Page 131 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

Beau

“You’re not supposed to be out of bed. The doctor said⁠—”

“I don’t give a damn what the doctor said,” I grumbled, reaching for the pot of coffee my dad had made and pouring myself a cup.

Two weeks of hospital coffee was enough to break a man—especially when you were stuck there with a severe concussion and a busted arm from getting tossed like a rag doll. I’d only been home a couple days, but already, it felt like heaven compared to that sterile hellhole . . . aside from my encounter with Harleigh, which was one of the reasons I needed coffee, because sleep and I weren’t friends at the moment. Nothing tasted better than a fresh brew from my own machine.

“Yo,” Dalton stage-whispered from the door, his voice low enough not to piss me off.

According to the doc, I was supposed to avoid loud noises, bright lights, and basically anything that might make my headaches worse.

“How’s the patient holding up?”

Dad answered first, not missing a beat. “Good. And stubborn as shit.”

I grunted, flopping onto the couch, my head pounding from the movement.

“She come by?” Dalton asked, grabbing a cup of coffee and settling in next to me.

I’d managed to get to the house the other night undetected and opted to not open up and tell either of them, not wanting to hear shit from them.

Dad furiously shook his head. “We haven’t mentioned her. Didn’t want to irritate your headache⁠—”

“Dad,” I groaned, tipping my head back against the cushion. “It’s fine. She won’t see me.”

“That’s fucked up, dude,” Dalton muttered, his brows pinched.

Silence stretched between us as we sat there.

It was fucked up.

Dalton cleared his throat, shifting on the couch. “So, what’s the doc say? You out for the season?”

I exhaled, running my good hand through my hair. “Major concussion. Fractured radius, a couple cracked ribs, and a minor contusion on my hip. They said I was lucky I didn’t need surgery on my arm.”

Dalton winced. “Damn.”

Dad leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Doctor said no riding. No physical activity for at least a couple months. Your season’s over, son.”

I nodded, biting back my frustration. I already knew. I heard the doctor loud and clear. Didn’t make it easier to stomach.

Dalton leaned back, crossing his arms. “There’s always next season.”

“Nah.”

“What? Why?” His brows furrowed.

“Because I’m done.”

Dad exhaled through his nose. “I thought with Fable not in the pic⁠—”

“No.” I shook my head so hard it sent a sharp pain slicing through my temples. “I am done.”

Dalton let out a low whistle. “Done with riding?”

“I want the ranch. I want to raise bulls.” I hesitated, exhaling sharply. “What I really want is Fable.”

Silence.