Chapter 7 #3
“Why…” Grace closes her eyes, frustrated. “Would I be pissed?”
The next words come out in a jumble, barely discernible. Barely even English. “WedaredCoopertotrytorideWaylonandhebuckedhimoffandwethinkhebrokehisankle.”
It takes a moment for the jumbled statement to sink in, but it does, and Grace’s eyes are open again, widening with rage. “You did what?”
“I said don’t be pissed!”
“I don’t care what you said! You dared someone to ride a wild horse? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
For a moment, he just stares up at her like a chastised child. The look on his face almost makes her feel guilty for blowing up, but the feeling is quickly replaced by frustration and shock and pure anger. Reckless. They are all reckless idiots. Dangerous, reckless idiots.
“It was Pierce,” Mikey says, holding up his hands in supplication. “I didn’t say shit.”
“Did you try to stop him?” Grace bites out.
The grimace on Mikey’s face is dramatic, the kind of overexpression only a drunk person can manage. “I’m sorry, Grace,” he says in a pitch higher than his normal voice.
Grace rolls her eyes, then turns on her heel to march toward the front door to grab her boots. She tugs them on with an exasperated grunt and then asks, “Where are they?”
Mikey stands, first aid kit tucked into his side. “Um—”
“And what do you think that is going to do for a broken ankle?” she asks, pointing at the kit.
“Grab some duct tape from the junk drawer and find something hard, like—” She looks around, eyes dancing over the dark room.
She notices only now, from this new vantage point, that every single bed is empty.
Pointedly ignoring the fact that they purposefully left her out of this stunt so they could do something stupid with her horse, Grace continues to search until she lands on the makeshift piece of wood that holds all of their grungy work hats.
“That.” She points at it. “Get that off the wall—take the hats off and the nails out.”
Mikey obeys quickly, throwing open the junk drawer and stuffing the tape into his pocket before rushing over to the hat rack and pulling it off the wall.
The nails come out easily, and then they are out the door, speed-walking toward the barn.
Grace trails behind him by a half step, and she takes the quarter-mile journey to center herself.
There’s no point in getting pissed off and screaming at everyone right now—right now, she just needs to make sure Cooper and Waylon are okay.
A shadow moves within the walls of the enclosure, and Grace can tell just from the silhouette that Waylon and Duke are both distressed, pacing back and forth and blowing out loud, impatient breaths through their mouths. Scolding the ranch hands in their own way, just as she plans to do.
The group is huddled near the barn’s entrance; only the dim, warm light bulb above the saddle wall illuminates their shapes in the moonless night.
There’s an antsy murmuring coming from where they sit, but Cooper’s groaning is loud enough that she can’t make out what anyone else may be saying.
She walks up with purposeful steps, Mikey at her side.
He stares down at his boots, embarrassed for snitching.
She’ll tell him later that it was the right thing to do.
Much later. For now, she steps into the group with an exacting stare that demands eye contact and acknowledgment, that says a thousand words without uttering a single one.
Everyone is looking at her, all growing more sheepish by the second.
Because even though they’re drunk and stupid, they know better than this.
Caleb opens his mouth to speak, but Grace holds up a hand, and he promptly shuts it.
She takes a deep, calming breath in through her nostrils and asks, “Did he hit his head?”
“No,” Caleb says solemnly. “Just landed wrong when he jumped off. Think the ankle is sprained. Not broken.”
“Well, thank God for small mercies,” Grace spits, shaking her head.
She crouches down until she’s eye level with Cooper, who is flat on his back with his knee tucked into his chest, writhing in pain.
His ankle, from what she can tell in the dark, looks intact.
It’ll probably swell up to the size of a softball by the morning, but there’s no bone or floppiness to worry about.
Cooper lifts up his head to see who has approached, and when he spots her, he groans, “Grace.” He lets his head fall back again, defeated. “I think your horse hates me.”
She stands, runs a hand through her sleep-tangled hair, and sighs. “He doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t know you, and he sure as hell doesn’t know what to do with a rider. I haven’t even saddle-broken him yet,” she bites out, throwing her hands up. “And he’s not my horse.”
The words are slurred when he replies, “Of course he is. He only listens to you. Plus, we all like you. You should stick around.”
Grace lets the statement roll off her back—she doesn’t have room in her brain to consider how kind it is.
She takes yet another centering breath and looks up and around the circle.
With all the quiet firmness she can muster, she says, “There is no amount of whiskey in the world that excuses this kind of recklessness. He could’ve died.
Or been paralyzed. I’m—” She gulps down a rough swallow, cutting herself off before she tailspins into a lecture.
“Let’s just get this ankle splinted. Mikey, come on.
” She waves him over, and he practically jumps forward, plywood and tape in hand.
Cooper’s pained groaning grows louder as Mikey tapes his ankle to the board, wrapping around and around until it’s fully secure and unable to move even a centimeter. He leans forward to rip the tape with his teeth, then stands and surveys his work. He looks to Grace for approval, and she nods.
“All right,” she says, “are any of you sober enough to walk him back to the bunkhouse?”
A cacophony of affirmatives, all in varying coherence, erupts from the group.
She’s about to tell Caleb that she’ll take Cooper’s left arm if he takes his right, because he seems to be the only one who can even stand for more than five seconds without wobbling.
But just as she opens her mouth, someone else’s voice cuts in.
Louder, firmer, and scarier than she could ever be.
“What the hell is going on?”
Her heart sinks in her chest at the sound, because it’s a distinctive voice.
There’s no question whom it belongs to. The irritation in it is thick enough to have them all, even Grace, standing up a little straighter.
Everyone except for Cooper, who either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care that his brother is here now, surveying them all with fury tightening every line of his face.
Even in the dark, his anger is bright and unmistakable.
His dog, Boone, is at his side, judging all of them with similar levels of disdain.
Crew stands stock-still beside Grace as he looks around the circle, waiting for someone to speak up.
When no one does, and when his ire seems to be almost bubbling up from beneath his skin, Grace sighs and turns her body to face him head-on.
“Cooper here got himself a real ranch hazing experience,” she says, pointedly not looking at anyone besides Crew.
“Lost a round of poker and had to do a lap around the barn while singing ‘Sweet Caroline.’ She looks back to Cooper, who is staring at her with a mix of disbelief and gratitude.
He opens his mouth to speak—refute, maybe—but Grace shakes her head tightly.
“Clearly, he was too wasted to see where he was going and tripped on something. Sprained his ankle.”
Crew, who has been staring solely at his brother, finally pulls his gaze away and looks at Grace.
She can tell he isn’t fully convinced, especially by the way his jaw tenses when Waylon lets out another annoyed huff from the enclosure.
Crew holds her eyes for longer than feels appropriate, as though he’s challenging her, waiting for her to fess up.
When she doesn’t, his eyes narrow. “That right?”
Grace shrugs. “Yep. Some pain meds and ice and he’ll be good as new.”
“Hm.” Crew nods, then glances back to Cooper. “You tripped?”
“You heard the woman,” Cooper grumbles, hoisting himself with his hands until he’s sitting up. His hair is in complete disarray, his expression slightly dazed.
Crew’s jaw flexes again as he silently offers Cooper an opportunity to tell the truth. When his little brother does not take him up on it, Crew sighs. His face full of impatience and sternness, he looks at Grace again, and the words he speaks next are curt, brooking no argument. “Let’s go.”
Grace’s eyebrows pull together. She looks from Crew to Cooper, who seems equally confused. Back in Crew’s direction, she blurts, “What?”
“We’re taking him to my house,” he replies, then, pointedly not looking at Cooper, adds, “Where I can keep an eye on him.”
From the corner of her eye, Grace sees Cooper’s chin dip toward his chest.
Grace is on the verge of asking the most appropriate question—Why me?
—when Crew decides he doesn’t care to hear her response and simply dips down to lift his brother up by his armpits.
Cooper grunts and hisses at the lack of gentleness, hopping on one foot once he’s completely upright.
His injured leg sticks out, bound completely straight and stiff by the splint.
His gait will probably be clunky and slow for the next week or so.
Grace, still unsure why she’s been commanded to assist with this task, says nothing as she sidles up next to Cooper, offering her good shoulder to assist with his balance.
Together, the three of them hobble over to the golf cart parked near the barn.
Cooper sits in the back, his hurt leg jutting straight out.
He leans back, breathing heavily from the effort it took to even walk the few paces.
Grace scoots in next to Crew, who maintains a chilly silence as he starts the engine and drives off, not sparing a single glance at the ranch hands he leaves in his wake.