Then she climbed off my lap, smoothed her shirt down, and walked out of the barn without a word. Didn't look back. Didn't slow down.
A minute later I heard her truck turn over. Then the spray of gravel under tires, fadin' down the drive until there was nothing left but the cicadas and the horses and the music from the radio still playin' in the tack room.
I sat on the bench with my wrists still looped in my own belt and the distinct, humiliating evidence of the last ten minutes coolin' in my jeans and stared at the middle distance.
The song on the radio changed to somethin' upbeat and completely inappropriate for the situation.
Maribel looked at me from across the aisle with what I could only describe as pity.
"Do not judge me," I told her.
The barn door swung open.
"Hey, Brody—" Slim stopped dead in the doorway. Tommy walked into the back of him.
"The fuck?" Tommy said, peerin' around Slim's shoulder.
They took in the scene. My wrists looped in my belt. My jeans. My expression, which I can only imagine was somewhere between wrecked and bewildered.
Slim curled his lips between his teeth.
Tommy looked at the ceiling.
"Jesus fucking Christ," I said. "Will one of you please help me?"
Slim lost it first. Doubled over, one hand braced on the door frame, wheezin' like a busted accordion. Tommy lasted about three more seconds before he went the same way, both of them absolutely useless to me and everyone else on this earth.
"You know what," I said. "Forget it."
I worked my wrists free, stood, did what needed doin' to restore some semblance of my dignity, and walked past both of them with my head held as high as a man in my situation could reasonably manage.
Which, for the record, was not very high.
"Not a word," I said on my way out.
Their laughter followed me all the way to my truck.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
I madeit four miles down Route 89 before I had to pull over.
The truck idled on the gravel shoulder, headlights cutting into the dark ahead. Nothing but empty road and the silhouette of the Bitterroots against a sky that had gone deep blue and starless at the edges. Beautiful and indifferent and wide open in every direction.
Wide open.
That used to feel like freedom.
I put my hand on the gearshift.
Idaho by morning. Wyoming by nightfall tomorrow if I pushed it. I had enough cash to get gone and enough sense to know that gone was the smart play here. Sixteen years of instinct, honed sharp as a farrier's rasp, all of it pointed in the same direction.
Go.
Wyatt Cole was coming to Meagher County.
Wyatt Cole, who was thirty-seven years old and still riding bulls because it was the only thing he'd ever been good at and the only place that still wanted him.
My hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
