“I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Mr. Evans. We’ll see you soon.”
As the line goes dead, I’m already moving, scanning the pasture for my horse. She’s grazing twenty yards away, reins trailing in the grass.
I check the time: 2.47. School doesn’t let out for another forty-five minutes. But I’m deep into the south pasture, a good fifteen-minute ride to the stables, pushing it. If I leave now, I’ll barely make it into town in time.
I text Remy that he’ll need to take care of tagging the calves in the Ridge Herd. And Mom, that I’m picking up Rhys today. I shove the phone back in my pocket and finger-whistle for Maple. The mare lifts her head, ears swiveling toward me, then ambles over like we’ve got all day. We don’t.
As I approach, her ears prick backward. She knows something’s up—horses always sense their riders’ mood.
“Come on, girl.” I swing up into the saddle, gathering the reins. “We need to move.” My heels dig into her sides before my weight has even settled.
Maple springs into a canter, then a full gallop when I lean forward and give her more rein. The wind whips past my face as the leather chinks protect my legs from the saddle’s friction as we fly across the pasture.
The barn comes into view, red roof glinting in the afternoon sun. I pull the mare up hard, her hooves skidding in the gravel as we stop outside the stable entrance. I vault off her back, leading her into her stall. She’s breathing heavy, sides heaving. I’m an ass for not cooling her down properly.
With a quick tug, I unbuckle the girth, sliding the saddle off, and hang the bridle on its hook. I should rub her down. Check her hooves. But I can’t give Maple the full grooming she deserves. I settle for running a hand down her neck, giving her a solid pat.
“Good girl,” I murmur, grabbing a carrot from the bin by the door. “Best damn horse on this farm.”
She crunches into it, eyes half-closed in bliss, and I take the thirty seconds to breathe. To let my pulse settle. To remind myself that Rhys is fine. Linda said he’s fine.
But he got into a fight.
And I’m about to find out why.
No time for a shower or a change of clothes. I run from the stables straight to my truck, fumbling with the keys, cursing when I drop them. I scrabble in the dirt to retrieve them and throw myself into the driver’s seat. The engine roars to life, and I tear out of the driveway, hands tight on the wheel, gravel spitting from under the tires.
I blow through two yellow lights, take the turn onto Main Street too fast, and break six other traffic laws. Thank goodness Ruth Bingham isn’t running radar today.
I slow down before I get pulled over and screech into the school parking lot at 3.28. I park in a visitor space and walk the corridors against the flood of students rushing to get out. Every kid and teacher I pass gape at me as I stride down the hall looking like I rode in straight from the Wild West. Dusty, sweaty, wearing leather chinks over my work jeans, and with what I’m sure is a half-crazed expression on my face.
I should’ve at least left the chinks in the truck. Well, too late for that now.
The principal’s office hasn’t moved since I was a kid—and a regular visitor. It is at the front of the building, with glass walls giving a clear view of the waiting area. I shove through the door, and Linda glances up from her desk.
“Mr. Evans.” She stands, smoothing her cardigan. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Principal Hughes is expecting you.” She gestures toward the half-open door behind her. “Go right in.”
I nod, throat too tight for words, and cross to the door. I knock once and open it fully, looking for my son. Rhys is sitting on one of the chairs facing the principal’s desk, feet swinging because they don’t reach the floor. His face swivels toward me, and my stomach clenches.
He’s got a split lip.
“Dad!”
I want to scoop him up, check him over for other injuries, and then I want to find the little shit who did this to him and kick his ass.
But the kid sitting next to him already has a black eye. A real shiner, purple and swollen, the kind that’ll last a week. So Rhys gave as good as he got. Maybe better.
A savage pride flares in my chest, swift and fierce, before guilt chases it down. I shouldn’t be proud. I should be… what? Disappointed? Angry?
But I’m not. I’m relieved my kid can defend himself.
Principal Hughes is seated at his desk, hands folded, expression neutral. He’s in his fifties with silver hair and thin lips that seem to shrink more each year.
To his left, Ellie Patterson is standing, looking weary. She must be the black-eyed kid’s teacher since he’s not in Rhys’s class.
And to the right?—
