Page 137 of Lost Trust

She raises an eyebrow. “He called Waylon, but he didn’t exactly give him any details.”

“Just a big, fat misunderstanding.”

Both women stare at me.

“Did you two work it out?” Charli asks.

I can’t help it. A smile spreads across my face. “You could say that.”

Shelby squeals.

Charli squeals louder.

I burst out laughing. “Aren’t we a little too old to be squealing like teenagers?”

“Fuck no,” Charli says immediately. “You’re never too old to squeal over a boy.”

“Or working out those misunderstandings,” Shelby adds.

“You guys are starting to sound like Ginger,” I say.

Charli laughs. “She is a wise woman.”

“Ginger is a whole experience,” Shelby agrees.

True enough.

The woman has never met a boundary she couldn’t climb over.

Royce

I watch the next kid climb onto the practice bull, adjust his grip, and nod toward the chute.

“Open it.”

The gate swings wide.

The bull surges out, bucking hard, and the kid manages to stay centered through the first few jumps before getting pitched sideways and hitting the dirt.

He rolls clear and pops back to his feet.

“Better,” I call out. “But you’re looking down. Keep your eyes up.”

He nods and climbs back through the rails, and the next kid takes his place.

We work through another round before one of the boys raises his hand.

“How often should we practice?”

I look at him. “Every damn day.”

His eyes widen.

“I’m serious. If you want to be a great bull rider, get on ten bulls a day, every day. You get on ’em enough, you learn how to stay on ’em.”

I gesture toward the practice pen.

“That’s what Axle and I did when we were your age. Practice bull after practice bull. We rode every day after school. All day on the weekends. We rode until our asses were dragging.”