My thighs are shaking. I let them.
Spur comes back to me, puts his arm around my shoulders, and pulls me into his side. "You okay, baby?"
"Not really."
"Yeah, I figured."
"I will be."
"I know."
Uncle Holt comes back and slips Spur's phone into his hand. "My brother wants you home tonight. I'm rolling behind you to Brownwood. Wells and Tread are staying back to make sure nobody follows your trailer out of the lot."
"Thank you, Holt."
"I'm not doing it for you, son. I'm doing it forher."
Spur nods.
Holt looks at me. "You okay to ride home, baby girl?"
"Yeah."
"I'll be in Sharp tomorrow. Your pops asked me to come."
"You're staying?"
"As long as it takes."
I almost cry, but I don’t.
The one thing I love about being a Lyle is that when you need your family, they show up.
He kisses my forehead. "Get in the truck. Spur, drive careful. Rogue, watch the road behind you and keep a close eye out. I got a bad feelin’, and I don’t like that shit. "
* * *
We pull out of the fairgrounds at five-thirty.
Holt's F-250 behind us. Wells and Tread are still at the back lot.
Rogue’s in the back seat with his laptop open, watching the highway behind us through some traffic feed I don't ask about.
I'm in the passenger seat with my hat on the dash and my hand on Spur's thigh.
The brush country goes dark around us before we hit Brownwood.
Holt's headlights stay in the rearview the whole way.
When we cross into Mills County, Holt flashes his brights once and peels off at the Goldthwaite exit to a Phillips 66—he'll stop for gas, call Pops, and follow us the rest of the way home in a few hours.
The headlights disappear from the rearview and the highway gets dark again.
I start to talk around the second hour.
"Spur?"
"Yeah."
