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“Ribs hurt like hell,” I admitted.

“We’ll get you looked at.” He glanced over his shoulder at Chuck, who was pushing himself up onto his elbows, blood dripping steady from his nose onto the dirt. “And you. Don’t fucking move. Don’t you dare move from that spot until my father gets out here.”

Chuck didn’t argue. He just sat there holding his face, glaring at me with a hatred so pure it should’ve scared me more than it did. Mostly I just felt tired. Bone-tired, the kind that went deeper than the bruises already blooming under my skin.

Westley turned back to me, and for a second, just a second, I thought something passed between us that had nothing to do with the fight at all. But I was probably making it up, the pain finally getting to me.

“I got you,” Westley said, low enough that maybe only I could hear it. “I’m not gonna let them hurt you again.”

Mr. Gilderoy’s truck rumbled up not two minutes later, gravel spraying from under the tires. It was a big black Ford, polished to a shine that didn’t belong out here in the muck and dust of the working pens. The moment I saw it, my stomach dropped clean out my butt. Mr. Gilderoy had made it no secret that he didn’t much care for me.

“Oh hell,” I muttered.

“It’s fine,” Westley said, though his voice had gone tight again. “Just stay still.”

Mr. Gilderoy was out of his truck before it even finished rolling to a stop, boots hitting the dirt hard, his face already twisted up with a familiar anger. I’d seen it plenty of times from him growing up. He took one look at Chuck sitting there with blood down his shirt, one look at Boomer finally sitting up and rubbing his jaw, and then his eyes landed on me.

“What in the hell happened out here,” he said. It wasn’t a question so much as an accusation.

“Rhett got jumped,” Westley said before anyone else could speak, still crouched beside me with his hand steady against my back. “Three of ‘em. Chuck, Boomer, Bobby Ray. Dale tried to stop it and got knocked down for his trouble.”

“That true, Chuck?” Mr. Gilderoy asked, not even glancing my way.

Chuck spat a mouthful of blood into the dirt before he answered, and when he did, his voice came out thick and wounded, like he was a dog that had just been kicked for no good reason. “He hit me first, sir. Swung on me outta nowhere. We was just talkin’, and he lost his mind.”

“That’s a damn lie,” Westley snapped, rising to his feet so fast I nearly toppled without his support. “They cornered him, Daddy. Three against one. You think Rhett just decided to take on all three of ‘em for the hell of it?”

Mr. Gilderoy’s eyes finally slid to me, and there wasn’t a scrap of sympathy in them. Just the same cold, measuring look he’d been giving me since I was eighteen years old and had first walked onto this ranch looking for work.

“I don’t care what started it,” he said. “I’ve got two workers lyin’ in the dirt, both of them bleedin’ from the face, and the only common denominator I see is you, boy.”

“That ain’t fair,” Westley said, stepping half in front of me like he could shield me from his own father’s words. “I punched Chuck and Boomer to get them off of Rhett after they threw Dale down.” He paused, staring up at his father. “You didn’t even ask what they said to him.”

“I don’t need to know what they said. I know what I’m lookin’ at.” Mr. Gilderoy’s voice hardened. And I knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth. “You’re done here, Rhett. Pack your things and get off my property before sundown.”

The world seemed to tilt sideways again, and this time it had nothing to do with the beating I’d just taken.

“Daddy, you can’t be serious⁠—”

“I am dead serious,” Mr. Gilderoy said, cutting Westley off without even looking at him. “I’ve put up with enough trouble outta this one. Every time I turn around there’s some kinda ruckus with him at the center of it. I run a ranch, not a damn daycare for grown men who can’t keep the peace.”

“He didn’t start this!” Westley’s voice cracked with the force of it, loud enough that even Chuck flinched. “Three of your men jumped him for no reason and you’re firin’ him?”

“Watch your tone with me, son.”

“No, I won’t watch my tone, this is bullshit and you know it!”

Dale’s hand came down on my shoulder, gentle but insistent. When I looked up at him his face was grim in a way that told me there wasn’t any use fighting. “Come on, Rhett,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you to Doc Hensley’s. Ain’t nothin’ more you can do standin’ here.”

I let him haul me up, my ribs screaming in protest, every part of me wanting to look back at Westley one more time. But Dale was already steering me toward his truck, murmuring something about broken ribs and concussions. Behind us all I could hear was Westley’s voice rising louder still, tangled up now with his father’s, the two of them going at each other like two rabid dogs.

“Don’t,” I said, or tried to, my voice coming out cracked and useless. “Don’t let Westley get in trouble because of me⁠—”

“Hush now,” Dale said, closing the truck door before I could finish. “Ain’t nothin’ either of us can do about it. They gotta figure it out for themselves.”

Through the windshield I watched Westley and his father still going at it, Mr. Gilderoy’s face gone red with fury, Westley standing his ground in a way I’d never seen him do before. Chuck and Boomer were still sitting in the dirt, forgotten now, wiping blood from their faces and looking more uncomfortable than I’d ever seen them.

Served them right. Fuckers.