Page 5

The pause that followed was short, but she heard it. “You mean that?”

“The house is off limits. I approve every horse that goes in front of a camera, and I pull one out of a shot if I don’t like what I’m seeing. Put those terms in writing.”

“Whatever you want. I’ll call you in a few days with the schedule.”

“Fine.”

“Claire?” Rebecca had dropped the manager’s voice. “Thank you. You have no idea.”

“Send the contract,” she said. “Goodnight, Rebecca.”

“Goodnight.”

The line went dead.

She had left Los Angeles at twenty-seven with a surgically repaired collarbone, faded scars on her forearms, and a truck she’d bought with fall pay, convinced she was putting that entire world behind her forever.

But now Hollywood was coming to her.

3

Delaney gripped the steering wheel as the gravel lane stretched ahead, dust swirling behind the rented SUV. The GPS had quit ten minutes back, right after the county road turned to washboard that rattled her teeth and made the radio cut to static. No bars on her phone. No city noise. Just the sky above and mountains in the distance.

She hadn’t believed Rebecca would actually pull it off. Not when the idea first dropped in her living room six weeks ago. Not when the contracts arrived signed and the plane ticket showed up in her inbox. But here she was, two hours out of Missoula with a suitcase and a screenplay that suddenly felt too raw to show anyone, let alone film.

The wooden gate appeared around a bend, hand-carved letters spelling HOLLIS CREEK across the crossbar. Delaney slowed. The cattle guard clanged under her tires, a metallic complaint that echoed off the hills. She rolled to a stop in front of what had to be the main house, a solid two-story log place with a porch that wrapped the front like an afterthought. Two wooden chairs faced the mountains.

Delaney’s stomach twisted, a low roll that wasn’t quite nerves. It felt closer to the sick-sweet rush she’d get right before a live taping at fifteen, back when the set still felt like it could swallow her whole. No one stood by now with powder or a script page to whisper from the wings. She cut the engine. Silence slammed in, so complete her ears rang with it.

She stepped out and immediately regretted the sneakers. White leather already dusted with grit. The air smelled like hay and something green she couldn’t name, milder than she’d expected for Montana in late August but with a bite that promised colder nights. Her designer jeans felt ridiculous. The hoodie she’d thrown on at the airport now stuck to her back with nervous sweat.

Movement caught her eye to the left. A round pen, high timber walls, and inside it a woman working with a horse. The mare, a dusty dun with a dark stripe down her back, shied at the sound of the car door. The woman didn’t flinch. She kept her hands low. Her voice stayed even as she circled, talking the animal down without raising it.

Delaney couldn’t look away.

This had to be Claire Lange. The former stuntwoman Rebecca had told her about, the one who knew horses better than anyone. The owner of this ranch. A sharp, unscripted focus settled over Delaney, the kind that usually only hit her when cameras rolled. She told herself it was the setting. The sheer scale of everything out here made a person feel small in a way that felt almost good.

Delaney started toward the pen. Gravel crunched under her sneakers. The mare’s ears flicked back. Claire didn’t turn.

Each step felt too loud. Her white sneakers were already scuffed and worse than useless out here. The mare’s head came up, wary. Claire kept her shoulders square to the horse, her blonde bun catching the afternoon light. A faint scar showed at the edge of her collar.

This woman wasn’t performing. No calculated smile, no awareness of an audience. Just quiet competence in worn denim and a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Faded scars marked her forearms. The kind that came from real falls twenty years ago when she’d still done stunt work. Rebecca had mentioned it in passing, but seeing it now made something tighten in Delaney’s chest.

The round pen’s timber walls threw long shadows. The air smelled like warm horsehide and dust. Delaney’s jeans stuck to her knees. Her hoodie clung to her back. But none of that mattered as much as watching Claire’s gloved hands stay low and patient on the lead rope.

Claire’s posture didn’t invite conversation. Delaney kept walking anyway. The same pull that had made her write this story in the first place, about a woman learning to belong somewhere vast and unforgiving.

The mare settled under Claire’s voice. Delaney’s nerves didn’t.

Delaney stopped at the fence rails. Up close, the woman looked even more solid. Lean muscle earned from actual work, not a trainer’s circuit. Laugh lines at the corners of her eyes as she spoke affectionately to the horse. A felt hat hung from a post nearby, brim bent from years of use.

“Hi,” Delaney said. Her voice sounded too bright, too Hollywood, like she’d stepped onto a talk show set instead of a dusty ranch. She cleared her throat, tried again. “I’m Delaney Ellis. Sorry if I startled your horse.”

Claire kept her focus on the mare, who had settled into a steady walk now, neck relaxed, hooves stirring slow circles in the packed dirt. The lead rope moved through Claire’s gloved hand with practiced slack, no tension, no hurry. She didn’t look up.

“You’re early.”

The words landed flat. No welcome. No recognition of who Delaney was. Just fact. Her shoulders straightened automatically, the posture she’d perfected for red carpets, and it felt wrong here. Like trying to wear heels on a hiking trail.