She nods once. Steps back. Flint's standing by his truck, coffee in hand, and gives me a look that says everything his mouth won't. “Be careful. Come back. Don't make me explain to your sister why I let you do this.”
Rainey climbs into Flint's truck without looking back. The door shuts. Flint tips his hat at me, gets behind the wheel, and pulls out of the lot heading north.
I watch the taillights until they disappear, then get in my truck and head south.
The drive to Las Cruces takes three hours. I spend the first hour running the plan in my head. The second hour calling Colt, who picks up on the first ring.
"Where are you?" No greeting. No small talk. That's Colt.
"Heading to Las Cruces."
"So am I. We need to talk about Merrick."
That stops me. "How do you know about Merrick?"
"Because I'm not stupid, Grant. You think you're the only one who noticed Tyler asking questions before he died? You think I didn't see the way the circuit officials shut everything down before his body was cold?" His voice is hard, controlled, the voice of a man who's been thinking about this longer than he's been letting on. "I've been watching you dig and figured you'd come to me when you were ready. You weren't, so I started pulling threads on my own."
"What kind of threads?"
"The kind that tell me Merrick's been skimming prize money through shell companies and using Thornton Livestock as a front. The kind where riders who ask too many questions end up in the dirt." A beat. "I'm not sitting this one out."
"Colt, listen to me. Merrick's going to make a move during my ride. Drug the bull, pay off the bullfighters. I need you away from this."
"The hell you do."
"I need you alive after. If this goes sideways, Rainey and Flint have everything. Photos, money trail, Vic's confession. Your job is to make sure none of it gets buried. You're the top-ranked bull rider on this circuit. When you talk, people listen. I need that voice loud and public if I'm not around to use mine."
Silence. I can hear the highway under his tires. He's already driving.
"You're asking me to let you walk into a setup alone."
"I'm asking you to be the one who finishes this if I can't."
"That's not the same thing and you know it."
"It's what I need."
More silence. Then Colt's voice comes back, low and dangerous. "I'll stay out of Las Cruces. But I'm going to be close. And when this is over, if Merrick's still breathing, I'm coming for him myself. Not for you. For Tyler."
"Fair enough."
"And Grant? Don't you dare die in that arena. Because if you do, I'll drag your ass out of the ground just to kill you again for being this stupid."
He hangs up before I can respond. That's Colt too. Says what needs saying, then cuts the line like the conversation was already over before it started.
The third hour of the drive, I don't think about anything. Just watch the desert slide past, mesa and scrubland and the occasional cluster of buildings that passes for a town out here. The landscape is beautiful in the harsh, unforgiving way that New Mexico specializes in. Nothing survives here without earning it.
I arrive at the Las Cruces fairgrounds by noon. The event starts at seven, and the grounds are already buzzing with stock haulers and setup crews and riders pulling in with their rigs. I park, check in at the rider registration, and collect my draw sheet.
Tombstone's Revenge.
I stare at the name. Tombstone's Revenge is a Thornton Livestock bull. One of Merrick's animals.
Vic was right. They've set the draw.
I find a quiet spot behind the livestock pens and call Flint.
"Thornton bull," I say. "Tombstone's Revenge."
