"I understand you ride for her—is she going to be okay with losing you for six months?"
"Mom's practical. She understands business opportunities." Which is true—Callie Rose has always encouraged me to take assignments that advance my career. She expects nothing less from me.
We exchange information and she climbs back into her big, shiny black truck and disappears down the gravel drive while I head back to the barn.
Gritstone.
I don’t know what I’d say if I saw my father. Maybe nothing. Maybe too much. Mom says he’s the kind of man who makes you feel chosen when you’re standing in front of him and forgotten the minute you’re out of sight. I don’t need him in my life, but some absences echo louder thanpresence ever did. I don’t want to think about him, so I pull out my phone and search Sarah Halloway.
What are the chances that she’s related to Wyatt? Probably about as ironic as me moving to the same town as my father. I lean against Rebel’s stall door. "Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice," I mutter as I type and wait for the results to pop up. An image of Sarah and a younger Wyatt appears on my screen. "You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The memory of the way I looked at him and how embarrassingly attracted I was to him floods me. There’s no way I can work in the same vicinity as the bull rider—no stinking way.
Another quick search of the PRCA schedule, and I verify that Wyatt won't be anywhere near the ranch while I'm there. He's chasing Vegas with a vengeance. I sigh with relief. "Looks like we're moving to Gritstone," I tell Rebel. "I hope you're ready because I'm not sure I am."
Six
I NEVER SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN OUT OF MY TRUCK.
WYATT
The scent of grilled steak and garlic butter welcomes me home. My stomach growls, proving that some part of me missed this place.
I sit in my truck outside the Timberline Tavern for a beat longer than I need to, engine ticking as it cools, watching families drift toward the entrance.
The parking lot is weathered and uneven, and I could probably walk across it blindfolded. The heavy wooden door gives under my hand.
Inside, locals pack into red vinyl booths, couples share garlic fries, old-timers sit at the bar talking cattle prices and weather like gospel. The scent of char-grilled meat winds through the air, rich and honest.
The hostess—blonde, maybe twenty-two—practicallyfloats over. She takes in my new Cheyenne Frontier Days' Champion belt buckle, then my face.
"Well, if it isn't Wyatt Halloway." Her voice has that breathless quality women get around rodeo cowboys. Like I'm somebody special instead of a man who spends most nights sleeping in my truck. "Table for one?"
"Yes, ma'am. Somewhere I can keep my back to the wall, if you don't mind." In Gritstone, generational rivals run as deep as the Bluestone River with grudges just as wide.
She leads me to a corner booth, and I slide in. My shoulder flares—a burn that's become familiar over the last week. Doc's warning voice echoes between the heartbeats: Two weeks of rest and you might dodge surgery.
Surgery at this point could ruin my run for Vegas. I can’t afford to take six weeks off. I finished out Cheyenne with a chunk of change in my pocket. I need to patch up and disappear again before the land starts whispering things I don't want to hear.
The waitress swings by. Jenny, according to her name tag. "Can I get you something to drink? Our IPA's fantastic tonight."
"No thanks." The answer is automatic. "Just water." I can still taste the regret from pills chasing each other down my throat and making my world tilted sideways. Whatever happened that night, no one contacted me again, so I stuffed it into the past and left it there.
I order a bison burger with onion rings.
Jenny nods and heads off to put my order in.
The door opens and the air shifts.
I glance that way and groan. "They say every bull rider runs out of luck sometime," I mumble as I rise to my feet togreet my parents. Mom's in tailored denim and turquoise earrings. Dad's in weather-worn boots and a stare that could stop a charging bull.
I meet Mom halfway across the room and fold her into a hug. She kisses my cheek like I'm still eight years old, which I don’t mind. “What are you doing here?” she asks as she looks me over. “Is everything ok? I didn’t expect you home for at least another month.”
“Yeah, it’s all good.” I smile. Dad doesn't slow down on his way to the table. "Son," he says. That's it. Whatever.
They slide into the booth across from me and Jenny reappears. “Hi Oscar, hi Sarah, what can I get ya tonight?” she asks.
"I’ll take one of what he’s eatin’. But can you load it up on that big ol' belt buckle he's so proud of? Should be big enough." Dad gripes to Jenny.
