CHAPTER 10
I grip the Willys Jeep's steering wheel, feelin’ every bump and rattle through my palms as we head back to the Ashby mansion. The gearbox whines when I shift, and the engine growls like something half-wild. The wind rushes through the open sides, tearing at Savannah's hair, turning it into a golden flag.
The sun hangs low against the eastern horizon, casting long shadows across the badlands. The landscape stretches out, all jagged edges and cracked earth. Broken land. Forgotten land.
I think about Martinez, this guy from Boston I met inside. Used to bitch constantly about Montana. Called it "God's ashtray" and a "waste of fucking air." Said only people with nothing left to lose would choose to live in a place so ugly.
A lot of the Montana boys wanted to beat his ass for that. Not me. I got what he was saying. This place isn't pretty like forests or oceans. It's honest. Brutal. The badlands don't lie to you about what they are.
I've never wanted to leave. Never dreamed of California beaches or New York lights. I just want my own corner of thishellhole where I can breathe without someone's boot on my neck.
The sky above us swirls with thunderheads, purple and blue, almost black in places. Storm's coming. I can smell it—that metallic tang that hangs in the air before rain hits dry dirt. The wind picks up, carrying dust across the road in thin, dancing spirals.
I keep turning over what Savannah said earlier. About Mercy. About Cash.
The Jeep's engine roars as we climb a hill, drowning out any possibility of conversation. Which is fine by me because I need to think.
Is it Cash I hate? Or just the idea of anyone else raising Mercy? Both, probably.
Cash Ashby with his pressed shirts and his fucking Stetson. The way he looks at me like I'm somethin’ he found on the bottom of his boot. The beatings. The threats. The way he left me to die.
But it's more than that. It's Mercy calling someone else for help when she's scared. It's someone else teaching her to ride, to shoot, to stand up for herself. It's someone else being there when she has nightmares.
It's me failing. Again.
We turn onto the long drive leading to the Ashby mansion, and I see them right away. Mercy on a stocky brown pony, trotting around the main arena. Not the dirt round pen where the ranch hands work their horses. The fancy one, with the perfect sand footing and the black rails.
Cash stands at the fence, one boot propped on the bottom rail. He's calling out instructions, gesturing with one hand. Even from here, I can see Mercy bouncing in the saddle, her back stiff, her hands too high. She looks like she's riding a jackhammer, not a horse.
I wince. Kid's gonna be sore tomorrow.
"She's doing great," Savannah says, breaking into my thoughts. "Especially for a beginner. Look at how she keeps trying."
I grunt, not trusting myself to speak.
"She loves it," Savannah continues. "And that's what matters. Riding hurts at first—every muscle aches, and you fall. A lot. She's already come off twice since she started."
I snap my head toward her. "She fell off?"
Savannah smiles. "I can't even count how many times I've fallen. Most kids give up after the first time. The ones who get back on? Those are the horse girls. They'll give up everything—time, money, sleep—just to be around horses."
I hear what she's not saying. This is good for Mercy. Rimrock Academy would be good for her. A place where she could ride every day, learn from professionals. Not like the trailer. Not like the club.
"The best thing about having a horse-girl sister," Savannah says, "is they don't think about boys."
That pulls a laugh from me. "Bullshit. You were the biggest horse girl I ever met, and you were boy-crazy as hell."
She leans into me, her hands wrapping around my bicep, her body warm against mine. Her lips brush my cheek, soft and quick. "I've only ever been crazy about one boy," she whispers.
This makes me smile. A real one. Something genuine that starts in my chest and works its way up. She's always been able to do that. Pull something real from me when everything else feels like a performance.
I watch her settle back into her seat, hair whipping around her face in the wind, and my mind drifts to all the ways she's changed since we were kids. How she went from the shy girl who blushed when I held her hand to the woman who fucked me in front of an entire club of outlaws without blinking.
Savannah Ashby wasn't always like this. Not as a teenager. Back then, everything was slow and careful. Like we had all the time in the world to figure things out. To be in love. To make love.
Then she went away to college.
First time she came back on break, she met me at the silo like always. But something had shifted. She was desperate, hungry. Wouldn't even let me say hello before she was tearing at my belt, dropping to her knees on that dirty concrete floor.
