I watched his lips move; the shock of the words he’d used was a knife. “He said what?” I asked quickly, sitting upright, dragging Lucas with me, and turning to face him, careful not to yank him when he winced. “He said those exact words?”
“I’ll never forget them,” Lucas murmured.
“Walter wouldn’t say that. That wasn’t your grandfather,” I said, guilt and horror flooding me.
“I asked him?—”
“No, listen to me. Did the person you spoke to tell you his name? Did he answer the phone and identify himself? Did he…” Was I shouting? Because Lucas winced and tried to move away. “Sorry, are you sure that was who you were talking to?”
“Yes?” He phrased it as a question, as if he suddenly doubted himself.
“That doesn’t sound like your grandfather.” I stopped then, because when I told him, any chance at anything between us, just sex or discovering more, would vanish, but I couldn’t stop this. “Lucas, I’m so fucking sorry, but your grandfather didn’t answer the phone.”
He peered up at me, confused, and I had to rip the Band-Aid off.
“That’s the kind of thing my dad would say.”
The words hung between us, heavy, and I watched them land. Lucas went still, his breath catching, color draining from his face so fast it scared me.
“When you heard him,” I said, slowing myself down, forcing the pieces to line up instead of crashing into each other. “When he cornered Miguel. Before he hit you.” I waited until he looked at me. “What do you remember?”
Lucas swallowed. His eyes unfocused, as if he was staring past me at something he didn’t want to see.
“A cowboy,” he said faintly. “Shouting. Big voice. Angry. He grabbed Miguel and backed him into the wall. Kept saying—” He broke off, shook his head. “I don’t remember the words. Just… a cowboy. A cowboy yelling.”
My mind stalled, then lurched forward all at once.
Walter hadn’t been like that. Not ever. He raised his voice when it mattered, sure, but he didn’t corner people. He didn’t bully. And he sure as hell didn’t sound like my father.
I felt lost for half a second, standing in the wreckage of it—and then something clicked.
“Wait,” I said, already reaching for my phone. “Hang on.”
I opened my camera roll and scrolled fast, heartthudding, past feed deliveries, fence lines, Boone’s dumb, handsome face. “I’ve got something.”
Lucas watched me as if I’d gone off the rails.
“I was at a horse sale,” I said, shaking. “A couple of years back. Event down in Pueblo. I was videoing the stock for Walter—bloodlines, movement, all that.” I found it. Stopped. Turned the screen toward him. “But I caught something else.” I hit play. “This is Walter.”
Walter’s voice came through first, calm, steady, talking horses. Then another voice cut in from off-camera. Familiar in the worst possible way.
My dad.
I looked at Lucas as the sound filled the room. “So, Walter’s talking first, and my dad is the one replying,” I said.
Lucas jerked, and his hand flew up, knocking against my wrist, and the phone clattered to the floor between us, the sound still playing, tinny and unforgiving.
“No,” he breathed, scrambling back until his shoulders hit the wall. His knees came up, boots scraping wood, his whole body folding in on itself as he gasped in pain. “No—turn it off. Jesse, turn it off.”
I killed the sound and dropped the phone, all my attention on him.
He had both hands over his ears now; fingers dug into his hair as if he was trying to rip the noise out of his head. His breathing turned fast and shallow, eyes wide and glassy, fixed on nothing.
“That’s him,” Lucas said hoarsely. “Those are the words of the man who told me…”
“The second one. My dad?”
He pressed his forehead to his knees, rocking once. “I thought it was my grandfather. I thought—” His voice broke completely. “I thought my grandfather hated me.” He went very still after that. “Oh,” he whispered as his eyes lifted to mine. “He didn’t, did he? I just… never spoke to him.” I didn’t move for a while, and then, he tried to stand, and I scrambled to help him up, wanting to ask him where he hurt when he gasped in pain, but after a quiet thank you, he left the room.
