Chapter 1 The Gravity of Bone #12
His left leg was strapped to the fender with duct tape. He had wrapped the stirrup to his boot to prevent the foot from slipping, a dangerous, amateur move that would drag him to his death if the horse went down. But he couldn't trust his adductor muscle to hold him.
He was sweating. The pain in his femur was a constant, screaming noise, a siren that drowned out the crickets and the wind.
Just one ride, he told himself. Prove you can take the impact.
He gathered the reins. He squeezed his legs.
"Hup!"
Ghost jumped forward. The horse felt the tension in the rider—the trembling leg, the rigid spine—and reacted with panic. He bucked. A short, crow-hop series that jarred Ryder’s spine.
Ryder gritted his teeth. Ride it. Absorb it.
He loosened his hips. He countered the move.
Ghost spun left.
The torque hit Ryder’s bad leg. The titanium rod vibrated. The screw sites burned like hot coals.
Ryder gasped, his vision graying out. He grabbed the saddle horn—a rookie mistake, a mark of shame—to keep from falling.
"Dammit!" he hissed.
He pulled the horse up. Ghost skidded to a stop, snorting, his ears pinned back.
Ryder sat there, panting. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. His leg was throbbing so hard he could feel his pulse in his ankle.
He wasn't ready.
Physically, he was a wreck. If he got on a bull in Tulsa, he would last maybe two seconds before his leg gave out or his mind broke.
But then he thought about the red boots. He thought about Leo standing at the fence, looking up at him like he hung the moon.
I need the money, Ryder thought desperately. I need the truck. I need the six figures to buy him a future. I can't be the broke dad. I can't be the cripple living in the guest room.
He viewed fatherhood through the only lens he understood: Performance. Provision. Glory. If he couldn't be a present father, he would be a rich hero.
"Again," Ryder whispered to the horse.
He adjusted his grip. He kicked the horse.
Ghost leaped.
Ryder rode. He rode through the pain, rode through the fear, rode through the darkness, chasing a gold buckle that he thought was the key to his son’s heart.
He didn't see the headlights wash over the barn. He didn't hear the car door slam.
He only heard the roar of the crowd in his head, cheering for the comeback king.
II. The Beam of Light
The beam of a flashlight cut through the darkness like a laser.
It hit Ryder squarely in the face, blinding him.
Ghost spooked. The horse shied violently to the right. Ryder, blinded and off-balance, lost his stirrup (the tape ripped with a sound like tearing skin) and nearly came off. He grabbed the mane, hauling himself back to center with a grunt of agony.
"Get off the horse."
The voice was low. Trembling.
Ryder shielded his eyes. He knew the voice.
Elena stood by the gate of the round pen. She was holding a heavy Maglite flashlight. She was wearing her coat over her pajamas. She looked small in the vast darkness, but she radiated a nuclear anger.
Ryder pulled Ghost to a halt. He slid off the saddle, landing on his good leg, clutching the fence for support.
"Elena," he panted. "What are you—"
"I said get off!" she screamed. She strode into the pen, fearless. She grabbed the horse’s reins and yanked them from Ryder’s hand. "Are you insane? Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"I'm training," Ryder said, leaning against the rail, taking weight off his screaming leg.
"Training?" She shone the light on his leg. She saw the duct tape hanging from his boot. She saw the sweat soaking his shirt. "You're taped to the saddle? That’s a suicide rig, Ryder!"
"I have to be ready," he said. "Tulsa is in two days."
"Tulsa," she spat the word. "So it's true. The contract."
"It's six figures, Elena! It's a truck. It's a future for Leo!"
Elena froze. She lowered the flashlight. The beam hit the dirt, casting long, grotesque shadows up her face.
"Don't you dare," she whispered. "Don't you dare use my son as an excuse for your addiction."
"It's not an addiction! It's a job! It's the only thing I know how to do!" Ryder shouted, his defense crumbling into desperation. "I'm broke, Elena. I have nothing. How am I supposed to be a father if I can't even buy him a happy meal?"
"You think he wants a happy meal?" Elena cried, tears spilling over. "He wants you! He wants the man who held his hand at the fence! He wants his dad to be alive, not a smudge on the arena floor in Oklahoma!"
"I'm doing this for him!"
"You're doing it for the applause!" she countered, stepping closer, getting right in his face. "You're doing it because you're terrified of being ordinary. You're terrified of staying here, in the quiet, and actually doing the hard work of raising a child."
She poked him in the chest.
"You're running, Ryder. Just like you ran six years ago. Only this time, you're looking me in the eye while you do it."
Ryder stared at her. The truth of her words cut deeper than the bone pain.
He was running. He was running toward the noise because the silence of the ranch—the silence where he had to just be a man, not a star—scared him to death.
"I can't stay here," he whispered. "I'm not like Cole. I can't be the farmer. I need... I need the ride."
Elena looked at him. The anger drained out of her face, leaving behind a cold, devastating clarity.
"Okay," she said.
She stepped back.
"Go to Tulsa. Get on the bus. Chase the buckle."
"Elena—"
"But listen to me closely, Ryder." She shone the light on his face one last time, illuminating the desperation in his eyes.
"If you get on that bus... if you choose the rodeo over us one more time... you lose."
"Lose what?"
"Everything," she said. "You lose the right to know him. You lose the right to see him. I will tell him his father was a pirate who sailed away and never came back. And I will make sure he forgets your name."
Ryder felt the blood drain from his face. "You can't do that."
"Watch me," she said. "I protected him from your absence for six years. I will protect him from your selfishness for the rest of his life."
She turned around. She walked to the gate.
"The bus leaves at 6:00 AM from Billings," she said without looking back. "Don't miss it."
She walked into the darkness.
Ryder stood alone in the round pen. His horse nudged him, looking for a treat.
Ryder leaned his forehead against the saddle leather. He smelled the horse sweat and the cold night air.
He had the offer. He had the contract.
And he had just been given the price tag.
III. The Empty Bag
The guest room was silent, save for the sound of a zipper.
Zzzzzzt.
Ryder sat on the edge of the bed. His gear bag—a battered black canvas duffel that had traveled to forty states—sat open at his feet.
He was packing.
He moved with the mechanical efficiency of a soldier breaking camp. He folded his jeans. He rolled his socks. He packed the knee braces, the ace bandages, and the rolls of athletic tape.
He picked up his bull rope.
It was a heavy, braided instrument of violence. The leather handle was stained dark with sweat and rosin. It smelled of adrenaline and fear. He coiled it carefully, placing it in the bottom of the bag like a sleeping snake.
Then he reached for his spurs.
He held the rowels up to the dim light of the lamp. They were dull. Steel. Cold.
He put them in the bag.
He looked at the nightstand.
There were two objects there.
One was his 2019 Rookie of the Year buckle. It was silver and gold, heavy as a brick, engraved with scrolling vines and a bucking bull. It was the proof that he was somebody. It was the currency of his world.
The other was the plastic bull. Bodacious. The one Leo had given him.
Ryder picked up the buckle. He weighed it in his hand.
It felt... light. Surprisingly, disappointingly light. For six years, this object had been the center of gravity of his entire universe. Now, it just felt like a piece of cheap metal.
He put it in the bag.
He picked up the plastic bull.
He ran his thumb over the broken horn. He remembered Leo’s voice. I'm scared. You're the boss.
If he stayed, what would he offer the boy? A father with a limp? A father who worked a minimum-wage job at the feed store because he couldn't ranch and couldn't ride? A father who was always looking at the horizon, wondering what if?
Elena was right. He was chaos. He was a storm. And storms destroyed the things they touched.
I'm not leaving to chase the glory, he told himself, the lie tasting like ash. I'm leaving to save them from me. She said I'm dangerous. So I'll remove the danger.
It was a noble, twisted logic. It was the logic of a man who didn't know how to stay, so he framed his leaving as a mercy.
He put the plastic bull in his pocket. He couldn't leave it. It was the only piece of his son he was allowed to keep.
He zipped the bag shut.
He stood up. He grabbed his crutches.
He looked at the bed. He looked at the water stain on the ceiling.
"Goodbye," he whispered to the room.
He didn't leave a note. Cowboys didn't leave notes. They just left dust.
IV. The Zero Point
Dawn was breaking when Ryder walked out onto the porch.
It wasn't a clean sunrise. The sky was a bruised, angry purple, heavy with low-hanging clouds that scraped the tops of the mountains. The air was thick, charged with static. The wind had died, replaced by an eerie, waiting stillness.
Stone Creek weather, Ryder thought. Storm's coming.
He didn't care. He wouldn't be here for it.
He threw his gear bag into the bed of Cole’s truck. He had left the keys to the truck on the kitchen table with a note: Taking the truck to the bus station. Keys will be under the mat.
He climbed into the driver's seat. He adjusted the seat to accommodate his cast.
He looked at the farmhouse.
The windows were dark. Cole and Maya were asleep upstairs, dreaming of their cabins and their cows.
He looked toward town. Toward the white bungalow with the leaking sink.
He imagined Elena sleeping. He imagined Leo curled up with his stuffed animals.