He shrugged. “I’m good at it. That’s not the same as it being what I’d choose.”
I hadn’t expected that. “So what would you rather do?”
“The ranch.” He said it flat, like it was obvious.
Fence posts ticked by in the dark.
“It pays the bills,” he added after a beat. “That’s why I do it.”
“Sounds like just a job to you.”
He glanced over at me. “Same reason you’re here, no? You didn’t fly out here chasing me around with that phone ‘cause it was your dream.”
I looked out the window. “No. It wasn’t.”
He shifted in his seat. “I love rodeos, but if I could run the ranch without having to get on a bronc every weekend, I would. That place needs all of us.”
I thought about what Wren had told me, how he turned down the big events so he could get back to the ranch by morning. How he wrecked his body doing twice the rides for half the money just so he never had to be gone long.
"The ranch must mean a lot to all of you."
“It was my mom’s family’s land. Five generations.” He paused, eyes on the dark road. “After she died, we just kept it going. Felt like the only thing we could do.”
I stayed quiet. I hadn’t heard any of them mention her, not once.
“When did she pass?” I asked.
“Eight years ago. She was forty-four.”
“I’m sorry.”
The highway hummed under the tires for a long stretch.
“Can I ask something else? And you can tell me to mind my own business.” I hesitated. “When your sister mentioned your brother, everyone went quiet. Is he…?” I let the question trail off.
“Knox left us about six months before our mom passed away. Didn’t even come back for the funeral.”
He said it flat, with no heat at all. That somehow made it worse.
“I can see why you don't talk about it,” I said quietly.
“Yeah.”
The headlights swept across another line of fence posts. I thought about the video from the bar.
“That fight in the bar… that was about your family, wasn’t it?”
Brock’s jaw flexed. “Guy knew who I was. Said Mom would roll over in her grave watchin’ me chase buckles while the ranchfell apart. Then he threw in that at least Knox had the sense to walk away.”
He was gripping the steering wheel tight.
“So yeah,” he said.
He didn’t say anything else. Neither did I. The silence stretched long and heavy between us as the road kept rolling.
Something still nagged at me. I’d watched that video more than a dozen times. The camera had been too steady for someone pulling out their phone in the middle of a bar fight.
“He’s lucky it was only one punch,” I said.
