Cooper struggled to stand up, the toe of his boot catching on the bench as he tried to step away from the table. He faltered, caught his footing, hissing into the phone. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling me?”
I stood, following Cooper toward the end of the porch, my heartpounding in my chest. Whoever called him was bad news. It was written all over his face.
He stepped off the porch and charged through the barnyard toward the bunkhouse. The gravel crunching beneath his feet drowned out his words. He didn’t look back, just disappeared through the bunkhouse door. For a moment, I stood there, waiting for him to come out. He’d only eaten a little of his breakfast, and hadn’t even touched his coffee yet.
Five minutes later, I began to pace the wraparound porch.
Something was wrong.
Why was he not coming back?
Fifteen minutes later, I crossed the barnyard and stepped up the stairs to the bunkhouse door. I lifted my fist, about to knock, but stopped. I didn’t really know Cooper. Why was I making his phone call my business? I hesitated, my knuckles hovering over the door, when I heard Cooper’s voice.
“Yeah, yeah. I, uh, I think I could do that.”
I stopped breathing to hear better.
“I could call you when I’m on my way?”
Silence.
“Yep. Sounds good…Alright. Talk soon.”
Floorboards creaked as Cooper moved in the house. I scrambled down the steps but it was too late to escape. His eyes fell on me as he opened the door, and his words came out like venom. “What are you doing?”
“I—I came to check on you because you didn’t finish your breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
His shoulders were pulled tight, his breathing heavy, and sweat had beaded on his brow beneath the rim of his hat. And I knew for fact the cowboys kept that bunkhouse at arctic temperatures. Feeble courage pulled a whisper out of my mouth. “You’re lying.”
He narrowed his eyes like he didn’t trust his hearing. “What?”
“You said you’re fine but you’re not fine.”
He said nothing, instant rage flickering beneath his icy expression.
I pressed. “Who was that?”
“Why is thatyourproblem?”
“It’s not. I’m just asking as a concerned friend.”
“Save your energy.” He turned his shoulders, brushing past me at the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t have any friends.”
With that, he stalked off to the barn and I returned to my duties.
TWENTY
Jesse
Saturday afternoon at the Rio Grande rodeo proved quiet for us. Roping finals ran through lunch, and our broncs were in the corrals, waiting for their big night. Right on the border of Mexico, the heat was stifling. My navy Meadowbrookpolo shirt stuck to my arms, and my jeans clung to my thighs. Tag and I leaned against the side of a building, under a roof overhang, melting in the shade. And Cade stood several yards away, watching the roping horses bolt across the outdoor arena. For the first time in weeks, we were side by side without much to do but kick around for a couple hours. We capitalized on the time to catch up.
For a while, we chatted about the financial mountain looming ahead of Meadowbrook. Thanks to Hollie for keeping the bed and breakfast open, it looked like we’d squeak by with just enough to apply for membership at the WPRA—barring any financial calamity. And even though membership would be an exciting step forward, it would come with a lot of changes. More employees, expansion plans,more pressure, and pro officials breathing down our necks during Tag’s two year probationary membership. We’d have to be on our game—no slip ups—for two whole years. After that, the Alliance would make a decision regarding Tag and his broncs. If he made it in, maybe we’d find ourselves at the finals in Vegas one day.
