They shake. Holt holds Spur's hand half a second longer than a handshake. Then he looks at me again. "Your father said you'd have new ink."
I tug the cuff of Spur's flannel down over the gauze without thinking.
Holt doesn't push it.
He smiles at me—the same smile, softer this time. "Show me when you're ready, Dakota. Not before."
I almost cry right there in the parking lot. I don't.
Behind Uncle Holt are two other patched men who get out of the back seat of the F-250.
Both Abilene.
One older—fifty, gray beard, the calm of a man who's been doing this his whole life.
One younger—late twenties, hat pulled low.
"Wells," Holt says, gesturing to the older one. "My VP. Tread. My Sergeant at Arms."
Wells touches the brim of his hat at me. "Ma'am."
"Hey."
Tread nods and doesn't speak.
"They're sitting on the trailer and the warm-up rail till you ride," Holt tells me. "I'm at the rail with Spur. Phantom's orders."
"Pops's orders?"
"Yep."
I can't help the small laugh that comes out of me.
I haven't laughed since the other day. It feels strange in my chest.
Spur is watching me with his hand still on Jaeger's lead. He sees the laugh land. He doesn't say anything.
Holt looks at Spur. "Lunch?"
"She always eats Whataburger before a qualifier."
"Yeah she does. Her mother used to make her eat one before junior rodeo. It's in the blood."
Holt looks at me. "Whataburger?"
"Whataburger."
"Get in. I'm driving."
We end up in a back booth at the Whataburger across from the Hampton—Holt across from me, Spur next to me, Rogue at the end with his laptop open beside his food and Wells at the booth behind us watching the parking lot.
Uncle Holt asks me about Jaeger first.
Always Jaeger first—that's how it's been since I was twelve and Pops gave me my first horse.
Uncle Holt drove down from Lubbock on a Saturday to see him.
Uncle Holt always asks about the horse before he asks about the rider.
