Jace
The box shouldn’t be here.
That’s the first thing that sticks, not just the fact that it was buried, but where it was buried. Right on our Miller land like someone wanted it hidden but not gone. It was tucked just deep enough that it wouldn’t be found by accident, but not so deep that it couldn’t be dug up again when the time came.
I crouch beside it, resting my forearms on my knees as I take a closer look. Forcing myself to slow down and actually see what’s in front of me instead of jumping straight to conclusions that don’t help anything.
Rodeo tags.
Not old enough to be forgotten, not worn enough to be tossed aside, and definitely not something anyone in this area would just leave lying around. Let alone bury like it means something more than scrap.
I pick one up, turning it over between my fingers. The metal cool and solid, the number stamped clean and familiar in a way that settles wrong in my gut.
I’ve seen these before.
Not just in passing, not just at events where everything blurs together under lights and noise. Close enough to remember the pattern, the setup, the way certain riders carry themselves when they wear numbers like this.
And that’s when the unease really starts to build.
This isn’t random.
It’s not some kid messing around or a piece of junk that ended up in the wrong place.
This was put here.
On purpose.
I shift my attention back to the box, pushing aside a piece of worn leather to get a better look at what’s underneath. The second layer tells me even more than the first.
A glove.
Not new, not clean. Not old enough to be forgotten either, the kind of gear someone uses regularly and takes care of, the kind of thing you don’t just lose track of unless you mean to.
Or unless something happened.
I sit back slightly, letting out a slow breath as my eyes scan the rest of the contents, taking in every detail, every piece, trying to fit it together into something that makes sense.
It doesn’t.
My jaw tightens as I reach for the last item. The one thing tucked deeper than the rest like whoever put this together wanted it protected more than anything else in the box. The second my fingers brush against it, something in my chest goes tight.
Paper.
Folded.
Handled more than once.
I pull it free and unfold it carefully, the edges worn but the ink still clear enough to read without any trouble. The name written across it stops everything cold.
Colt.
For a second, I just stare at it. My mind pulling up pieces I didn’t think about before. Old conversations, half-remembered moments from the circuit, things that didn’t seem important at the time but suddenly feel like they should’ve been.
Colt doesn’t leave things behind.
He doesn’t lose gear.
And he sure as hell doesn’t bury it out on someone else’s land unless there’s a reason for it.
