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Yet even with all my scheming and every resource at my disposal, a prick of fear deep in my gut said it might not be enough.

Thirty-Six

Eva

OCTOBER 24

I bolted awake in the dark and turned to look at the clock on my nightstand. Two a.m. The rain of bullets mixed with the memories of Eddie taking the bullet that had been meant for me.

I wiped the sweat from my brow and tossed my blankets aside. How much longer could I fight this?

In the past two months since nationals, with the stables so empty of everyone who had brought so much life—Phantom, Patches, Lucky, EP, Warren—my nightmares and insomnia had only gotten worse.

I saw Victor’s face, Keith’s rage.

In the dim light of my house, too quiet without Annie, I walked to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. My hand, steadying myself on the counter, brushed the metal box that Annie had brought me all those months ago.

Tears stung as I held the water in one hand and ran my fingertips over the metal lid with the other. Why couldn’t those memories just stay trapped inside that stupid tin?

I carried the box over to the dining table and turned on a floor lamp in the small area between the living room and kitchen. A dull glow was cast over the table, and I swallowed the lump of fear that choked me.

I lifted the latch and the hinges creaked open.

Ribbon and brass, all tangled in a heap.

And to one side, dog tags.

Bill Birkstrom from his service in 1917 through the end of the Great War. He’d never talked about his time in the trenches. I understood why.

I lifted the awards out, piled them on the table, and pulled out a small brown book. I flipped it over to see a cross and the words “New Testament—Army and Navy Edition” on the cover. The edges were worn and tattered, mud stained and stiff.

Gramps didn’t go to church each Sunday, but when I closed my eyes, I could see him sitting on the platform at Beacon’s Bluff. One morning, I’d asked, “What do you think about out here, Gramps?”

“I thank God, honey. And anything else that’s bugging me, I give it all to him. Each morning, anew.”

Was that the true secret to all his tricks? The reason he could so effortlessly tame a horse with just his words and gentle hands?

I pressed the small book to my forehead, and my heart cried out for release. “I can’t do this alone,” I whispered.

I had held tightly for so long. The more I gripped my past, my failures, my uncontrollable dreams, the more I fell into a pit that I couldn’t escape.

I knew what happened to horses that learned to pull and never stop, like Stormy. Gramps had every trick in the book to teach them to yield to pressure. But I hadn’t even realized I was one of those stubborn horses that wouldn’t give in.

I was going to break if I didn’t yield. I’d fall with no soft landing behind me.

God, I give it all to you.

The cross, bullet casing, and dog tags strewn across the table glittered at me, and somehow I felt their barbs soften. My heartbeat slowed, my breathing calmed.

I picked up Gramps’s tags, that .45 casing, and the Bible and got dressed, then slipped into my boots and a coat to ward off the fall morning chill. I left Eddie and Violet a note in case I didn’t return before the start of morning chores.

Passing the barns, I set out to walk the familiar trail to the platform, using the extra time to feel the ground beneath my feet, smell the pine and cedar in the air, pick up on the distant smell of rain and thunder.

I hadn’t ridden to the bluff since that last ride with Warren.

The memory of him brought goose bumps to my skin. Eddie had stopped mentioning him, stopped asking if I would call him.

We’d all accepted the truth—it was over.