Page 77 of Holding Hope

I slipped out of the Big Barn and followed the noise down the small hill toward the fenced arena.

There, leaning against the rail, were Colton, Ethan, Mr. King, and Melody — all watching Clarke on the back of a golden horse.

Three barrels stood in the arena, evenly spaced. And Clarke…

Clarke looked like she belonged there. Confident. Focused. Beautiful.

My chest tightened. I wasn’t done trying.

Not even close.

Clarke finally pulled Apollo to a halt after another thirty minutes, letting the golden horse rehydrate. From where we stood at the fence, I could see her mouth moving as she praised him, slipping sweets from her jeans pocket like he was the only creature in the world who deserved them.

“You did so good!” Melody squealed as Clarke approached. Clarke gave her a tired half-smile and took the water bottle her father handed her.

“He’s still too slow around those corners,” she muttered, glancing back at Apollo as he drank from the trough. A ranch hand hovered nearby, ready to take him once he finished. “I wish I could use Artemis, like I have for years.”

“You know you can’t,” Mr. King said firmly. “This is only Apollo’s first year. He’ll do just fine.”

Clarke rested her arms on the fence, meeting her father’s gaze head-on. His expression was steady, unyielding—almost intimidating.

“I could if you weren’t so hell-bent on selling her,” she argued. “She’s not a bad horse⁠—”

“You know how I feel about that phrase,” he cut in.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry—it’s not the animal, it’s how they’re raised.”

“Watch your tone,” Colton warned, narrowing his eyes.

What the hell was happening right now?

“I don’t understand why you have to get rid of her,” Clarke pressed on, ignoring her brother. “And to a politician at that!”

Jason King sighed, gloved hands braced on the fence beside hers. “Beck Rhodes grew up with horses⁠—”

“English horses, Dad!” Clarke snapped, crushing the plastic bottle in her hand. Water leaked through the loose cap, and she cursed under her breath as she tightened it.

“Artemis doesn’t deserve the slow-paced life of equestrianism,” she insisted. “She’s been a barrel horse since birth. How is that fair to her?”

“The decision is final,” Mr. King said, voice brooking no argument. “You’ll have to make do with Apollo. With your help, he could become the next undefeated Founder’s Day champion.”

Clarke didn’t respond, but I could see the effort it took her not to. She wanted to fight him — God, she wanted to — but she knew it was pointless. Instead, she finished her water, handed the empty bottle to Melody, and walked back toward Apollo.

After a brief exchange with the ranch hand, he passed her the reins, and the golden pair trotted toward the stables. Mr. King sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face with something like defeat.

“She’ll be okay,” he said, catching the concern on my face. “She’s like this with every sale.”

I nodded, eyes still following Clarke’s retreating figure. “I’m going to check on her,” I murmured to Melody.

By the time I reached the stables, Clarke had already removed Apollo’s saddle and was brushing him down with slow, practiced strokes.

“Now, I know the saying is ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy,’” I said, leaning on the stall door, “but does that apply to cowgirls too, or is it gender exclusive?”

Clarke snorted. “That’s not funny, Avalon. And I’m really not in the mood, if you couldn’t tell.”

I laughed, tapping my fingers on the wood. “Oh, come on. I heard a laugh.”

She glanced over, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “If I say it was funny, will you leave me alone?”