Page 38 of Holding Hope

Until Avalon.

Clearing my throat, I steered the conversation away before it wandered somewhere dangerous. “Annie Oakley was a sharpshooter, a performer, and an inspiration to young girls in the West for generations.”

Avalon’s storm-grey eyes met mine across the table, occasionally flicking to my mouth as I spoke. “Was she also a singer? Is that why you have that nickname?”

Beside me, Colton shook his head. He’d removed his hat, leaving his dark curls in an unruly mess. “Annie Oakley didn’t sing. Clarke here became the best sharpshooter in Opal Springs by the age of twelve. You should’ve seen her—no one stood a chance.”

His face beamed with brotherly pride, and my cheeks burned. I looked away, blushing into my water. “Alright, I was not that good… everyone else was just terrible.”

Ethan laughed loudly, drawing annoyed glances from nearby tables. Lowering his voice, he said, “Clarke, you had grown men throwing fits at Founder’s Day and Pelican Fly Day because they couldn’t beat you.”

“The tiny blonde girl with a gun bigger than her entire body who sent men taller than her father into tears,” Colton added, nudging my arm proudly.

I had to be as red as a tomato by then, but thankfully our waitress arrived, saving me from whatever else the boys wanted to say about me and crying grown men.

Conversation flowed naturally after that—upcoming holidays, ranch life, small-town gossip. Nothing more was said about my nickname or Annie Oakley.

It was easy, having a buffer between us.

Would it be this easy all summer?

Mornings came early on the King ranch. Too early to properly nurse a hangover—and sharing a space with someone who didn’t drink didn’t make it any easier.

Clarke liked to be up before the sun even considered rising. Before the chickens started pecking at the dirt. Before the dogs whined at the door.

It was ironic, considering just a few months ago she’d claimed an 8 a.m. flight was “too early.” She really had changed over the course of three short months.

By the second week of my stay, I’d finally gotten the hang of her routine—or at least the parts she allowed me to see. She woke up at exactly 5:55 a.m. Every day. I started setting my own alarm for the same time, volume turned low so she wouldn’t hear.

She showered but never straightened her hair—always letting it curl into its natural patterns. Then she spent the next hour doing what I could only assume was meditation. I’d never thought of her as religious, but the hour after her shower was always strangely quiet.

By 8 a.m., Clarke was out the door, crossing the lawn to help her mother with breakfast. Mrs. King cooked for all the ranchers on her husband’s land, despite there being an official ranch chef. Clarke said it made her mama feel needed—and the ranchers preferred her cooking anyway, especially the unmarried ones.

I was usually wandering the property at that time, trying to get over my fear of the horses named after Greek gods. The fact that Clarke had insisted on Grecian names surprised me—just like finding out she’d been a sharpshooter at twelve.

There was so much about this girl I didn’t know. And the more I learned, the more I realized I was barely scratching the surface.

The question that started all of this kept circling my mind:

Who exactly was Clarke King?

Seeing her with her brother and Ethan, I’d glimpsed a different side of her—one she hadn’t shown me during the first few days of my stay. She laughed more around Colton. Her smile wasn’t forced, wasn’t meant to please her parents or comfort Melody. And the way she interacted with Ethan… there was history there. More than she’d ever admit.

Not that I was jealous.

Simply curious. But if curiosity killed the cat, where would it take me?

By day fifteen, restlessness had settled into my bones. Despite the vastness of the King ranch, I felt trapped—like a bird confined to a cage.

Technically, I had the keys. No one was holding me captive. But leaving would mean giving up, and if my parents taught me anything, it was that Kennedys do not quit.

I was going to mend things with Clarke. I was going to leave Texas at the end of the summer with a completed album and one less blonde trying to make my life miserable.

She hadn’t pulled any new stunts since Daisy’s door, but something told me I shouldn’t get too comfortable. Clarke King always had one more trick up her sleeve.

To distract myself, I tried helping around the ranch. Melody brought me along during her chores so I could learn the ropes. She fed most of the show ponies—the ones named after Greek gods—since that stable was closest to the Big House. But she was more than happy to help me conquer my fear of the animals.

“The only one you really need to watch out for is Hestia. She’s a little nippy.”