Spur Community

       

This story is a work of fiction set within the Southern Lights Station and Wyndmere Hollow universe. While inspired by real-life equestrian settings and experiences, all characters, events, and stables are fictional. This piece explores themes of personal growth, found family, and the unspoken ties that form between people—and horses—over time. Expect heart, dust, and the occasional unruly gelding.

       

"Good morning, Alex," Emma said in a sing-song voice, brushing past him with a mug already in hand and toast in the other.

Alex grunted and slumped into the breakfast bar stool. "Why are you so chipper?"

She just hummed a vague reply, and he didn't push it. He reached for the kettle. "Oh, coffee, glorious coffee," he added like a mantra.

Rex strolled through the kitchen, half-dressed for morning chores and munching a muesli bar. "What is this—Ice Age 2?"

Alex blinked, groaned. "It's early. Don't quiz me on movie trivia before caffeine."

Emma laughed quietly to herself, turning back to butter her toast. It was always like this—easy. Familiar. A rhythm they'd fallen into without even noticing.

She sat beside him, biting into toast that was still too hot. It crackled, crumbs scattering down her sleeve.

"I got an email last night," she said casually, though her fingers tightened slightly around the handle of her mug. "From Wyndmere Hollow."

Alex stirred his coffee, blinked slowly. "That the one in England?"

"New Forest, yeah."

He looked up. "And?"

"They've accepted me. Five months as a working pupil. Riding, grooming, some teaching, maybe even eventing if I'm lucky." She took another bite and tried to sound casual. Unbothered.

Alex was quiet for a beat too long.

"That's... awesome, Em."

She turned to look at him properly. His smile was there, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I thought you'd be more surprised."

"I am," he said. "Just... I guess I thought you were happy here."

"I am." It came out too fast. "I really am."

A silence settled between them, the kind that said more than either of them knew how to put into words. Somewhere down the hallway, Rex shouted something about lost socks. The fridge hummed steadily.

Emma stared into her mug. "It's just something I need to do."

Alex gave a small nod. "Yeah. You'll smash it. You always do."

She smiled, quiet and soft. "I leave in three weeks."

He didn't flinch, didn't react—just took another long sip of coffee like it was the only thing anchoring him.

"Guess we'd better start rationing the decent instant," he said, not quite looking at her.

Emma let out a small breath, almost a laugh. She reached for another piece of toast, but her hand paused midair.

There were a dozen things she could've said. Should've said.

Instead, she just sat there, close but not quite close enough, and let the silence stretch.

       

The wind smelled different here.

Emma stepped out of the cab, her boots crunching on gravel that wasn't quite red enough, wasn't quite dusty enough. Everything about Wyndmere Hollow looked like it had stepped out of a postcard: stone walls aged by weather and time, a slate roof glistening from a recent rain, and a heavy wooden door that looked like it had secrets behind it.

No kookaburras laughing. No flies trying to steal a sip of your tea. Just mist, hedgerows, and a quiet that felt old and watching.

A wiry girl about her age appeared from the stables, jacket zipped to her chin and mud already up her thighs. "You must be Emma," she called out, accent clipped and fast.

Emma smiled and nodded, shouldering her bag. "That obvious?"

"Your boots gave it away. And the accent. I'm Nia."

Nia didn't offer a handshake—just turned on her heel and motioned for Emma to follow. "You'll be in the grooms' quarters above the tack room. Hope you're not afraid of mice."

"I'm from the outback," Emma said, grinning. "You'll have to do better than mice."

Nia smirked. "That confidence won't last through your first thunderstorm here."


---

Later, after the whirlwind of meeting the head trainer, seeing the riding arena (indoor and outdoor), being introduced to half a dozen horses, and shoving her stuff into a bunk room that smelled like leather and damp hay, Emma finally collapsed on her narrow bed.

The jet lag was creeping in. Her eyes burned. But she didn't sleep. She opened her phone, scrolling through unread messages from the station—mostly pictures from Rex, a video of Old Ted swearing at a stubborn calf, and one blurry snap of the sunrise over the paddocks she knew by heart.

No message from Alex.

She stared at the screen a moment longer, then opened her Notes app.

> Hey.
Got here in one piece. It's green. Very green. Nia (the other working pupil) seems alright.
I haven't fallen off anything yet, so that's a win.

Hope the dogs haven't taken over my room.

Say hi to Jewel. And the horses. And... you know.

– Em.

She didn't send it. Just saved it.

There was something safe about writing to him in silence, like putting her thoughts in a bottle and pushing them out to sea. No pressure to be clever. No pressure to admit that the homesickness hit harder than she'd expected, that she missed the dust and the noise and even his awful morning hair.

Outside, a barn owl screeched.

Emma rolled over, blanket pulled up to her chin. She wasn't sure if it was the unfamiliar ceiling or the unspoken things she'd left behind that kept her awake.

Probably both.

       

Emma was up before the sun.

She didn't need an alarm; the cold did the job for her. Even under two duvets, the English chill had crept into her bones. At Southern Lights, she woke to heat and birdsong. Here, it was fog and the distant clatter of buckets.

She dressed fast, pulling on breeches and a fleece-lined vest. Nia was already gone—her bunk neat, her boots missing.

Outside, the sky was a dull wash of grey-blue, and the stables breathed out quiet steam. Horses shifted and snorted, their coats thick and damp from the cool. Emma took a deep breath and got to work.

Feed buckets. Rug checks. Water top-ups. No one told her what to do, but everything had its rhythm, and she slipped into it like she'd done it a hundred times. She didn't mind the work—manual labor was the one constant between continents.

But there was no music here. No one singing off-key or talking to their horse like a best mate. The silence felt too clean.

At seven sharp, the main barn door creaked open.

She looked up—and there she was.

Eleanor Ashford.

Emma had only seen photos: a woman with silver-shot hair and the kind of posture that made you want to straighten your own spine. But in person, Eleanor was sharper. Not unkind, but focused—like someone who noticed everything and didn't speak unless it mattered.

"Miss Cavanagh?" she asked, glancing over the stall Emma was mucking out.

Emma wiped her hands on her breeches and stood straighter. "Yes, ma'am."

"You can call me Eleanor. We're not royalty." Her voice was dry as toast. "Finish that, then tack up Alder for me. He'll be the first ride."

"Yes, El—right. Got it."

Eleanor didn't smile, but her gaze lingered a moment. Not cold. Just assessing.

Then she moved on, her boots clicking with each step.

Alder was a bay gelding with kind eyes and a wary look that reminded Emma of a horse back home—a retired stockhorse who always expected you to move just a bit too fast. She kept her movements slow and quiet, murmuring nonsense while brushing his shoulder.

"Not so different, are you?" she whispered, patting his neck. "Just missing your eucalyptus trees and a few hundred flies."

He snorted and tossed his head.

By the time Eleanor returned, Emma had him ready and standing square. She stepped back instinctively as Eleanor swung into the saddle in one smooth motion.

The lesson wasn't for her—Eleanor schooled alone—but Emma stayed to observe, leaning against the fence.

It was... elegant. Controlled. Every aid subtle, every cue quiet. Alder moved like he knew exactly what was being asked and would rather die than get it wrong. It wasn't flashy riding, but it was good. Really good.

And Emma felt it like a tug in her chest. That itch to ride something brilliant, to feel in sync with something trained to precision.

After half an hour, Eleanor dismounted, handed off the reins without a word, and walked away, already pulling off her gloves.

Emma blinked. "Alright then."

The rest of the day blurred: two more horses to groom, a feed run, a saddle-cleaning session that lasted too long. She made a few mistakes—putting a saddle on the wrong rack, mistaking haylage for hay—but Nia corrected her with minimal mockery.

By sundown, she was exhausted in that good way—arms sore, feet aching, hair damp with mist.

In the quiet of the groom's quarters, Emma peeled off her boots and flopped onto her bunk. Her fingers hesitated over her phone again.

Hi.
Rode nothing today, but watched everything.
Eleanor Ashford is kind of terrifying.
The good kind.

Starting to miss the gumtrees already.

And you.

– Em.

She stared at the last line a little too long. Then deleted it.

Instead, she scrolled through her gallery until she found a blurry photo: her and Alex sitting on the ute tray, half-covered in red dust, both laughing at something Rex had said.

She set it as her wallpaper.

       

It wasn't a special moment, not like she thought it would be.

No one said "You're up, Cavanagh," or "Time to show us what you've got." There was no dramatic pause, no golden sunlight filtering through the rafters like a spotlight on the saddle.

Just:
"Take Bramble out. Hill loop. Thirty minutes."
Said flatly by Nia, with a jerk of her thumb toward the tack room.

Bramble was a flea-bitten grey mare with a chunky frame and suspicious eyes. The sort of horse that looked like she'd either babysit or buck, depending on her mood.

Emma tacked up carefully, double-checked the girth, and led the mare out to the mounting block. Her fingers were steady, but her chest thrummed with something restless.

She swung up, settled in the saddle, and exhaled. It felt good. Solid. Familiar.

Even if everything else didn't.

The hill loop was gentle at first—wide grassy tracks framed by hedge and woodland. A few jumps stood scattered in the fields, half-hidden in the late summer green. Birds flicked through the trees. The quiet hum of England surrounded her.

But it was a different kind of quiet.
Still. Cool. Muffled.

Not like home.

Not like the wind-dried crackle of gum leaves or the crunch of red dirt. Not like the wind whistling through windmill blades, or Jewel's whistle from across the paddock, or Alex yelling, "I said open the gate, not run it over, ya pelican!"

She laughed at the memory—then blinked fast. That ache again.

She turned Bramble toward a slight rise and gave the mare her head. They trotted up the hill, the rhythm easy, almost lazy. She wasn't testing boundaries today. Just proving she could ride.

The summit opened up to a view of the whole estate—fields and paddocks and tree lines layered like a painting.

Emma halted Bramble and just sat there, breathing it in.

It was beautiful.

But it wasn't hers.

That night, when everyone else had drifted off to sleep or scrolled themselves into stillness, Emma lay on her bunk with her phone in hand.

She'd drafted three different messages to Alex. All of them sounded wrong.

The silence between them was heavy—not angry, just... tentative. Waiting. Like neither of them knew how to speak now that she wasn't there to nudge him at breakfast or laugh at his dumb movie quotes. Now that their days weren't braided together by dust and coffee and shared chores.

She missed him.

Missed home.

And it wasn't just the land or the work or even the horses. It was Jewel's dry wit and Old Ted's thermos tea and the way Rex would lean against the rails like he had all the time in the world.

It was knowing who she was—what she was worth—in a place that already loved her.

Here? She was the new girl. The Aussie. The unknown quantity.

A slow tear slipped sideways into her pillow, and she didn't bother wiping it away.

Tomorrow, she'd ride again. Maybe something hotter. Maybe something fancy.

She'd earn her place.

But tonight, she let herself feel it: the distance. The longing. The ache of everything unsaid.

       

"Straight line. Keep your rhythm. Don't touch her mouth over the fence or I'll know it."

Eleanor's voice was sharp but measured, like a conductor guiding a symphony rather than a drill sergeant barking orders.

Emma swallowed hard and closed her leg around the lean bay mare beneath her — a tall, blood-marked warmblood named Freya, with spring-loaded hocks and a don't-mess-with-me expression.

She focused on the poles ahead. Ground line. Two strides. Cross. Three strides. Oxer. Measured.

She counted out loud under her breath.
"One... two..."

Freya surged. Emma leaned into the motion, heart catching in her throat as they lifted and landed again, the wind snatching at her breath. The mare was sharp, electric — nothing like the hardy stock horses back home.

She circled back. Eleanor was watching, arms folded across her waxed coat, her face unreadable.

"Better," she said. "But you're still chasing your canter after the line. Sit quieter. Don't ride like you're trying to outpace your own shadow."

Emma gave a half-laugh, half-groan. "It's Freya I'm trying to keep up with."

Eleanor arched an eyebrow. "Then anticipate her instead of reacting to her."

It wasn't said cruelly. But it wasn't soft, either.

That was Eleanor Ashford — every word a test and a challenge, but never wasted. Emma respected it, even as it twisted her insides.

By the end of the lesson, she was sweaty, sore, and brimming with the kind of adrenaline that made her hands shake when she dismounted.

And still, Eleanor offered no praise. Just a nod. "Tomorrow. Same time. Bring a better half seat."

The parcel arrived after dinner.

A soft knock at the door of the staff dorm. One of the stable hands held it out. "Got your name on it. Australia postage. Smells like eucalyptus."

Emma's heart jumped.

She sat on her bunk and turned the box over. Her name was scrawled in Jewel's distinctive hand — loopy and slightly crooked, like the woman herself. The return address was Southern Lights.

Inside, there was a small jar of Old Ted's infamous wattleseed biscuits, a battered paperback Alex had claimed was "mandatory reading" (Man from Snowy River, of course), and a folded-up photograph.

It was of her, Alex, and Jewel standing by the ute — dusty, sunburnt, and laughing at something she couldn't even remember now. Ringo's tail blurred in the corner where he was running past.

On the back, written in thick pen:

"Don't let them forget who you are. You've got this. – J."

And underneath that, in different handwriting, messier, more compact:

"Nia's got nothing on you. But don't tell her I said that. – A."

Emma smiled. It started as a twitch, then spread slowly, softening the edges of her eyes.

She held the photo to her chest and lay back against her pillow. Something deep in her chest loosened — not all the way, but enough.

They were still there. Waiting.
She wasn't forgotten.

And maybe she wouldn't have said it to anyone, not even herself — but the note, the biscuits, the stupid paperback — it meant everything.

       

"Don't let her fool you," said one of the riders, leaning on the fence. "She's a total marshmallow once you're on board. Just hates being caught. Bit of a diva."

Emma eyed the large chestnut mare grazing just out of reach in the paddock, her coat dappled from the morning dew. She had a wide white blaze that split her face and one floppy ear that made her look permanently unimpressed.

"She doesn't look impressed," Emma said, wrinkling her nose.

"Celtic Ember never is," said the girl with a grin. She extended a hand. "I'm Tilly, by the way. Been here two years."

"Emma."

"New Zealand?" Tilly guessed.

"Australia."

"Close enough."

They shared a laugh. It was the first time Emma had felt like someone wasn't assessing her.

With a practiced move, Tilly stepped to the side and caught the mare gently under the halter. "Go on. She's yours for hacks and light schooling. Eleanor's orders."

Emma blinked. "Wait—mine?"

Tilly shrugged. "Temporary yours. She's Eleanor's go-to for riders who need grounding."

Grounding, Emma thought later as she walked Ember toward the barn, might be exactly what I need.

Celtic Ember didn't care much for fussing. She stood like a statue in the crossties, ears flicking lazily, tail swishing in slow rhythm. When Emma mounted, the mare didn't dance or test boundaries — she simply walked forward, sure-footed and solid.

Their ride was quiet. No pressure, no expectations. Just a few circles in the arena, some transitions, a trot around the bridle path near the back hedgerow.

Emma breathed easier with every stride.

Later that day, Emma sat outside the tack room with a chipped mug of instant coffee, her boots muddy and her braid falling out.

Tilly flopped beside her, sipping something that smelled like actual espresso. "You survived Ember."

"I think I'm in love," Emma said without thinking.

"With the horse or the job?"

Emma grinned. "Both."

A boy a few years older than them walked by, balancing a saddle on one shoulder. "Oi, tell the Aussie to clean her tack or Eleanor will throw it in the pond."

Emma blushed, but Tilly just rolled her eyes. "That's Liam. Don't let him near your biscuits. He'll flirt, then steal them."

"Noted."

It was a strange relief, the way things started to settle. Not in a grand, sweeping way — just small things. A laugh over muck boots. The unspoken rhythm of early mornings and shared chores. The understanding that everyone had something to prove, and no one had it all figured out.

That night, Emma sat down with her phone and typed out a short message to Alex.
Not a letter this time. Just a quick photo of Ember's fuzzy winter coat, captioned:

"Met my match today. Built like a tank. Definitely judges me."

The reply came ten minutes later:

"Are you talking about the horse or the trainer?"

She snorted and typed back:

"Yes."

His typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then came back.

"Glad you found your rhythm, Roo."

She didn't respond right away. Just held the phone for a second, smiling softly.

Unsaid feelings still lingered, tucked into little things — a shared joke, a name only he used, the quiet in-between.

But she'd wait.
He would too.
And in the meantime, there was Celtic Ember, early frost, and the slow, surprising feeling of belonging.

       

The indoor arena buzzed with motion—horses moving in wide circles, riders calling out apologies as they narrowly avoided each other, and the occasional squeal from a young gelding testing boundaries. It was controlled chaos, and Emma was trying her hardest not to panic.

Celtic Ember moved beneath her with the same calm rhythm as always, ears flicking back occasionally as if to check Emma hadn't fallen off from sheer embarrassment.

"This isn't riding," Emma muttered under her breath as they trotted by the open end of the arena. "This is horse traffic."

"Inside leg, outside rein," Eleanor called sharply across the din. "Emma, you're drifting out. Keep your line."

Emma gave a tight nod, adjusting her contact and trying not to grimace. She wasn't used to this many riders in one space. At Southern Lights, it had always been just her and Alex—or Emma and the open paddocks.

A grey mare passed too close, her rider barely managing a half-halted apology. Ember flicked an ear but kept going like the wise old soul she was. The mare was proving to be a godsend.

Tilly cantered past with a whoop, seat light and forward, shouting over her shoulder, "Pretend we're jousting! Makes it more fun!"

"Fun," Emma echoed, steering Ember toward the long side and trying to find her rhythm again.

By the end of the lesson, Emma was exhausted. Her shirt clung to her back, and her thighs burned from two-point position and too many transitions. But as they cooled out at a walk, weaving through the others like a tide ebbing after a storm, something inside her had shifted.

She wasn't the best. Not by a long shot. But she hadn't drowned in the crowd either.

That counted for something.

She was loosening Ember's girth when Eleanor approached, quiet boots on gravel giving her away.

"You rode well," she said, matter-of-fact.

Emma blinked. "Really? I felt like a train wreck."

"You were focused. You listened to your horse. That's more than half the battle."

Eleanor rested a hand on Ember's shoulder, the lines around her eyes softer than usual. "She likes you, by the way."

"I like her too."

There was a pause—brief but weighted. Then Eleanor said, in that quiet, steel-edged tone of hers, "Homesickness hits hard in the quiet moments. But horses don't lie, Emma. They tell us when we're steadying up. Don't forget that."

Emma felt the lump rise in her throat before she could stop it. She nodded instead of speaking, blinking hard.

Eleanor gave Ember a pat, then walked away without another word, leaving behind the faint scent of liniment and leather and something unspoken that Emma would carry with her for days.

That night, Emma scribbled a note in her journal.

Group ride = exhausting chaos. I think I'm learning to listen in the noise.
Eleanor noticed. Noticed me.

I miss the silence of home.

But maybe here, I'm learning a new kind of quiet.

She didn't text Alex. Not tonight.

Some feelings needed to sit a while, undisturbed.
Just like a steady mare at the end of a long, jostling ride.

       

The air at Tadcaster Park was buzzing long before the first rider set foot in the warm-up ring. Trucks were still rolling in. Horses leaned out of stock trailers with pricked ears and wild eyes. Riders tacked up with the brisk efficiency of veterans. Grooms darted about with armfuls of saddle pads, water buckets, and fly spray.

Emma stood just outside Wyndmere Hollow's borrowed grooming bay, sleeves rolled up and braid coming undone, trying to keep track of whose boots needed polishing and which horse was meant to be tacked next.

She wasn't riding. Not today.

Today, she was a groom—and honestly? It was exhilarating.

"Do not let Felix eat another sandwich," barked Natalie, one of the upper-level riders, as she stormed past, tossing a sweat-marked saddle pad in Emma's direction. "He's like a Labrador with hooves."

Emma grinned, catching the pad. "No promises."

They had four horses entered across Novice and Intermediate levels. Celtic Ember was here too, but only for the atmosphere. Eleanor wanted her to soak up the noise, the chaos, the buzz—just as Emma was.

And soak it up she did. By lunchtime, Emma had memorized rider numbers, watched half a dozen dressage tests, and offered water bottles to flushed, breathless competitors with a sort of giddy pride. She even helped bandage up a knock after one gelding clipped a fence.

But it was during cross-country that her breath caught.

They stood in a cluster near the galloping lane—Emma, Tilly, two other working pupils, and Eleanor, arms crossed, face unreadable. The Intermediate riders were going now, and watching them surge over log piles and splash through the water complex made Emma's chest ache.

She wanted that.

Not the ribbon. Not even the speed. Just the connection. The grit. The fire behind a rider's eyes when they trusted their horse completely and asked them to fly.

"You'll get there," Tilly murmured beside her, nudging her elbow. "I saw you watching."

Emma blinked. "That obvious?"

"Only to someone who's done the same."

Later, in the quiet between phases, Emma found herself perched on the trailer step, brushing Ember's forelock out of her eyes. The mare leaned into her hands with a soft sigh.

From her jacket pocket, Emma pulled out her phone.

There was a message waiting from Alex.

Alex:
How's it going, hotshot? Don't tell me you've joined a cross-country cult.

PS. Saw a kid ride backwards on a sheep today. Thought of you.

Emma let out a laugh that startled Ember, then typed back quickly.

Emma:
You would've loved today. Absolute madness.

Also: sheep kid > everyone else.

I miss Southern Lights. And you. Just a bit. But don't get smug about it.

She hovered a moment, then deleted the last line.

Too much.

She hit send.

As dusk fell and the last competitors packed up, Eleanor handed Emma a paper cup of tea and nodded toward the still-busy rings.

"Take a mental picture," she said. "This is where it starts. Not under the spotlight. Out here, in the dust and noise and endless wait times."

Emma sipped the tea, the warmth chasing away the fatigue in her fingers.

"I think I get it," she said.

Eleanor's gaze settled on her. "Good. Because one day, I'll expect to see you in the ring. Not just beside it."

Emma didn't answer aloud. But something in her chest flared—equal parts excitement and fear.

Maybe this was what growing meant. Being seen. Being believed in.

And maybe, just maybe, realizing there were two homes tugging at her heart now.

       

The arena was quiet that morning. Pale sunlight filtered through the high windows, catching in the mist rising from the horses' backs as they warmed up. Emma sat tall in the saddle, heart thudding louder than Celtic Ember's hoofbeats beneath her.

Today felt different.

Eleanor hadn't said much—just a clipped, "We're raising the stakes. You're ready." Then she'd walked out to the centre of the arena and adjusted the cavaletti to a sharp grid, a line of fences growing gradually higher, tighter, more demanding.

Ember tossed her head as Emma circled, testing the bit, then settled into a working trot.

It wasn't the fences Emma feared—it was disappointing the people who believed in her.

"Again," Eleanor called. "And don't let her fall behind your leg this time. Ride the rhythm, not the nerves."

Emma set her jaw, gave a soft cue, and gathered up the reins. They rolled into the grid like a pair of thunderclouds: focused, coiled, ready to burst.

One, two, three, lift.

Ember cleared the final oxer cleanly, landing with a sharp snort and ears pricked. Emma let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

She was still upright. Still with her. And suddenly, that familiar swirl of self-doubt loosened its grip just a little.

Eleanor raised one eyebrow. "There it is."

Emma blinked. "What?"

"The rider I knew was in there."

And that—more than the cleared fence or the rhythm or even the feeling of flight—made Emma's chest ache with something that felt suspiciously like pride.

That evening, after mucking out and tacking down, Emma climbed the hill behind the staff cottages with her phone and a borrowed blanket, curling up under the trees. The sky was soft and streaked with purple, the kind of twilight that made her want to say things she normally swallowed.

She hit the call button before she could second-guess it.

Alex picked up on the third ring.

"You survive your first UK winter yet?" he asked, voice laced with amusement.

Emma huffed a laugh. "Barely. I lost feeling in my toes two weeks ago."

"Still riding?"

"Of course. Had a breakthrough today. Proper one. Even Eleanor said so."

There was a pause on the other end. She could almost hear his smile.

"See? Told you you'd hold your own."

Emma wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "It's starting to feel like... maybe I belong here."

Another beat of silence, and then Alex's voice, quieter this time.

"Just don't forget where else you belong, alright?"

She froze. Just for a second.

Then: "I haven't."

Neither of them said what they wanted to.

The silence stretched, not awkward, but charged.

Finally, Emma shifted gears. "How's Crumble?"

"Fat. Lazy. Keeps breaking fences to flirt with the geldings."

She snorted. "Sounds like you."

"Oi."

More laughter. Softer this time.

The call ended not long after, with a promise to talk again soon. But long after her screen went dark, Emma sat under the stars, heart still tangled in the words they didn't say.

Maybe one day, she'd have the courage to say them.

But for now, the ride was enough.

       

The morning of the local event dawned grey and blustery. Emma stood beside Celtic Ember, plaiting the mare's mane with trembling fingers, the scent of saddle soap and hay heavy in the cool air.

She wasn't nervous—not quite. Not like she'd been at the start. This was something else. A quiet kind of steadiness.

"I don't expect ribbons," Eleanor had said briskly as she adjusted the cheekpieces on Ember's bridle. "Just ride with intent."

Emma nodded, tucking that phrase in her chest like a talisman.

The competition was low-level, Training height, but it might as well have been the Olympics to her. It was her first time riding under the Wyndmere Hollow banner—first time riding in England at all—and the little local showground buzzed with dogs, ponies, and the clink of stirrups.

Dressage came first. Celtic Ember moved with calm focus, a far cry from the fussy, distracted mare Emma had first swung a leg over weeks ago. They scored solidly—nothing flashy, but balanced, correct.

Show jumping was tighter. The course was twisty, poles brightly painted. One rail rattled, but stayed put. Emma came out of the ring flushed with adrenaline, breath catching behind her grin.

Cross-country, though—that's where it all clicked.

They galloped through open fields peppered with novice-height fences. Water crossings, little drops, log piles. Emma rode with her body, not her doubts. She stopped thinking and started trusting.

And Ember—bless her steady Irish heart—carried them like she'd known Emma her whole life.

They came home clear.

Not first place. Not even top three.

But it wasn't about that.

It was about riding into the finish box and hearing Eleanor say, quiet and proud, "You looked like you belonged out there."

Over the next few weeks, time seemed to both slow and speed up. The final stretch.

Emma started noticing the little things more.

Mornings wrapped in fog, the way the older riders teased the younger ones, the way Eleanor always wore her watch face-down.

She joined in on hack-outs and helped set fences for others. She groomed in the rain and learned to wrap legs one-handed. She shared a victory hot chocolate with one of the junior riders after a clear round at a schooling show.

There was a letter from Southern Lights—a photo of Crumble rolling in the dust, hooves straight up in the air. Alex had written, He's untrainable, just like you. We miss you around here. No signature, but none needed.

Emma pinned the letter to her corkboard beside a printout of her cross-country course map.

The days rolled on.

       

Her last week unfolded gently, as if Wyndmere Hollow was easing her toward goodbye instead of dragging her from it.

No dramatic countdowns. No over-the-top send-offs.

Just quiet moments that lingered.

The fog rolled in low every morning now, wrapping the pastures in soft white. Emma took to rising early and walking the length of the yard with her coffee, letting the cold bite her skin as her breath fogged the air.

Her duffel bag sat half-zipped in the corner of her room for days. She kept finding reasons not to finish packing.

A borrowed fleece she hadn't returned.

Boot polish she'd meant to use.

The rhythm of the days continued: stalls to muck out, horses to ride, tack to clean. But there was an edge to it now. The way conversations drifted off. The way people hesitated before saying goodbye, as if speaking it aloud might make it real.

Celtic Ember nickered when she walked into the barn on her last morning, and Emma nearly cried.

She spent extra time grooming the mare, brushing out her forelock, whispering nonsense into her warm neck.

"You're going to make someone else very lucky, you know that?" she murmured.

She gave Ember a peppermint and lingered longer than necessary at the stall door.

Eleanor found her later, sitting on the fence line, boots muddy, hair half in a braid and half falling out.

The head trainer didn't say much. Just handed her a folded piece of paper.

Inside was a photo. Grainy, slightly crooked. Emma mid-air on Celtic Ember, eyes up, posture solid, wind catching her shirt. In blue pen beneath it, Eleanor had written:

You proved something—to yourself.
If you ever want to come back, Wyndmere Hollow always has room for one more.

Emma blinked hard.

Eleanor stood with her arms crossed, pretending not to notice. Then added gruffly, "And don't get sentimental on me. You know where the tack soap is. Put that energy to good use."

Emma laughed through the lump in her throat.

She left before dawn the next day. One of the grooms drove her to the train station, and Wyndmere Hollow faded into the mist behind her like a half-remembered dream.

As the train pulled away, her phone buzzed.

A voicemail from Alex.

"Hey, Em. Got your letter. Crumble bit Old Ted again. He says you taught him that. I told him you're probably too busy charming poncy British horses to care. Anyway. Can't wait to have you back. Ranch coffee's been awful since you left."

A pause.

Then, softer:

"Ride safe, okay?"

She leaned her head against the window and smiled. Not the wistful kind. The real kind.

She was going home.

But she wasn't leaving Wyndmere behind.

Not really.

       

The dust hit her first.

After months of green hedgerows and drizzly mornings, the red-gold haze of Southern Lights Station bloomed in her vision like something out of a memory. The sun was already dropping behind the hills when the truck rolled up the long drive, lighting the paddocks in a warm burnished glow.

The familiar clang of the front gate. The sound of cattle lowing in the distance. And there, leaning against the yard railings with a smirk, stood Jewel—arms crossed, boots dusty, same battered hat pulled low over her brow.

"Well," Jewel said, "Look what the storm blew back in."

Emma laughed as she climbed down, barely dodging the dogs that launched itself at her knees.

"Missed you too, Jazzy, Ringo, Boomer."

Jewel pulled her into a one-armed hug that was firm and grounding and just long enough.

"You're skinnier," Jewel muttered into her ear. "But you walk like you believe in yourself now."

Emma pulled back with a sheepish grin. "Thanks. I think?"

More figures appeared from the barns—Old Ted tipping his hat, a couple of the younger hands giving her cheeky grins. Even Crumble stuck his fuzzy face over the stable door and gave a huff like he was pretending not to care.

And then there was Alex.

He hung back at first, arms deep in a hay bale he clearly wasn't interested in.

Emma wandered over slowly, her heart tapping out a rhythm in her chest that hadn't been there when she left.

"Hey," she said.

He turned. That crooked smile. The one that started in his eyes.

"Hey."

They stood awkwardly for a beat. Then—

"You look... different," he said.

"You mean I finally stopped smelling like hoof oil and liniment?"

"God no. You still smell like a saddle."

They both laughed. The kind that bubbled up from somewhere that still felt tender.

Emma looked down, toeing a bit of straw.

"I got your letters," she said. "Even the one that was just a doodle of Crumble kicking a wall."

Alex shrugged, suddenly shy. "He's not exactly subtle when he misses someone."

She looked up then, really looked. And he stepped closer.

"I missed you," he said, voice low.

Something cracked open in her chest.

"I missed you too."

There was a pause—long enough to wonder, short enough not to stop it—and then he leaned in. And she did too. Their noses bumped. Breath hitched. And—

A snort. Wet and loud.

Crumble had shoved his giant nose over the railing behind them, effectively wedging himself between their shoulders.

"Mate," Alex groaned, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "Do you mind?"

Crumble snorted again and tried to chew Emma's hair.

They both broke down laughing, forehead to forehead now, hands resting on each other's arms.

"I think he's jealous," Emma whispered.

Alex shrugged. "Can't blame him. I was gone a long time too."

She looked at him—really looked. All the unsaid things weren't unsaid anymore. The ranch, the sky, the warm wind — it all felt like a beginning.

Alex kissed her properly then, soft and sure, just out of reach of the horse's teeth.

And this time, Crumble let them be.

       

Jewel leaned against the fence, pretending to check the latch, but her eyes were locked on the pair in the stables.

Alex was brushing down Crumble with a little more pep in his step than usual, and Emma... well, Emma had that glow. The kind that didn't come from a tan or a good ride. It came from finally setting something down that had been too heavy for too long.

Jewel didn't say anything when Emma passed by with an empty feed bucket, but she raised one eyebrow.

Emma tried not to smirk. "What?"

Jewel shrugged, utterly deadpan. "Nothing. Just funny how a person can be gone for five months and come back with a shine in her eye and a certain someone trailing two steps behind like a stockhorse with a lead rope."

Emma rolled her eyes. "It's not like that."

"Mmm." Jewel chewed on a bit of straw she'd picked up. "You're right. It's not like that. He never looked at anyone else like that before."

Emma flushed crimson. "Jewel."

"What?" Jewel said innocently. "I didn't say anything. Didn't say a word about first kisses in shadowed barns or horses trying to ruin the moment."

Emma groaned. "Who told you?"

"I didn't need to be told," Jewel said, smug. "The stables have eyes. And ears. And noses."

Crumble let out a snort right on cue.

Emma couldn't help but laugh, shoulders relaxing.

"Welcome home, Em," Jewel said softly, and squeezed her arm before walking off, leaving Emma with a blush and a smile that lingered long after.

       

It was late.

The firepit out back was just glowing embers now, and the air had cooled enough to tug on sleeves. The sky was a deep navy, scattered with stars, and the smell of eucalyptus drifted on the breeze.

Emma and Alex sat on the tailgate of an old ute, feet swinging idly, a shared thermos of tea between them.

Neither had said much for a while.

"Feels weird being back," Emma said finally. "Like nothing's changed... and everything has."

Alex nodded. "I get that. I felt the same when I came back after the circuit. Like I knew this place, but I didn't quite fit right for a while."

Emma leaned back on her hands. "I didn't think I'd miss it so much."

"You didn't just miss the station."

She smiled. "No. I didn't."

Alex tapped his fingers on the metal beside her. "So... what happens now?"

She turned to look at him. "I don't know. We go slow? We keep doing what we're doing?"

"Which is...?"

Emma nudged his shoulder. "Sharing thermos tea and pretending Crumble didn't try to sabotage our entire romantic moment?"

Alex chuckled, low and genuine.

"I like that plan," he said.

They sat in the silence for a moment more before he added, "I'm glad you went. To England, I mean. You needed it."

"I did." Emma glanced sideways at him. "But I'm glad I came home, too."

He looked at her, serious now. "So am I."

No dramatic declarations. No fireworks.

Just the stars, the dust, and two people who were finally in the same place — at the same time — with no more words left unsaid.

       

I don't even know why I'm writing this. Maybe it's just easier to talk to paper. No chance of being interrupted. No risk of sounding like an idiot.

Emma's been gone for what, two and a half months now? Somewhere between the dust storms and long days, I lost count. Not like I'm keeping track or anything. Except I am. Sort of.

Southern Lights feels... quieter. Like someone turned the volume down on everything except the wind. I keep expecting to hear her boots on the porch or that awful hum she does when she's cleaning tack. Even the dogs seem a bit more sour than usual — or maybe it's just me.

I got a letter from her last week. Said she'd had a good schooling session and managed not to fall off a sassy Irish mare. Typical Emma. Always chasing a challenge with that fire in her eyes. I read the letter twice. Okay, five times. That's not weird, right?

I wish I knew how to say this stuff to her. That I'm proud. That I miss her. That I'm counting down the days like some lovesick teenager.

Except I'm not in love with her.

Am I?

Hell.

Jewel says I'm walking around like a kicked dog. I told her to mind her own business. She just smirked in that way that says she already knows the truth I'm too stubborn to admit.

I don't know what'll happen when Emma comes back. Maybe everything'll go back to normal. Maybe it won't.

I just hope—
...nah.

Forget it.

— Alex

       

Dear Alex,
(Scratch that.)
Hey, loser.
(No. Too rude.)
Hi.

Okay, look. I'm not great at this. Writing letters. Talking about feelings. You know that.

Wyndmere's beautiful. Wet, green, proper-English countryside beautiful. The kind of place that smells like mud and moss and old money. The horses are incredible. Celtic Ember is starting to trust me — she even nickered when I brought her breakfast this morning. I think I smiled for an hour after that.

We had a group lesson today. I didn't fall off, but I definitely made a fool of myself trying to mount from the wrong side. Eleanor said nothing but gave me That Look. You'd like her, I think. She's a bit like Jewel if Jewel drank earl grey and wore tall boots.

I'm learning a lot. But sometimes, I wish you were here.
I miss the red dirt. I miss Jewel's lectures. I miss being teased over burnt toast and bad coffee.
I miss you.
(There. I said it. Not out loud, but it's something.)

I've been carrying around this stupid damper photo you snuck into my gear. Candle and all. You're a dork. But it makes me laugh when the homesickness hits too hard.

Don't let Chaos eat your hat again.
And tell Jewel I haven't gone soft. Just... temporarily soggy. Blame the rain.

I'll be back before you know it. Maybe things will be different. Maybe they won't.
But I hope...
(That's where the words run out.)

Take care of the station for me.

— E.

P.S. If you tell anyone I got sentimental, I'll deny it. Forever.