The man who taught me to ride a horse and rope a steer is right here in front of me, but the grief is still palpable because he’s a shadow of who he used to be. The contrast between who he was and who he is now is stark, but Dad’s still in there. He’s still able to talk to me, still able to hold aconversation. I’m not gonna waste the time I have left with him feeling sorry for myself or throwing him a pity party. He wouldn’t want me to.
“Hey, Dad. Got in about an hour ago. I didn’t want to wake you.”
He chuckles, low and dry. “I’d rather you woke me. There’s not much for me to do these days but sleep.”
I grab the cup of water off the end table and lift the straw to his mouth. He takes a sip and gives me a slight nod of thanks when he’s had enough.
My chest aches. Since his ALS diagnosis, everything at home has changed. They sold the cattle when Dad couldn’t manage them anymore and the medical bills piled up. They let go of hundreds of acres too—some of which I bought back with my earnings from our solid finish at the World Series of Team Roping last year. Now I’m building a house on that land, a place to come home to when I’m not out on the rodeo circuit.
“It’s good to see you, Dad.”
“You too, kiddo. Tell me how the circuit’s treatin’ ya this year.”
“We’ve had a good start. Had a real good time at the qualifier event in Rapid City two days ago.”
I leave out how I’m torn—how coming home more often like I want to might tank my standings. Brooks and I had a strong season last year and even got a few sponsorships. Things were looking up. But being here? It makes me question everything.
I know Mom would never ask me to give up on this dream to help with Dad, but I hate coming home and seeing how much he’s deteriorated while I was gone.
“You think you've got a chance at winnin’ this year?”
“Too soon to tell, but Brooks is one of the best headers I’ve ever seen. I’m lucky he wanted to work with me when I was so young.”
We met nearly a decade ago, back when I was just starting out on the circuit. He saw something in me he liked, and since I needed a header and he neededa heeler, we tried a few runs together before partnering up for a season. We’ve been roping side by side ever since.
Dad smiles faintly. “Y’all do good work together. Allie pulled up some runs for me to watch on YouTube. I liked seeing you in action again.”
“Yeah? I’m glad. I’ll make sure she shows you when we make it to the Championships.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I wish he could come see me in person, but there’s no use rubbing salt in a wound that won’t heal.
“You meet anyone special out there on the road?”
I laugh. “I’ve met several someones. But nothing serious. Doesn’t really work like that when you’re goin’ from city to city and living out of a trailer.”
"Ropers take their families on the road all the time." He frowns and closes his eyes for a minute. “I worry about you bein’ out there alone. You’ve always been someone who needs his people.”
“I’ve got plenty of people, Dad.”
His expression tightens, gaze dropping to his lap. “Being sick like this—you get a lot of time to think. And I keep thinking how lucky I was to meet your mom when I did. We had a good life. Made memories. Raised you kids.” He sighs, glancing back up at me. “You just never know how much time you’ve got. I don’t want you wasting it bouncing from woman to woman like it doesn't matter. You’re getting older. Life’s about more than frivolous sex.”
“Christ, Dad,” I mutter. “Are you really giving me a sex talk at twenty-nine?”
He huffs a laugh. “Don’t be embarrassed about sex, Tripp. How do you think you and Allie got here?”
I cringe. “Please. I don’t need the visuals.”
“Alright, alright.” He shifts in the chair, wincing a little. “Just promise me something, will you?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod.
“Stop taking women to your bed when they don’t mean anything. You deserve love and a family—if that’s what you want. But you’re not gonna find it sleepin’ your way across the country.”
“Sure, Dad. I promise.”
He closes his eyes, satisfied. “Good.”
Something tightens in my chest, constricting until it’s hard to breathe. We don’t know how much time we’ve got. The doctors can’t say when he’ll stop being able to eat, or talk, or breathe on his own. And lately, I’ve started thinking this season might be my last—even though I’m still in my prime.
