Chapter 5 #2
Me, learning to ride, my body aching in muscles I didn’t know I had.
Anthony watching from the porch, a rare, small smile on his face as I finally stayed on a bucking bronco for more than three seconds.
Me, sitting at their table for the first time, eating a meal that didn’t come from a can, while a little girl with bright red hair and green eyes watched me suspiciously from across the room.
Saramaria’s face in the dream changes. The curiosity is gone, replaced by the cold, hard look she gave me yesterday. The suit she was wearing bleeds into the image, stark and gray against the dusty backdrop of the ranch.
“This is my property,” she says, her voice echoing in the vast emptiness of the dream. “You’re trespassing.”
The alleyway comes rushing back. The glint of steel. The fear. It’s all mixed up with her face, with her words, with the smell of dust and the taste of the best sandwich I ever had.
I wake up gasping, my heart thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
I’m tangled in the sheets, my body slick with sweat as I sit up, my breath coming in ragged, painful gulps.
I look around the dark room, at the familiar log walls, the stack of rodeo magazines, the worn quilt on my bed.
I’m home. I’m safe.
But the adrenaline is still coursing through me, my body convinced the threat is real. I haven’t had a nightmare that bad in years. Not since the first few months after I got here.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet finding the cool wood floor.
Saramaria might not think this is her home, but it is.
It’s mine. This place, these four walls, this land.
This is what saved me. If Anthony hadn’t picked me up that day, if Henry hadn’t shown me a little kindness, I’d be dead or in jail by now.
I owe the Cruz family everything. My life.
And now she wants to sell it. To tear it all down for a profit.
I push the thought away, the anger a hot, bitter taste in my mouth. I need to move. I need to shake off the lingering darkness of the dream.
I take a quick, cold shower, the shock of the water clearing my head. Then I pull on my jeans and a worn T-shirt, my movements automatic, practiced. I don’t bother with coffee. I need something real. Something honest.
I walk out into the pre-dawn light, the air cool and crisp. I head to the barn, the familiar scent of hay and manure a comforting presence. The cows low softly as I enter, their warm breath fogging in the cool air.
I grab a stool and a pail, settling myself beside Bessie, my favorite cow.
She’s a gentle old girl, with big soulful eyes and a patience that seems endless.
I rest my head against her warm flank, the rhythmic sound of her breathing a balm to my frayed nerves.
My hands move with practiced ease, the hiss of the milk hitting the metal pail the only sound in the quiet barn.
This is my ritual. My meditation. This is how I start the day.
Not with nightmares of alleyways and accusations, but with the simple, honest work of providing.
With the warmth of a living creature and the promise of fresh milk for breakfast. This is the life Anthony and Henry and Angelina gave me.
And I’ll be damned if I let anyone take it away.
The last drop of milk hits the bottom of the pail with a satisfying thud.
I give Bessie a final pat on her flank, her warm hide a comfort under my hand.
The pail is heavy. Fresh milk for coffee, for cereal, for the simple act of starting the day right.
This is real. This is tangible. It’s the exact opposite of the confusing, chaotic nightmare that still clings to the edges of my consciousness.
I carry the pail out of the barn, the cool morning air a welcome shock. The sun is just beginning to crest over the Pineback Ridge, painting the sky in strokes of pink and gold. The world is waking up.
And so are they.
Knox is already outside, a small camp stove set up on a makeshift table.
The gurgle of the coffee pot is a familiar morning song, the rich, dark scent of brewing coffee cutting through the clean, crisp air.
He looks up as I approach, a grin already playing on his lips, the exhaustion from last night’s drinking seemingly gone.
“Saved you some,” he says, gesturing to the pot with his chin.
Rhett emerges from his cabin, stretching his arms over his head. He’s already dressed for the day, his expression alert and focused. He grabs three mismatched mugs from a crate, setting them on the table. The clink of ceramic is the only sound that breaks the morning peace.
We pour our coffee in silence, the steam rising in the cool air. It’s a ritual we’ve fallen into, a comfortable, unspoken routine. We don’t need to fill the silence with words. The land, the work, the shared purpose—it’s enough.
“Ready for a little bit of practice before breakfast?” Rhett asks, his gaze fixed on Knox over the rim of his mug.
Knox takes a long swallow of his coffee, his eyes gleaming with a competitive fire that I know all too well. “More than ready,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Diablo’s been restless. Need to remind him who’s boss.”
I lean against the post of the porch, sipping my coffee.
The bitter liquid is a jolt to my system, clearing away the last vestiges of the dream.
This is what we do. This is our life. Knox rides, Rhett watches his back, and I.
.. I watch them both. It’s a dance we’ve perfected over years, a symphony of muscle and nerve and sheer, stubborn will.
The practice arena is nothing more than a dusty, circular pen with a chute on one side and a sturdy fence on the other. But for us, it’s a cathedral. A place where gods are made and broken.
Knox disappears into the small shed attached to the chute, emerging a moment later with his riding vest and chaps on.
He moves with a liquid grace, his body coiled with energy.
Rhett is already in the pen, his body loose, his eyes scanning everything, taking in every detail.
He’s the safety net, the one who steps in when things go wrong.
The one who makes sure the rider walks away, no matter what.
The gate to the chute opens, and Diablo explodes into the pen.
He’s a monster of a bull, all muscle and fury, with a coat the color of a thundercloud and eyes that burn with a pure, unadulterated hatred for anything on two legs. The bell around his neck clangs wildly, a chaotic soundtrack to his rage. He spins, he kicks, he lunges, a whirlwind of raw power.
Knox is on him in a flash, his movements a blur of leather and determination.
He settles into the bull’s back, his grip firm, his body an extension of the animal’s.
The world shrinks to this small, dusty circle.
There’s only the rider, the bull, and the eight seconds that stand between glory and the dirt.
The crowd in my head roars, a phantom sound from a hundred different arenas.
Diablo bucks, a violent, explosive movement that would unseat any lesser man.
Knox absorbs the impact, his body flowing with the motion, his focus absolute.
He’s not fighting the bull; he’s dancing with it.
Anticipating its every move, his body a counterpoint to the animal’s fury.
Diablo spins left, then right, trying to dislodge the irritant on his back. Dust fills the air, clinging to the sweat on Knox’s brow. Rhett circles them, a predator’s grace in his movements, his eyes calculating, always ready. He’s a whisper of motion, a shadow ready to step in.
I take another sip of my coffee, the bitter taste different from the raw, primal energy unfolding in front of me.
This is the life I chose. The life Anthony and Henry gave me.
A life of hard work and danger, of quiet camaraderie and the thrill of the ride.
It’s not easy. It’s not safe. But it’s mine.
And then she’s there.
I don’t hear her approach. I just look up, and she’s standing at the edge of the arena, a splash of white and absurdity against the dusty brown of the ranch.
Her hair is a wild mess, a halo of frizz around her face, no sign of the severe bun from yesterday.
She’s wearing the same ridiculous robe, but this time, she’s got a pair of old, scuffed boots on her feet.
It’s the most ridiculous, most incongruous thing I’ve ever seen.
She watches us, her wide eyes filled with both horror and fascination.
“What is all the commotion about?” she asks. I can barely hear her over the bell’s frantic clanging.
I don’t reply. I don’t trust myself to speak. I just lift my coffee cup in a small, sarcastic salute. A silent “this is what we do” that I know she won’t understand.
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t press the issue. Instead, she turns her attention back to the pen, to Knox and Diablo.
The buzzer sounds, marking eight seconds.
Knox bails off, hitting the ground with a practiced roll.
Diablo, still furious, charges after him.
That’s when Rhett moves. He’s a blur of motion, stepping between the bull and the fallen rider, his hands raised, his voice a commanding bark that cuts through the chaos.
The bull hesitates, confused by the new target, giving Knox the precious seconds he needs to scramble to safety.
We all watch as Diablo is herded back toward the chute, the fight slowly draining out of him. Knox is breathing hard, his chest heaving, a grin of pure exhilaration on his face. Rhett claps him on the back, a rare smile on his own lips.
And Saramaria just stands there, a ghost from my past in a fluffy white robe, watching a world she doesn’t seem to understand.