrowed time. Horse whisperer with magic hands. A man with an ex who won't let go and a coach ready to cut him loose.
And somehow, I'm supposed to come back tomorrow and let him teach me about horses.
About facing my fears.
I buckle my seatbelt, hands shaking.
Because the thing I'm most afraid of isn't the horses.
It's him.
And the way he looked at me like he could see every lie I've ever told.