23. Clay
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Clay
Pain makes time ugly. It stretches everything out until morning feels endless, dragging its teeth across your skin long before noon ever arrives.
I’m getting real damn tired of it.
My leg throbs from hip to ankle, even though the break isn’t that high. The location of the break barely matters anymore. Pain goes wherever it wants once it decides you belong to it. It climbs and reminds you it’s there every time you breathe wrong, shift wrong, exist wrong.
I’ve been stuck in this room for three days.
Mostly.
I brought this on myself. Spent too long on my feet helping Nash at the dude ranch a few days ago, ignored every warning to take it easy, and now my leg's making damn sure I regret it.
Yesterday I made it as far as the porch, which everyone acted like was some kind of heroic achievement.
Mom smiled too soft. Boone pretended not to hover.
Dallas asked if I needed anything about six times in ten minutes, which is five times more than a man should ask unless someone’s actively bleeding out.
Nash tried humor.
That was worse.
So now I’m in bed, one leg propped up on pillows, staring at the ceiling as if it personally ruined my life.
The house is completely quiet. That’s how I know everyone’s gone.
Boone’s out checking cattle. Dallas took Mom into town for something she claimed she didn’t need help with, which means she absolutely did. Nash is at the dude ranch with Tessa and Hailey, probably trying to figure out how to run a business while surviving on newborn sleep.
Everyone else keeps moving while I lie here like a busted piece of equipment nobody knows where to store anymore.
I scrub both hands over my face and exhale hard.
The painkillers are on the nightstand. Bottle turned sideways from where I knocked it over in the dark last night and didn’t bother fixing it.
I should take one.
That’s what the doctor said. Stay ahead of the pain.
The problem nobody warns you about is how easy it becomes to lose yourself while trying to stay ahead of the pain.
So I don’t take one.
And I haven’t been taking them for a while now.
Instead, I swing my good leg over the edge of the bed and sit up too fast.
Bad idea.
A white-hot bolt rips through my leg, mean and bright enough to steal the air out of my lungs.
“Son of a…”
I clamp my jaw shut, gripping the mattress hard enough my knuckles pale.
I can’t move.
Everything in me goes still around the pain, the way you go still on a bull right before it decides which direction it wants to ruin you.
Then it eases.
I reach for the crutches leaned against the wall and haul myself upright.
The room tips a little. Or maybe that’s me.
I stand there breathing through it, sweat already damp at the back of my neck, hating every inch of this. Hating the cast, the ache, the weakness crawling around under my skin.
I need something to do.
Anything that isn’t staring at the ceiling, or thinking about Josie’s name glowing on my phone and the fact I haven’t known what to say to her since my mood soured again.
She’d pulled me out of it for a while. The barn dance. The night at her place. Breakfast the next morning. Hell, by the time Nash called, I’d almost forgotten anything was wrong.
Turns out distraction only lasts so long.
My gaze shifts toward the dresser. The envelope is there.
Still.
I’ve looked at the bank documents at least a dozen times since I found them. Maybe more. The numbers don’t change. The account doesn’t make any more sense. My name sits there in black ink, official and clean and impossible to argue with.
Clayton James McCoy.
Account beneficiary.
Deposits made for years.
Nobody ever mentioned it. Nobody sat me down and told me money was being set aside in my name. And that means they had a reason for keeping it from me.
More importantly, it means he had a reason.
I stare at the envelope until my jaw starts aching from how hard I’m clenching it.
Then I move.
Down the hall, slow and bitter, crutches digging into the floor with every step. The house creaks around me, old wood settling under afternoon heat.
The McCoy house has always had too much memory in it.
That’s the problem.
I make it to the office. The desk is old and heavy. Scarred along the edges.
Dad used to sit here late at night with a ledger open, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee gone cold, the other tapping a pencil against paper.
I remember standing in the doorway once.
Couldn’t have been more than twelve.
I’d busted a fence post because I was showing off. Rode too fast. Took a turn too sharp. Spooked the horse. Nearly snapped the gate clean off.
Dad didn’t yell right away. That made it worse. “You ever think before you move, Clay?”
I remember standing there covered in dust and guilt, wishing I had some answer that would make him look less tired.
I never found one.
I step into the office now and hate that I can still hear his voice so clear.
I drop into the chair, awkward and irritated, dragging my leg out in front of me. Pain pulses sharp through the bone, but I ignore it.
The drawers stick when I pull them open. I start from the bottom.
I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.
Proof, maybe. Proof that I’m wrong, or that I’m not.
I flip through folders with one hand, the other braced against my leg as if I can hold the pain down by force. Sweat slips along my spine. My mouth tastes stale. I should’ve eaten this morning.
Food has been one more thing people ask about. You hungry, Clay? Need lunch, Clay? Can I bring you something, Clay?
Every question might as well be a hand pushing on a bruise.
I pull another folder free.
I lay it on the desk and open it.
Statements. Old ones. Some from accounts I recognize. Ranch accounts. Household accounts. Savings with Dad’s name and Mom’s name.
Then I see it.
A printed form clipped behind a stack of statements. Trust designation. My eyes stick to the page.
Designated beneficiary: Clayton James McCoy.
Established by: Robert Alan McCoy.
Purpose: personal inheritance distribution.
The room suddenly feels too small.
My grip tightens on the paper hard enough to wrinkle it as the answer arrives almost instantly, ugly and immediate.
Because he knew me too well. Or maybe because he never understood me at all.
Hell, maybe those are the same thing.
He saw the wreck coming.
Maybe he saw it before I did.
He watched me tear through life, chasing noise and risk and applause, and thought, That one won’t make it. That one will need help when the rest don’t.
Heat crawls up my neck.
I lean back in the chair and stare at the ceiling of his office, laughing once under my breath.
No humor in it.
“Yeah,” I mutter, staring up at the ceiling like Dad might somehow still be sitting in this room listening. “Sounds about right.”
My leg throbs. My head starts doing the same.
I can see him now. Dad sitting right here, deciding what to do with the son who couldn’t stay steady.
I can practically hear the reasoning in my head: save something for Clay because eventually he’ll break, lose everything, and come limping back home with nowhere else to go.
I swallow, but my throat’s dry.
The funny thing is, he wasn’t wrong.
Look at me.
Twenty-three years old with a broken leg. Career hanging by a thread. No real job waiting except whatever pity work Boone can hand me. Sleeping in my childhood room while everyone else builds families, futures, and homes.
Maybe Dad wasn’t cruel about it. Maybe he was just realistic in a way I never wanted him to be. A bad bet. A risky horse. A son you prepare for, not one you depend on.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I freeze.
For one stupid, dangerous second, I think it’s Josie.
The hope hits before I can stop it, and the self-disgust follows immediately after.
I dig it out.
Nash: Need help later if you’re up for it. Nothing big. Just paperwork for bookings. Don’t tell me your leg broke your brain too.
I stare at the message.
Nash is trying. They all are, in their own ways.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
I could answer. Could show up. Sit beside him. Help with whatever boring dude ranch mess he’s buried under.
Instead I lock the phone and set it face down on the desk.
Right now, talking to anyone feels impossible.