POV: Emma
We stand there, caught in the moment, watching him work.
There's this electric buzz hanging between us and the trailer, something I can't quite put my finger on. It settles deep in my chest, this quiet knowing that Colt is exactly where he belongs. He moves slow, every step measured, like he's dancing to a song only he can hear.
His voice cuts through the restless flick of Delilah's tail, low and steady. "Easy now, girl. I got you."
The mare's eyes flick nervously, muscles twitching beneath her buckskin coat. But bit by bit, she relaxes under his touch.
I'm glued to the scene. The way he moves, how the afternoon sun hits the rough line of his jaw, the calm radiating from him like heat rising off a sun-baked road.
He unlatches the partition with such care the clink of metal feels loud in the quiet. Then he steps back, lead rope in hand, gently coaxing Delilah down the ramp.
I've seen Savannah try this, tense, tugging, like a tug-of-war match. Colt's touch is all smooth confidence, like he barely has to try.
Delilah jerks, lunging hard for freedom.
The rope tightens instantly.
Colt absorbs the pull like it's nothing, but I see it—pain flashes in his eyes as he rolls his shoulder. That bull injury's still fresh, still raw.
But he doesn't let go.
Not a flicker of pain breaks his calm. His gaze locks on hers, moving with her in slow, patient circles until the fight drains out of her.
His voice never raises. The rhythm of it smooths the last ragged edges of her fear.
When she finally slows, head lifting, Colt steps close. He scratches the center of her forehead, then trails a hand over her eye in a slow, sealing gesture, like he's pressing quiet down into her bones.
He whispers something soft, too low for me to hear, meant just for her.
Something twists inside me.
"He's a horse whisperer," Savannah breathes beside me, awe thick in her voice. "For real."
But I barely catch her words. I'm locked on Colt, on the invisible tether tying him to that mare. Like they're speaking some ancient language beyond words.
With every pass of his hand, Delilah's head dips lower, tension melting away in slow surrender. She licks her lips, a steady, quiet signal.
The fight's gone.
Delilah leans in, pressing her head to Colt's chest. He strokes her neck gently, fingers finding that sweet spot at her withers before scratching over her shoulder.
The air thickens—not with tension, but with a hush that feels almost sacred.
Under his touch, Delilah's eyes soften, her breathing deepens, and every trace of panic fades clean away.
When Colt steps back, it's not a break, it's a release.
Their eyes meet in a silent conversation that stretches longer than a breath.
"There it is," he murmurs, voice low and smooth.
I glance at Savannah. "There what is?"
She smiles knowingly. "The lip lick, sweetie. Means she's starting to get what he's asking."
I blink, amazed. "I didn't know horses could talk back like that."
Colt's gaze swings to me, steady and patient. Those hazel eyes carry the weight of years spent reading what can't be said. "They do. Not with words, but when a horse starts thinking, they lick their lips. It's their way of saying they're figuring it out."
He says it like it's gospel, and I believe every word.
Savannah claps once, excited. "That's what I wanted to hear. I couldn't bear to see her end up in a kill pen. I knew there was something worth saving."
Colt nods, eyes on the mare. "There is. She's been through hell, but she's got fight. The good kind—the kind that makes her loyal once she trusts you."
He starts leading Delilah toward the barn, rope loose in his hand. No need for words. His control is in his posture, in the steady, measured steps of a man who could handle a fifteen-hundred-pound bull or fight his way onto an NHL team without missing a beat.
Savannah leans in, voice dropping low but loud enough for the breeze to carry. "Wrangler butts are the best, don't you think?"
Heat rushes to my face. "Savannah!"
Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "What? Just saying."
A low chuckle rumbles behind us.
Oh no. He heard.
I swat Savannah's arm, the smack sharp in the warm air. "You're terrible."
"I'm honest." She grins, shameless. "And you were thinking the same thing."
"I was not."
"Liar."
We laugh, bright and reckless. It doesn't last, but for a moment, it lifts the weight I've been carrying since I ran from that chapel.
Colt looks back, smile teasing and dangerous. "Y'all coming, or just standing there all day?"
We follow him inside the barn.
Cool shadows, the soft shuffle of horses in stalls, the sharp scent of hay and leather greet us.
Colt leads Delilah to a round pen, unhooks the rope. "She needs space to decompress, get her bearings."
The mare moves away, putting distance between us.
"Will she be okay?" I ask.
"She will." Colt leans on the rail, favoring that injured side. "Just needs to realize nobody here's gonna hurt her."
Savannah studies him. "You're really good at this. How'd you learn?"
"My dad." The words come flat. "He trained horses before he died. Taught me everything."
The air shifts, heavy.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly.
"Don't be." He doesn't meet my eyes. "He died doing what he loved. Riding bulls. Like I almost did two weeks ago."
Silence falls.
Savannah breaks it. "So you play for the Predators and train horses? When do you sleep?"
He smiles, but there's no humor. "I don't. Not much." He looks at me, something in his eyes catching my breath. "What about you, Emma? Besides being scared of horses, what do you do?"
"I teach." The lie slides out too easy. "Art. Elementary school."
"Art teacher." He tastes the words. "That why your nails are stained with paint?"
I glance down—he's right. Crimson and gold cling stubbornly to my cuticles.
"Yeah." I cross my arms, defensive. "What of it?"
"Nothing." His eyes narrow like he's solving a puzzle. "You don't seem like a small-town teacher."
My heart races. "What do I seem like?"
"The kind running from something." He says it like it's nothing, but it hits like a punch. "The kind who doesn't want to be found."
The world tilts.
Does he know? Recognize me from the tabloids? Or is this some game?
"I'm not running." My voice sharper than I mean.
"If you say so." He pushes off the rail, wincing. "But everyone's running from something, darlin'. Some just hide it better."
Before I can speak, his phone rings.
His face hardens. "I gotta take this. Make yourselves at home." He leaves the barn without another word.
Savannah grabs my arm. "What was that?"
"No idea." My hands shake. "He knows something. I can feel it."
"Maybe he's just perceptive."
"Or I'm not as good at hiding as I thought." I watch him through the door, phone to ear, shoulders tight.
"Em." Savannah's voice softens. "You okay?"
"No." The word breaks me. "I ran across the country to escape my past, and somehow, I just met a man who sees right through me in under an hour."
"Maybe that's not bad."
"It's awful." I face her. "If he sees through me, what's stopping everyone else?"
She doesn't answer.
Outside, Colt's voice rises—angry, frustrated.
I catch bits through the open door. "I said I'd be ready... playoffs... don't care what the press says..."
He's fighting for his career. Fighting to be more than a scandal. More than a playboy chasing his father's ghost.
And somehow, I get that fight.
Because I'm fighting too.
Running from a legacy I never wanted. Trying to be more than a billionaire's daughter. More than the girl who left a man at the altar.
Colt Hayes and I are more alike than either of us wants to admit.
And that scares me more than any horse ever could.