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"See?" Wyatt's plea was half-sob, half-triumph. "I wasn't there—I couldn't be."
The man in the video was far smaller than Wyatt. His hair was short. His complexion pale.
It was a different man.
She checked the timestamp. Two nights ago.
The screen went dark.
She scowled, and dust swirled as Rachel Blackwood pressed Wyatt’s limp hand against his phone. His finger unlocked the device once more, and the screen lit up. She kept one knee on his back, pinning him to the parched earth. Her other hand steadied the device, squinting against the glare of the midday sun, as the footage began to play.
"Watch it..." Wyatt's voice came out strained, laced with the dust he'd inhaled.
The video was grainy, but not enough to hide the distinct gait of the figure approaching the ATV. A shadow moved with purpose, a silhouette hardened by the Texas sun. It took little more than a heartbeat for the figure to mount the vehicle—a maneuver smooth and practiced, reminiscent of a rodeo performer vaulting onto a wild bronco.
In fact, he moved exactly like a rodeo cowboy. His feet even seemed to inch up as if to the break, but then dropped again.
"See that?" Rachel's voice was low, sharp as flint. "You ever been to a rodeo, Wyatt?"
"Once, maybe... I don't—I don't remember," he stammered, head turned awkwardly to avoid inhaling dirt.
Rachel's eyes stayed locked on the screen, watching the figure ride off into a blur of motion. Her mind worked fast, stitching together fragments of actions and intentions, seeking the truth hidden within the pixels.
"Convenient amnesia," she muttered, thumb pausing the footage on the moment of ascent.
Wyatt's breath came hot and quick beneath her. "I swear, Ranger, that ain't me..."
She felt the tremor in his voice, saw the fear etched deep in the lines of his face.
"Looks like someone who knows their way around a saddle." Her tone was detached, observational.
"Please..." His plea was a cracked whisper, a thread about to snap.
Her gaze flickered from the phone to Wyatt, weighing his desperation against the cold digital evidence in her hand. The sirens wailed closer, a call to action, to decisions made in the span of a heartbeat.
The footage looped back, replaying the damning grace of the rider. Rachel pocketed the phone and stood up, dusting off her jeans as she peered at the terrified cop-killer.
The sun scorched the ravine’s edge, glaring down on the tableau of desperation. Rachel stood rigid, her shadow stretching across Wyatt's crumpled form. The dust settled around them like a judgment.
"Rodeo," she murmured, eyes narrowing as she pieced together the disjointed images in her mind—hooves pounding dirt, the cheers of a crowd, the deft leap onto a bucking bronco. The connection clicked. "You been to the rodeos lately, Wyatt?"
"God, no! I ain't been near one in years!"
"Then someone who has is our man." She spoke mostly to herself.
"Please, Ranger... I'm beggin' ya." His eyes were wide, the whites stark against the dust caking his face.
"Keep talking." Her command was terse, yet it cracked the door to redemption.
"Check my alibi, check anything. I'm—I'm scared of heights, for hell's sake!" he gasped out.
She hesitated, caught between duty and doubt. But the video showed a man who was far too small to be Wyatt mounting that ATV... It fit the timeline Wyatt claimed. With a grunt, Rachel bent down and seized Wyatt’s arm, her grip ironclad. She hauled him back from the brink, his body heavy with relief.
"Please," he choked out, collapsing against the parched earth.
"Save it," she snapped, though the ice in her voice had cracked. She shoved him toward the car, the Sedan baking under the relentless Texas sun.
"Get in," she ordered, shoving him into the backseat. His bound hands fumbled against the vinyl, seeking solace in its familiar texture.
