Chapter 16
ROWE
“Are you punishing me for something?”
My dad stares blankly at me, hiding his immediate reaction to my question. His hat is pushed up slightly, exposing the silver hair at his temples as he huffs a breath and stands a bit straighter.
“Did you do something that deserves punishing?”
“Not sure. It feels an awful lot like you’re sending me out when Otis would be better at this sweet-talking bullshit. I’m too busy to leave. He’ll convince him that everything is going fine.”
“Yeah? So you’ve got that bastard saddle broke, then? Is there an end date I can give him, since you’ve got it all figured out?”
I glance away, my jaw tight, gums aching. “We’re getting there.”
“It’s been a month, and he still won’t let you ride him.
Enough’s enough. You’re taking the trip out to his owner’s place, and he’ll hear it from your mouth why he should continue to pay to keep his horse here when he’s not getting better.
I’ve got nothing to tell him myself anymore. No more excuses to pull out of my ass.”
“You know it isn’t always quick. Not with a horse like that,” I grate out.
“It’s quicker than this, Rowe. He’s paying thousands for nothing more than luxury boarding at this point, and I’ve been making excuses for your lack of progress for weeks. It’s your turn. This is your responsibility now.”
I scratch my jaw and try to calm the rage burning inside my chest. “You want to send me, I’ll go. But she’s not fucking coming with me.”
“That’s not your call, son. Watch your mouth.”
“What’s the point? She’s more useful here,” I push, unable to let this go.
For the last two weeks, I’ve kept myself clear of Tilly.
When she enters the stables, I walk out the other side.
The only time I speak to her is when I demand she finish useless tasks that have her spitting mad by the time she gets back, finished with them.
Brock was thrilled when I gave him the day off from mucking the stable yesterday and had him hand his shovel off to her.
I could still hear the way Tilly screamed and cursed my name when I was at my cabin last night.
Putting us in such close proximity for longer than two minutes is the worst decision my father has made in the last decade. But he’s stubborn as fuck, and there won’t be any changing his mind, no matter how much longer I stand and argue with him.
“She’s going to work on his other horses while you’re there. Maybe she can sweeten him up a bit as an apology for the delay in fixing the one still in my goddamn pen,” he says, his tone sharp, final.
My skin prickles with discomfort. “Is she getting paid for the work?”
“I don’t let anyone here work for free.”
“Fine. She’s okay with it?”
“Why does it matter so much to you, son? Let it go. You leave in an hour.”
An hour? We won’t even get there until nearly suppertime leaving this late.
My mouth dries, ash coating my tongue as I nod briskly and walk away. Otis is lingering by the fence, doing a shit job of looking like he hasn’t been eavesdropping the entire fucking time. I ignore him when I pass, eyes already focused on where I left Diesel tied up.
“You want me to get a trailer hitched so you can take him with you?” Otis asks, following me now.
I slip Diesel’s lead from the tie up and get into the saddle, debating riding off to the other side of the ranch so I don’t have to go anywhere with Tilly.
“I don’t plan on being gone long enough to need him. Just make sure the kids don’t touch him.”
“Pick up some scotch on your way up. A gift goes a long way with shit like this.”
I stare down at the older man, annoyed and pissed off enough that I can’t hide it in my voice. “He doesn’t deserve a goddamn gift. There should be no grovelling expected for a man who doesn’t give a shit about the horse he’s putting up such a stink about. This is about money.”
“It always is, Rowe. That’s life.”
“Skip the philosophical bullshit with me. I’m running up to my cabin.”
He doesn’t argue further. His hand waves me away as he says on an exhale, “Alright.”
“What brand?” I grit out.
“Of what?”
“Scotch. What fucking brand?”
“The cheapest you can find. You’re right about him being undeserving. That doesn’t mean you can’t pretend. Save face.”
I bark a laugh, leaning back. “Got it.”
He doesn’t say anything else. I think he knows better than anyone when I’m done talking about something. Maybe he could teach my dad a thing or two about me.
I kick Diesel into a trot, and we head out.
Tilly’s leaning against the truck door when I exit the stable, leaving Diesel pouting in his stall.
Her legs are kicked out in front of her, crossed at the ankles.
She’s not wearing those short shorts today, having swapped them for tight blue jeans with rhinestones on the pockets.
They’re loose at the bottom and slipped over the tops of her boots.
I force my gaze from her legs and to the saying stamped in white across her tight red shirt.
Wrangle Me Cowboy.
“Do you get a kick out of wearing shit like that around here?” I grunt, opening the back truck door to toss my bag inside.
“Wearing what?”
The fake innocence has me slamming the door shut, heat ghosting over my skin. “Cut the shit. The shirts are pointless. The men here are looking at you regardless of whether you bait them or not.”
She stands in front of me, grinning smugly. “Is that so?”
“Are you that desperate for a compliment from me, hellcat?” I lower my voice, straightening my shoulders as I press into her space.
Her eyes have to crawl up my body to reach mine.
The blue colour of them is rough this close up, like it’s been sanded down to a duller shade.
“Or is the brat just feeling self-conscious today?”
Her palm smacks against my sternum. I don’t move when she shoves at me, so she takes a wide step back. “You’re an asshole.”
“That’s not going to get you any compliments.”
“You’re the last guy on this ranch I’d want one from. Been there, done that.”
Silence.
I bite down on my tongue hard enough to taste copper while I push past her and round the hood. It wasn’t necessarily a low blow, but it sure fucking hit deep. Her ability to throw our past at me like a weapon is starting to really wear on me.
She tugs the passenger door open and props a boot onto the step bar, glaring at me through the cab when I open the opposite one.
“Get in the truck,” I order, sliding inside.
When I close the door, the harsh slam rattles through me. I ignore it and turn the ignition. Tilly finally listens and shuts her door more softly than I did.
“This is going to be a long drive if you’re a dick to me the entire time,” she says once we’ve pulled onto the road.
“We don’t need to talk.” I wring the steering wheel. “And I’m not the only one acting like that.”
“You don’t want to talk for the next three hours?”
“Would you prefer we argue?”
She starts fiddling with the radio, poking at the buttons until a country song starts playing. It’s the new shit, something about heartbreak in a small town. Shocker.
“You didn’t even ask if I had put my things in the truck before we left,” she mutters.
I glance at her, blinking in disbelief. “I’m not your keeper.”
“Considering I’m supposed to be grooming some old prick’s horses while we’re stuck at his ranch, it would have been nice for you to ask.”
“Did you get your things?” I ask tightly.
“Yeah. They’re in the back.”
My nostrils flare with the force of my exhale. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You used to have manners. Where’d they go?”
“So, you do want to argue, then.”
“Why does it have to be an argument? Just answer my question without putting up a fight.”
“You’re only asking questions that you know will lead to a fight.”
Sitting up against the brown leather seat, she digs her elbow into the console and stares at me. I can feel her concentration scraping at my cheek.
“How long have you been competing again?”
Alright then. “Two years.”
“Only two?”
“I couldn’t while I was on parole. Wasn’t allowed outside of Alberta.”
I tighten my hold on the steering wheel as the unease of talking about that time in my life rears its head. It’s been a while since I’ve done that.
“Right . . . parole. Ash mentioned it to me before.”
“Curious?”
“About what?”
I almost laugh. “Parole.”
“What is there to be curious about? You got to serve the rest of your sentence not trapped behind bars. I know what it means.”
My chin dips, no words escaping me.
Tilly jostles her leg, letting loose a sigh. “It was because of good behaviour, right? While you were in prison?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it hard? The whole being a perfect inmate thing?”
I look at her again, arching a brow at her genuine curiosity. It’s almost innocent. So different from the smugness she wore like a mask earlier.
“At the beginning. It got easier.” And then really hard again after we stopped talking.
She runs a hand over the braid lying over her shoulder. “What was it like coming back to the real world?”
“What is this, Tilly? Why do you suddenly give a shit?” It comes out like a whip.
“I’m trying to make conversation. It’s not like I’m going to take all of your answers and make a blog post about them or anything,” she argues defensively. The song changes, and she scowls at the screen with the album cover on it. “If you want to sit in silence instead, we can do that.”
There’s a tiny wiggle of discomfort in my gut. “It was terrible. I was only locked up for three and a half years, but it still felt like I’d been inside for four times that. The sun was brighter than it was before, and there was too much missing time between me and the people I cared about.”
I spent three weeks just trying to find where I fit in. All of the places I knew I belonged before I left were too different, and I had to spend that time forcing myself back into the person I used to be. It didn’t matter how hard I tried; it wasn’t possible to be him again.
That version of myself died when I put Ezra in the ICU.
“Do you fit now?” she asks, her voice nearly too soft to belong to her.
“No.”
“Do you think you ever will?”
I turn the truck off the Painted Sky land and onto the range road that leads to the highway.
When I flick my eyes across the cab, she’s watching me, her lips curled down, the bottom one slightly jutted out.
I’m hit with a blast of warmth deep in my chest. I have to put both hands on the wheel to keep from reaching for her.
“Maybe.”