Chapter 8
One Week Later
Dawn broke blue overBig Timber’s fairgrounds.Titus braced a boot against the bottom rung of the chute, leaned into the wrench, and let the ringing carry across rows of trucks and trailers.Sweat gathered beneath his shirt early, settling along the band of his jeans.
Horses shifted in their pens.Metal complained under strain.Someone called out a greeting and another voice answered near a truck that struggled to turn over.He rolled his shoulders, dragged a streak of grime down his thigh, and set himself for the last stubborn hinge.
Stay focused.Don’t look left.Don’t look toward the white block of canvas that marked Kyla’s catering tent a few hundred yards off, far enough to make distance feel like a choice.
The ground stayed firm beneath his boots, morning chill already lifting, dust hanging low along the paths cut through the grass.Volunteers argued over extension cords and water barrels.
Every small sound pulled at him.He measured the hinge angle again and tightened his grip on the wrench.His knuckles reddened against the metal, and he welcomed it.The sting kept him here, fixed in a task that still made sense.
He swung the gate wide, checked the arc once, then again, and caught himself glancing north before he could stop it.The town’s best shot at a supper club had raised her tent like a challenge, bright against churned earth.
His mouth dried.Her voice threaded through memory without warning—too close, too recent.He drew a deeper breath to clear it and bent back to the rail.
Metal shrieked as he adjusted the hinge.He wiped sweat from his brow and reached for the rosin tin, working the powder into his palms by habit.It lodged beneath his nails, rough and grounding.
Each inhale pulled in leftover barbecue smoke, leather, grass, and the steady truth that everything he had could snap loose if tomorrow went wrong.
A truck rolled in along the outer lane.Idaho plates.A sheepdog paced the passenger seat, alert and restless.Titus kept his gaze on them longer than needed, then dropped his head and wiped down the rail.
His arms ached.The scar at his wrist prickled where it always did under strain.Voices rose and fell around him.Someone argued about raffle tickets.A pickup backfired.Horses answered in low, impatient bursts.
Fair week stretched outward in every direction, the noise and motion pressing at the back of his neck.He kept his focus forward.No need to look toward her.He already knew the rhythm of her walk from yesterday.The steady pace, the way she squared her shoulders against anyone who watched too long.
The morning carried promise he had no business entertaining, every bit of it tied to red lipstick and the memory of her voice in the dark.
Wind snapped the white tent harder.Canvas whipped against its frame.A loose zip tie cracked against the pole.From where he stood behind the chute rails, he caught only a slice of movement.
Kyla bent over a line of coolers, arms bare despite the chill.Her sleeves rode high, exposing the burn scar along her forearm.He closed his hand into a fist and went back to work.A part of him tracked every step she took, measuring distance without meaning to.
A whistle cut through the noise.Someone needed help with parking.Titus answered without thinking, tossing the wrench onto the tailgate and stepping into the lane.He fell into routine.
Work filled the space where everything else pressed too close.Glass clinked somewhere near the breakfast stand.Diesel mixed with manure and frying bacon.His stomach turned.He had not eaten since before sunrise.
Back in the chute line, he reset his stance and checked the gate again.The hinge sat right.The hardware no longer complained.He straightened and drew a slow breath, letting it out through his teeth.
The sun lifted higher, striking metal and throwing glare across the rails.Across the grounds, her tent flashed with every snap of wind.He kept his gaze fixed ahead and tightened his grip on the wrench, choosing work over the pull that never seemed to ease.
Deacon found him at the east pen, a heavy hand landing between his shoulder blades.The morning had thickened with noise.Handlers called out over restless stock.Teenagers shouted for burritos.Traffic clogged every stretch of gravel.Deacon’s laugh came easy, loud enough to cut through it all.
“You gettin’ ready for that rank old bronc?Heard she’ll put you flat if you blink wrong.”
