A heart-buckling ride of a romance by beloved author Erin Hahn, Even If It Breaks Your Heart is about two teens finding out that sometimes, the hardest part of discovering what you want is getting the courage to pursue it.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Erin Hahn’s Even If It Breaks Your Heart, which releases on February 6th 2024.
The only thing keeping nineteen-year-old Case Michaels together after the death of his best friend, Walker, is a list Walker left behind of things he wants Case to accomplish in his absence. So far, though, Case hasn’t even been able to continue riding bulls in the rodeo circuit, something he’s done his entire life, balking at the thought of competing without Walker by his side. But the list? Case is determined to follow it to the letter– and he follows it all the way to Winnie Sutton.
Eighteen-year-old Winnie Sutton just wants to keep her family together. She graduated high school early to work long shifts at the Michaels family ranch so she can support her younger siblings and a father who’s more than happy to let Winnie fill the responsible parent role. If she sometimes sneaks out to ride the horses herself and forget about life for a while– well, that’s no one else’s business– until the day she crashes headfirst into Case Michaels. Case sees her riding skills and immediately ropes her into competing for the ranch and becoming his friend.
Winnie and Case couldn’t be more different, but Case can’t help but be inspired by Winnie’s badly-hidden passion for riding and competition. And there’s something about Case that makes Winnie want to try grasping onto a dream for herself, whether that’s a shot at a rodeo trophy, the annoyingly handsome rancher’s son who won’t leave her alone, or maybe both.
There are two types of people in this world: the ones that think “barn” is the best smell ever invented, and those who are wrong. Joanna Gaines could bottle this up, combine it with beeswax, drop it in a refurbished tin can, and make the Target crowd go spare. It’s that good. And it doesn’t change! English style, western style, north or south, mountains or plains, a stable is a stable is a stable, and it always smells like coming home. Getting your shit together. Finding your center.
As I said, two types. Some people aren’t horse people. They don’t get it. Couldn’t possibly. They’ve never experienced the feeling of strolling down the center aisle just after sunrise. The soft nickering of horses, the swish-flick of their tails against solid wood, the creak as they shift, their soft noses pressing their greeting. The air is heavy and wet with the scent of freshly mown grasses, worn leather, rich manure, and decades of dust, swirling and settling in the beams of dawn. The clinking of bridles dancing in the powerful breeze of a massive fan. The scuff of work boots on packed dirt and concrete. The warm and weirdly gooey feel of slobbery lips lapping up carrots and sugar cubes.
I digress. It’s just . . . it’s my favorite place.
Which is why I wasn’t thrilled to hear he’ll be here today, invading my sanctuary. Sure, he’s the boss’s kid and has every right. One might even argue it’s his duty to be here cleaning stalls and leading trail rides and exercising the stock, except in the eighteen months I’ve been working here, I’ve only ever seen Case Benton Michaels the Third in the stables twice. First, when he was looking for the specific medicine ball he prefers to use for his balance training. Second, on the day of Walker Gibson’s funeral.
Neither time did he notice me. Which was perfectly fine. I have enough on my plate. I don’t need to add “babysitting the arrogant rich kid” to the stack.
That is, until approximately twenty minutes ago when I was sucker punched with the realization of why the famous Case Michaels is being forced to slum it today.
He’s . . . not doing great. According to the rumors, he climbed up on the Richardsons’ corn silo drunk last night. He could have died. Sure, Case rides bulls, which is about as reckless as you can get, but despite his many, many faults, Case is known around the rodeo circuit for his measured brand of reckless. His singular focus on riding is one of the things that makes him stand out. In the chute, he’s all business.
He and Walker Gibson were like two sides of the same champion-worthy coin. They balanced each other perfectly. Walker was hilarious and easy and up for anything, while Case was earthbound. He kept Walker grounded and as safe as he could.
More than once, I saw Walker step up to the chute without his vest or his helmet or, ew, his mouth guard while Case ran after him. I wonder if it had to do something with the fact Walker was terminal and Case was in denial.
People like Case Michaels and Walker Gibson were born for rodeo. Grit in their bones, bravery oozing from their pores.
People like me, too. Not that I would ever say that out loud and not that I could ever in a million years act on the impulse. But deep down inside, I know it’s true. Queen Mab confirms it. Camilla, my mentor and the stable manager here at the ranch, only purchased Mab six months ago, rescuing her from an auction where she was sickly thin and dull-coated. Camilla said she saw a special fire in Mab’s eyes that begged and pleaded for wide open spaces.
It’s what Camilla said she saw in my eyes the first time we met.
And when Mab and I gallop out of the stables, we find our freedom together. No responsibilities, expectations, or restrictions. Just endless blue skies. The Michaels ranch spans thousands of rolling acres, and Mab and I have covered them all.
Regardless of my earlier slip of sympathy toward the boss’s kid, it’s not until I’m bringing Queen Mab back from her (our) workout that I remember the rodeo boy is even around. Still cleaning stalls from the look of it.
In my defense, riding Queen Mab is akin to a religious experience and often has the promising effect of completely emptying my brain of any and all bullshit.
Mab hesitates at the entry to the stables where the ground transitions from a fine gravel to concrete. It’s one of her weird quirks. She can take it at a bit of a trot, but when it comes to a slow stroll after a hard workout, she does this little stutter step, and I need to coax her through with a click of my tongue and a gentle hand to her shoulder.
I have no idea why she is the way she is, but it doesn’t bother me much. Mab runs like the wind, has the most stunning form of any horse I’ve ever laid eyes on, can turn on a dime, and seemed plenty put off by Case Michaels.
That makes two of us.
I recall the way he leaned in, all slick, holding out his hand to introduce himself as if I didn’t already know his name. Even now, I flare my nostrils and lead Mab past him to her stall (which I note is spotless, but seriously, that’s the least the idiot could do; I’m not about to give the dude props for doing his job).
“Does the Queen approve of her quarters?” Case croons over the wall that separates Mab’s stall from a tall, dark, and handsome Thoroughbred named Jose Swervo. I wipe the scowl from my face as he pops his through the bars.
He is not cute. Not even with flushed cheeks setting his blue eyes to sparkling. Not even with straw dust in his hair making him look like a little kid.
Mab, the traitor, nuzzles him through the iron bars. He chuckles low, and I ignore the way it makes the little hairs on my arms stand straight.
“Okay, okay, I thought you might be into Honeycrisp. You minx.” He pulls a handful of apple slices from his shirt pocket and holds them out in his flat palm.
Mab gobbles them up, giving his fingers a couple of licks for good measure, then allows Case to stroke her soft nose. She looks every inch the royal. He laughs again, and his dimple pops.
Damn.
From Even If It Breaks Your Heart, by Erin Hahn. Copyright © 2024 by the author, and reprinted with permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
