Page 37 of Broken Trails
Imogen turns toward the men standing a few steps behind the women. She gestures to the tallest of the group—broad-shouldered and sun-tanned, wearing a faded flannel rolled up to the elbows, and a brown cowboy hat pulled low.
“This is Xavier,” Imogen says. “Isla’s husband and Olivia’s brother.”
He turns toward me at the sound of his name, and I’m immediately struck by his eyes—piercing blue, intense, the same as Olivia’s.
“You must be Zoe,” he says, tipping his chin toward me.
I blink. How the hell does he know who I am? My body stiffens, and I instinctively take a small step back. He must notice, because his face softens instantly.
“Michael told us you might be coming,” he adds quickly. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”
Of course, he told them.So he just knew I’d show up? Arrogant bastard. But I don’t say that. I just nod shyly. “Nice to meet you.”
Xavier gives me a nod, lifting the beer in his hand in a casual toast. Behind him, someone shouts, “Tell Harrison to get off the damn fence before it breaks again!”
I turn toward the noise just in time to see a tall man with dark curly hair, broad shoulders, and a wicked grin laughing as he swings his legs down from the rail. His face is sharp—a strong jaw dusted with stubble, and deep-set dimples that flash like trouble. Dimples that look all too familiar for my liking. He looks like the kind of man who knows exactly how to stir things up—and enjoys it. The resemblance is unmistakable.
“And that nut job would be Harrison,” Imogen says, fondness clear in her voice. “My husband.”
“And he’s Michael’s brother?” I smirk before I can stop myself.
“Yep,” she confirms with a knowing smile. “Weird how two people can look so alike but be so different, right?”
“Mhm.”
Imogen glances behind her. “Bradley—Xavier’s brother, and Amelia’s fiancé—isn’t here tonight. He’s a cop, on shift today.”
I nod, mentally recapping everything like I’m prepping for a pop quiz I didn’t sign up for. Xavier, farmer, married to Isla. Olivia, bubbly, sharp-eyed, definitely a people person. Amelia, quiet, kind, engaged to the cop.
Harrison, chaotic brother number one.
Michael, chaotic brother number two.
And Imogen, my accidental lifeline.
Why am I doing this? Why am I even trying to keep track? It’s not like I’ll be hanging around long enough to need a cheat sheet on everyone’s relationships and personality types. I came here for space—not new ties. I tug at the strap of my bag, shifting my weight. “Quite the bunch,” I murmur, pressing my lips together.
Imogen grins. “Small town. Big personalities.”
The women ease me into their conversation like they’ve done it a hundred times before, as if it’s second nature to make room for someone new. Isla nudges me about the kitten again, teasing me about whether I’ve named her yet. I give a vague shake of my head and a non-answer. Imogen starts telling a story about Harrison almost burning their kitchen down trying to “help” with breakfast. Olivia chimes in with a wild story about Xavier getting stuck in a chicken coop. Amelia stays quiet, her soft smile steady, occasionally laughing under her breath. They’re loud and lively and strangely easy to be around.
And still, I feel slightly outside of it.
Not unwelcome, just… unanchored. Like I’m hovering on the edge of something that could feel like belonging if I let it. I scan the crowd without meaning to, eyes flicking past jackets and hats and shifting bodies. I haven’t seen him yet. Not that I’m looking. A static crackle cuts through the air, followed by a voice booming from the loudspeaker.
“Alright, folks, we’re ten minutes out from the first race of the day! If you want a good view, find your spots in the grandstands.”
Around us, the crowd stirs to life, bodies moving, conversations rising. I grip my drink tighter and glance toward the track.
15
Take Your Time – Sam Hunt
The dull thud of boots hitting metal rattles through the quiet inside my helmet, snapping the edge off the focus I’ve been clinging to.
Tension pulls tight, low in my chest. I sit hunched forward on the edge of the pit wall, elbows on my knees, fingers loose but twitching slightly. Around me, there’s movement in every direction: engines rumbling beneath half-closed hoods, riders stretching out shoulders, fiddling with gloves, slapping visors down. There’s a hum in the air—not just from the machines but from the crowd somewhere beyond the barriers. That kind of electricity that builds just before something explodes.
I suck in a slow breath and let it roll out again, steady and long.
