1. Prologue - Izzy

“Isaac!”

“Isaac, can I get a comment for the Chronicle ?”

Heads were turning, people staring. Not that it was anything new. Izzy kept his focus on the grass warm-up ring and the horse beneath him. He slowed Blackbird to a walk and loosened the reins, encouraging her to relax and stretch out her neck. Calm but focused was the goal today.

The horse world—who were all thirteen-year-old girls at heart, regardless of gender—loved its gossip, and the abrupt retirement of a highly respected, top-level eventing trainer was fresh and juicy. Especially when that trainer was only in his late forties and considered a shoo-in for next year’s Olympic Chef d’Equipe. So far, no one was talking to the press, and the reporters were getting pushy—desperate for the “real story” behind why their coach had left them only weeks before the final qualifier.

But Izzy was ignoring all that. He was focused forward, on what came next. He couldn’t afford to look back. Not today. He’d lost too much in the last few weeks to let this slip through his fingers too. Besides, he had something to prove. Not to the world—to himself. He deserved to be here.

He shifted Blackbird’s reins to one hand and stroked her glossy neck, wishing he could feel her warmth through his gloves. She pulled in a deep breath, her sides expanding under him, then blew it out in a sigh, shaking her head as she relaxed. Izzy’s lips twitched, and the ball of worry in his chest loosened a little. “We got this, baby girl. You and me.” He bent down and pressed his cheek to the crest of her mane, shutting his eyes for a moment and matching her breathing.

“Izzy,” Emma called.

He opened his eyes and sat back, flashing the other eventer a reassuring smile. It faded at the sight of her wet, red-rimmed eyes and the pinched corners of her mouth. “What is it?” he asked, steering Blackbird closer to her as she stepped up on the bottom rail of the fence, her fingers bleaching white as she gripped the top. Izzy’s breath hitched as his tension came rushing back. “Emma? What’s wrong?”

Movement behind her caught his attention, and his frown deepened as Samantha and David hurried over, Stewart chasing after them. No one looked happy. Izzy swallowed down the bile creeping up his throat. He tried to meet Sammy’s eyes, but she was focused on his horse.

“I…” Emma paused, her lips parted as the word died in her throat. She startled as Sammy reached them and grabbed her elbow. After exchanging a long look, Emma turned back, her eyes welling with moisture that she blinked away. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Izzy frowned. What the hell? He turned his attention to David—the designated “old guy” at their training center—who shrugged, his lips pressed into a tight line. What the fuck had happened now? Clearly, it was something bad. Something that would take his head out of the game if Sammy and David were trying to keep Emma from telling him.

Stew—whom they’d just unofficially promoted from assistant to head trainer—reached them, red-faced and out of breath. “They’re about to call you to the box,” he told Izzy, expression a mask of sympathetic earnestness. “You need to stay focused.”

As if Izzy didn’t know that.

He looked to Sammy again. Of the group that trained together outside of Boston, he’d known her the longest. They were friends—at least, he hoped they were still friends. He didn’t think she’d turn against him, even after everything.

She finally looked up, her blue eyes fierce as they locked on his. “He’s dead.”

Izzy’d had this dream before. He blinked a few times, but nothing changed. The sun was still warm on his shoulders, the sky bright and blue, the grass almost unnaturally green. He shook his head.

He watched, numb, as Emma’s tears spilled over and streaked down her cheeks. David looked troubled, a crease forming between his eyebrows. Stew pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his damp hair, making it stand up at crazy angles. He eyed Izzy like he was waiting for the explosion.

Izzy forced his gaze back to Sammy. “How?”

She drew in a steadying breath, her trembling lower lip the only thing giving her away. “Hanged himself in the training barn back home,” she forced out, her eyes boring into Izzy’s, like she was daring him to look away. “They found him this morning.”

Izzy nodded. That checked out. There were three things Josh loved more than anything—attention, control, and winning. His forced retirement had taken all of that from him, so it was no surprise he’d found a way to get some of it back.

Izzy huffed a painful laugh that almost didn’t stop. He should have known Josh would never take responsibility for what he’d done. Never be held accountable. Fuck . Fucking selfish bastard.

Blackbird tossed her head and shifted impatiently, distracting Izzy from the black hole of his thoughts. Right. Shit. He didn’t have time to lose it the way he wanted. He was about to attempt one of the most important rides of his career. The 5 star cross-country course at Oxford Park had no space for the mental breakdown he so desperately needed. Instead of cracking, he buried everything deep and adjusted his seat in the saddle. “Good,” he answered belatedly. “It’s over then.” He checked the time. The steward would be looking for him.

Stew straightened, concern deepening. “We can request a later start. Give you time to process.”

Izzy ignored him. “How is the course looking?” he asked Sammy, grateful when she seemed to understand. The last thing he needed right now was to stop and think. Josh was dead. It was better this way.

“Watch the footing coming off the first water effort. It’s getting muddy. A few have stayed wide and almost went down,” Sammy told him, her face tight and unreadable.

Izzy breathed deep and nodded. Focus. He needed to focus. He would have time for everything else later. “Got it,” he acknowledged. They’d expected the safer route to turn into a mud slick. Birdie was agile, though—they’d opt for the tight, inside turn and stay far away from danger.

“On deck, Isaac King.”

Izzy gathered his reins. He was next. He made the mistake of looking at Emma as he turned to go.

She wasn’t sobbing or anything, but her pale face and the silent slide of tears down her cheeks put a crack in the battered wall guarding Izzy from a storm of emotions. He couldn’t do this right now. He needed to keep everything locked down. He looked away.

Fuck, she was young—barely nineteen to Izzy’s twenty-one. She’d been a few months past her eighteenth birthday and still competing at the intermediate level when Josh started training her and immediately moved her up to advanced. Izzy had questioned him about it, but Josh had brushed him off.

Emma had proven Izzy wrong. She might look fragile, but she was the bravest person he knew. After all, she was the one who’d finally spoken up.

Stew was hovering close to her side, his hands fisted like he was trying to keep from reaching out. He was young, too, in the grand scheme of things. Twenty-five or so. Izzy had given him so much shit when he’d been hired—especially with how awkward and anxious he could get. But he’d come through in the end, while Izzy had hesitated, unable—or unwilling—to believe the man he’d idolized was capable of what Emma had claimed.

“Hey.” A fist hit the thick leather of his boot. Izzy’s gaze flicked to Sammy, who smacked him again, grinning with all her teeth. “You got this, bitch. Don’t fuck it up.”

He forced a smile that he knew didn’t reach his eyes, grateful, even if her attempt at “normal” fell flat. “Worry about yourself, bitch,” he tossed back, trying to match her energy. “I’m not the one who can’t keep their—” Izzy blanched, their traditional preride banter a punch in the gut. Keep their legs closed. It was a throwaway line. Something a visiting trainer had shouted at them once. Now, it had taken on a different meaning.

“Heels down?” Sammy offered, her eyes shiny, the hand that had punched Izzy’s boot gripping his ankle.

Izzy nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

Sammy let him go and gave Blackbird’s flank a hard pat. “Go,” she said. “Knock ’em dead.”

Izzy went.

Twenty-eight fences. Forty-nine efforts. Four miles. The most important seven minutes of his life. He knew how to do this. He could do this.

The trek to the starting box was gone in a blink. He nodded to well-wishers, but their words slipped past without registering. Finally, it was time. He fastened his chin strap on autopilot, then re-checked stirrups and the cord clipping his air vest to the saddle. The signal horn cut through the fog, and Blackbird, smart, beautiful creature that she was, sprang into action.

They cleared the first jump—a solid vertical—easily. He checked their pace and adjusted the route. Thirty-three strides to the next combination. He steadied his breathing. The second fence was a double-brush. Easy.

The following combination—a fence, a stride, down the bank, then up and over the oxer—flowed exactly the way they’d practiced it.

He needed this win; they all did. Sammy, David, Emma, and Stew. The last few weeks had been… Devastating didn’t begin to cover it. Izzy couldn’t let them down.

Blackbird’s powerful muscles stretched and flexed under him, her hooves pounding against the grass as her long stride drove them up the hill toward number nine. She was on the taller end of average for an Irish Sport Horse, bred to accommodate Izzy’s height, and she ate up the distance.

Izzy knew he was privileged, with parents who had both seen his potential at a young age and had the means and opportunity to support it. She’d been born when he was twelve, on his family’s farm, and Izzy had been there for her first steps. He’d been the first person to touch her, the first to stroke her velvet-soft nose and play with her long ears. He’d been the one to teach her to wear a halter and walk on a lead rope. To come running across the field when he whistled for her. To walk, trot, and canter under-saddle.

She was his best friend, and he’d been devastated when she turned five and his parents sent her off to be trained by a famous Olympian.

Josh Martin had been to four Summer Olympics and brought home the gold three times. He was a world champion six times over, and it was considered an honor to have a horse trained by him. Izzy, in all his seventeen-year-old wisdom, disagreed. Blackbird was his, and he wanted to train her. He’d driven his parents insane until they agreed to let him travel up to Boston to visit his girl.

Josh had won him over with his wealth of experience, his easy smile, and his willingness to listen. Izzy had never met anyone like him. By the end of the week, Izzy had been converted—and a little bit in love. There was no one better to get Blackbird ready to compete professionally, and when Josh offered to let Izzy stay and train with him, he’d jumped at the chance. His parents didn’t take much convincing, and he’d moved into Josh’s spare bedroom at the start of his senior year of high school.

It had been the best four years of his life, and it had lasted right up until he’d walked in on Emma, sobbing in the tack room.

Three minutes was all it took for Izzy’s world to unravel.

He wasn’t ready.

Blackbird surged forward, and only years of practice allowed Izzy to keep his balance. Fuck. He grabbed for her mane as she cleared the fence. Where were they? How the fuck had he let himself get so far inside his head? He scanned ahead for the next jump. Was that twelve or thirteen? Spots floated in his vision, preventing him from reading the blue-and-white numbered flags as they raced toward the next effort.

Emma had once called Blackbird his soul-horse. He’d laughed at how cheesy that sounded, even as he silently agreed. They were perfectly in tune, to the point that it often felt like they could read each other’s minds. They trusted each other implicitly. That was why, when Izzy realized a stride too late that he’d forgotten Sammy’s warning about the water, she tried to turn for him.

Unfortunately, he’d fucked up, and they hit the first oxer at the wrong angle. Blackbird fought for it and managed to clear the jump, but her landing was all wrong. Then, already off-balance, she hit a slick spot on the muddy grass.

The rapid expansion of his air vest as it detached from the saddle drove the wind from his lungs. There wasn’t any pain when Izzy slammed into the massive log that made up the next jump and flipped over the top of it, but there was a loud crack followed by numbness. That was a bad sign. Izzy hit the dirt, the vest cushioning his fall, and lay there, stunned, as his beautiful girl went down in front of him and didn’t get up.

Oh no.

Any concern for himself vanished as he scrambled to his feet. He only took one step before all the pain that had been missing roared up his leg. His vision flickered black and white, darkness closing in from the edges as he hit the ground again, getting a mouthful of dirt and grass this time. There was no air. He couldn’t breathe.

The last thing he saw was Blackbird, struggling back to her feet, her tack askew, her reins tangled around her front leg.

In the rush of relief, he let the darkness drag him under.