Page 77 of His Texas Star
"I know."
"So maybe?—"
"She's an extraordinary rider," I said, to the reporter, to whoever was listening. "The best I've trained. She worked harder than anyone I've worked with and it shows in every frame of that film." I looked at her. "She's also the most stubborn person I've ever met. She'd do the stunt the same way again tomorrow."
"I would," she confirmed.
"I know."
The reporter looked between us with the expression of someone who understood they were watching something private. Something that had been built over a year in paddocks and trailers and by creek beds on cold February mornings and had nothing to do with film premieres or press lines.
Daniela squeezed my hand.
I squeezed back.
"One more question," the reporter said. "What's next for Daniela Morales?"
She looked at me. Just a second—something moving through her face that was warm and certain and mine.
Then she looked back.
"More of this," she said. "More of all of it."
She meant the film. The career. The billboard with her real name. The credits that finally said what they were supposed to say.
She also meant the ranch. The trailer. The horses. The creek in February. A man who would always be where she landed.
I knew because I knew her. All of her.
"More of all of it," I said.
She looked up at me and smiled.
I smiled back.
And that was enough.
That was everything.
THE END
