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“I was more shocked than anyone,” I agree. “But if he hasn’t told you by then who he’s dating, I’ve already decided Sadie will be at the stables instead of me. I told him I wouldn’t lie to you about his request—and I won’t lie to you again if I find out who she is.”

She’s quiet for a minute. Then she looks up at me. “Thank you.”

I nod in silence.

“I’m sorry about all of this,” she continues. “That you got dragged into it. It’s such a mess.”

I shrug. “Messes were always fun to play in as kids. It’s just adulthood and our outlook that make them seem worse than they are.”

“Yeah, because we’re left to do all the cleaning up ourselves now.”

She has a point. We walk a few steps in silence, taking First instead of Main. We still have a good twenty minutes left to enjoy together, and I want to soak it all in. Despite the October chill, she ambles, too, so I know the feeling is mutual.

“Can I ask you about your mom?” I chance softly. “How she died and how old you were?”

She nods, folding her arms as a frigid breeze picks up down the street. The roads are empty, the movie night taking most of the attention now, and I’m grateful for the privacy it allots us.

“I was two. She fell asleep at the wheel and ended up driving into a ditch. She died almost instantly, but Dad and I both survived.”

My heart doubles over. I’ve heard bits and pieces of her death, but I didn’t know Juliet was with them when it occurred. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t remember it—or her. But I almost feel like I do because of how much Dad talked about her growing up. Apparently I look a lot like her.”

She pulls out her phone and navigates to her photos before holding up an image of a baby next to a woman who looks strikingly like Juliet.

“You could almost be twins,” I muse.

She nods, her attention on her phone. “It’s weird missing someone you don’t remember. And missing a life you might’ve had. I sometimes wonder what things would be like if she’d lived. Dad might not be so protective of me if he could’ve protected his wife, you know? I don’t blame him, but I know he blames himself.”

Her words trample me like a loose bull, and I almost stumble. Mr. Monroe blames himself for his wife’s death? I mean, it makes sense. But somehow, I never thought of this before.

“I just hope he can get over it one day,” Juliet says, pocketing her phone. “I hope whoever he’s dating will help him, but I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to stop blaming himself enough to feel true joy...or to have me feel the same.”

I stare straight ahead, holding my tongue. I don’t want to speak about my past. It makes me feel too raw. But then, doesn’t Juliet deserve more?

“What is it?” she asks, clearly sensing my shift.

“Grief is a tricky thing. But grief mixed with guilt can wreck even the strongest person.” We reach the church, then move down the side road that leads directly to Juliet’s house. “Do you remember the photo you pulled up in my office of my friend, Stetson Pickett?”

“Yeah.”

I draw a deep breath. There’s no turning back now. “We used to ride on the circuit together. But he died because of me.”

Juliet

I don’t want to believe what Archer’s saying, but the look on his face tells me it’s true, so I keep quiet.

“I got into the sport because of him,” he explains as we pass beneath the orange lights stationed down the residential road. “We grew up together rodeoing and were always pretty evenly matched. When we made it pro, we both got sponsored by Amarillo Red, a well-known boot company in Texas. We were both invincible. Or so we thought.

“He ended up getting married, had a baby boy, but still kept rodeoing. We were both young and stupid, riding the high of being rich and famous in our own little sphere.

“About a year after his baby was born, we had an event in Las Vegas. I drew the bull known for ripping people apart—Despoiler. He’d broken necks before, so for the first time in my life, I backed out. Just didn’t have a good feeling about him. Stetson ended up drawing the name after me, and even though I told him not to, he went through with it and was bucked off.” His jaw twitched and brow furrowed. “He broke his neck. Died a few hours later.”

Horror pulls my stomach to the ground. “I’m so sorry,” I breathe. “That must have been horrible.”

“It was,” he says. “I took it hard. Had I not been a coward and taken the bull, he never would have had the chance to ride him. That’s what led to my first arrest. The shop I busted up was Amarillo Red, the ones who sponsored us. I couldn’t take it, driving by each day, seeing our faces on the posters in the windows, happy and healthy.

“After getting caught, I paid for the shop and set up a fund for Stetson’s boy. He and his mama are happy now. She’s married again to a farmer who treats her well. But it’s my fault that little boy will grow up never knowing his daddy.”