I watched it. Hell, everyone did.
I couldn't move. I couldn't look away.
Thirty seconds. Time's up.
I put the truck in drive.
* * *
Earl is buried under the oak on his ranch in the east pasture.
I don't drive past him.
I cross over on the county road that doesn't go by him, the way I have every day since they put him in the ground.
I was at a qualifier in Lubbock when Bex called me.
I answered on the second ring because Bex never called, Bex only texted, and a Bex call meant something had happened.
I sat down in the parking lot of a Red Lion in Lubbock with the phone pressed to my ear and Bex crying softly on the other end.
Not loud. Bex doesn't cry loud. Bex cries the way Bex does everything—quiet, contained, in her own skin.
I loaded Jaeger into the trailer and I drove home that night.
I sat on his porch.
The porch where he passed away with Banshee beside him, sitting in his favorite chair, with a cold cup of coffee in his hand and a smile on his face.
I didn’t cry.
His knife is in my boot. Has been since the funeral.
Five-inch folding blade with a bone handle, his initials in scrimshaw on the side.
He gave it to me when I was twelve. Told me every woman in Texas needs a knife and the knowledge not to reach for it first.
I haven't reached for it yet, but it's there.
I cross the county line at seven-fifty.
Jaeger shifts in the trailer.
My hands tighten on the wheel.
I feel the last few miles in my shoulders, but then my mind drifts to something else.
Or rather, someone else. Spur.
That's what I haven't let myself think about.
I've been letting myself think about her.
About Earl.
About Presley, Pops, and Marlena, and the whole reconfigured family I have to walk back into this morning with a smile on my face.
I haven’t let myself think about him.
