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“You thought? What’s holding you back? I’ve been sitting by letting it all settle, you know? Letting you do your thing because I know it’s hard.” I look up, and Brody has his hands on his hips. He lowers his voice, but his tone is dark and irritated. “I know it’s hard.But this needs to stop. The drinking and partying and girls… climbing silos and jumping in pools naked and showing up to ride drunk.… Do you know what Walker would have given—” He stops, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have said that. Maybe I shouldn’t have said any of it. I’m… I’m sorry, okay? I get it. I do.” His hand reaches for my shoulder, and he squeezes it once before releasing his grip and ripping off his hat. “I have to remove you from the lineup. Don’t go anywhere.”
I want to tell him, “Don’t worry, I won’t,” but he’s alreadygone. Within minutes, I hear my name and the wordsturn outspoken over the loudspeaker to a round of disappointed boos from the stands. I feel like shit. Garbage. Lower than dirt. I’ve let everyone down. Especially Brody. Walker was his actual brother, and he’s not fucking around making stupid decisions and moping.
Jesus. I’ve let Walker down.
The secret only Walker’s ghost knows is that when I hear my name over the loudspeaker, being taken off the roster, I also feel a little relieved.
NineWINNIE
Color me shocked when Case is present, accounted for, and apparently sober bright and early the next morning.
I make a show of looking around and affect a generic cowboy stance (hip jutted out, one thumb hooked in my belt loop, another jerking east). “You know this here is the stables, right? You usually sleep in the big house down yonder.”
His face flushes, and he picks a pitchfork off a hook. “Very funny.”
“Seriously. What are you doing here? The sun is barely up.” If Mr. Michaels is gonna start using the stables as a punishment for his attractive-yet-wayward son on the regular, I’m gonna need to have some words with Camilla. There’s not enough work for the both of us.
“And yet, you’re here,” he points out, a slight edge of annoyance creeping in his tone. Probably because he’s hungover. I consider for a hot second giving him shit. He’s more than earned it. Garrett was properly devastated to miss seeing him ride, and we paid twenty dollars to get past the gate.
There’s something in his eyes, however, that prevents me. Or maybe it’s that I still feel bad for last week, when I implied he wasn’t able to deal because he’s never had something bad happen to him.
Because while that may be true, it’s not only “something bad,” it’s grief. I’ve never had someone I love die, but I imagine it’s the worst thing you can ever experience. I might be broke, but grace costs nothing.
“I’m paid to be here. That pitchfork even has my name on it.”
He swings the pitchfork up, squinting in the dimness. I flip a switch in the tack room, and it glows yellow into the aisle. Then I walk over and use my pointer finger to trace the spot where I’d carved my initials into the wooden stake.
I hold my hand out. “I hate the other one. The handle is plastic, and it chafes.”
His eyes widen. “You’ve seriously claimed a pitchfork?”
I sigh, flexing my hand again. He slaps the handle into it, and I beam.
“I don’t have a lot in this world, Case Benton Michaelsthe Third, but I do have infinite dibs on the pitchfork with the wooden handle. It’s smooth as an eight ball after generations of mucking stalls and molds perfectly to my hands.” I lower my voice conspiratorially. “I’ve earned it.”
He shakes his head and reaches for the other fork, but a smirk teases the corners of his mouth. The sight of it eases something inside of me. Like a balance being restored.
“Can I trust you to take that half of the stalls without puking your guts out?”
He heads over without complaint and throws himself into work while I start from the opposite end of the aisle. The only sound is the quiet rush of our breathing, the grating scrape ofpitchforks, and the sliding of stall doors. After a while, I start to feel twitchy. I never work in complete silence.
“Do you mind if I put on a podcast?”
He pauses his lifting and wraps an arm around his pitchfork. His breath puffs out in the chilly morning, drawing my attention to his mouth. “Is that what you usually listen to?”
I shrug, pulling out my phone and walking over to the dusty community Bluetooth speaker. “I’ve tried music, but it makes some of the elderlies antsy.”
“Not Her Royal Highness?” he asks.
“Nah. She’s cool with tunes, but her tastes are honestly a little embarrassing.”
“Let me guess? Olivia Rodrigo?”
My jaw drops. “Wow. What, you pick the one young, successful female singer you could think of to make some snarky remark about?”
He winces and raises a hand in surrender. “Dang, girl. I was only kiddin’.”
“For the record, Mab’s tastes run to nineties country. Alan Jackson. Travis Tritt. Garth Brooks.”
