9
ROWAN
Ididn’t remember leaving JD’s office.
One moment I’d been standing there trying to hold myself together while the ground shifted under my feet, and the next I was walking down a dim hallway that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, leather, and motor oil.
The clubhouse didn’t quiet down after the meeting.
If anything, it got louder.
Men moved through the halls in heavy boots, doors opening and closing, low voices carrying through the thin walls. Somewhere downstairs, someone turned the jukebox on, and the thrum of bass crept through the floorboards.
I sat on the edge of the narrow bed in Tex’s room, staring at my hands.
They were still shaking.
Everything from the last hour replayed in fragments. My father’s name, the missing shipment, the cartel. Every piece felt like it belonged to someone else’s life, not mine.
My father had raised horses and my mother had baked pies for the county fair. They weren’t drug runners or criminals. Or soI’d been led to believe. But the more I thought about it, the more little cracks appeared in the picture I’d always believed.
My father disappearing for days at a time when I was younger. The way he’d watch the road from the kitchen window some nights. The hushed arguments I used to hear through the walls after they thought I’d gone to bed.
I pressed my fingers to my temples.
“Stop,” I whispered to myself.
The door opened softly behind me and I turned.
Music drifted from somewhere down the hall, an old rock song humming through battered speakers while men’s voices carried from the bar area. Glasses clinked and someone laughed. Boots thudded against wooden floors.
It felt like I had stepped into another world, and it was a world far different from my own.
My world had always been quiet. Even before I came home.
But now, back at the ranch, it was just me, the open sky, and the steady rhythm of horses and wind through the grass. It was soft and gentle where the clubhouse was all sharp edges and noise.
Tex stepped inside the room, ducking slightly under the frame like the doorway had been built for smaller men. He closed the door and leaned back against it, watching me, and for a moment neither of us spoke.
The dim lamp on the dresser cast soft shadows across the room. It wasn’t much of a space—just a bed, a dresser, a chair, and a battered nightstand—but it smelled faintly of leather, soap, and something warm and clean that I couldn’t quite place.
Tex rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry about that circus downstairs.”
I let out a tired breath. “Is it always like this?”
“After a meeting like that?” He shrugged. “Yeah.”
My gaze dropped to the floor. “They really think the cartel killed my parents?”
Tex pushed away from the door and stepped further into the room. “They don’t know what happened, but it makes the most sense,” he said carefully. “It’s what I believe.”
The room felt colder suddenly and I hugged my arms around myself.
Tex noticed. He moved to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a worn gray hoodie.
“Here.” He held it out to me. “It can get cold in here at night.”
I took it from him. The fabric was soft from years of washing, and the sleeves were way too long, but it was sweet of him all the same.
