Which reminds me.
"I heard Violet's pregnant," I say, watching his face.
The keys stop spinning. His jaw twitches. His hand shoves into his pocket, and something shifts behind his eyes, a version of Jett I don't think I've ever seen before.
"Yeah. She is."
I rest my hand on his shoulder. "You good? I know you're close with her."
I choose my words carefully. He swears they're just friends. But I see it. He looks at Violet like the whole world reorganizes itself around her smile. He looks at her the way I look at Harper. Even if he hasn't figured that out yet.
"That's all it'll ever be. Friends," he says sharply.
I step back. Give him the space.
"Well, we'll look after her and the kid. She's family. She's going to be fine."
Violet became part of our family the day she arrived on Sterling Ranch with Lola. That doesn't change just because some deadbeat left town, leaving her holding the pieces.
"Let's go then, fucker," Jett says, snapping back into the version of himself that grins and swaggers and doesn't let you see the damage. "We've got some money to win."
I'll be keeping an eye on him. I have a feeling this is tearing him apart in ways he doesn't have the vocabulary for yet.
“You know you can talk to me, Jett? We’re cousins, but you’re pretty much a Sterling brother. You’ve listened to me pine over Harper for years; I can listen back. Okay?”
He nods and walks out to the truck. I watch him go.
Now I've got to win, for me, for Harper, and apparently to cheer up my lovesick cousin who won't admit he's lovesick.
Full card.
* * *
The fairgrounds are already buzzing by the time we pull in. There's the low roar of a crowd that's been drinking since ten a.m. The parking lot's a mess of horse trailers, lifted trucks, and kids running between the fences with cotton candy. Country music crackles from the speakers.
This is my church. Always has been.
Jett and I head through the back entrance to the rider area. The other guys are already warming up, stretching, taping wrists, talking shit. The usual pre-ride energy.
I drop my bag, pull out my vest, my gloves, my rope. Start working the rosin into the grip the way Dad taught me. Muscle memory so deep it lives in my hands even when my head's somewhere else. Jett has already got the camera rolling, ready to make some content.
Hunter and Colten find me behind the chutes twenty minutes before my first ride.
"Draw sheet's up," Hunter says, handing me a printout. He's in his usual spot, arms crossed, hat low, watching everything and saying nothing.
I scan the sheet. My first bull is a mid-range draw. Easy money. My second is solid, strong spinner, decent score potential.
My third.
I stop. Tap the name.
"Gravedigger," I say.
Hunter goes still.
Colten looks over my shoulder. Reads it. Then takes off his hat and drags a hand down his face.
"No," Hunter says.
