Chapter 11
HESTON
“Sounds like you’re actually getting into the Holiday spirit this year,” my sister teases.
I lean forward on the fence railing in the working pen—still not far enough outside the barn to block out the Christmas music blaring from the tack room, unfortunately.
“Not really,” I mumble into the phone.
Truthfully, I haven’t looked forward to Christmas this much since I was a kid. I’m pretty close with my family, even though we don’t see each other all that often, so it’ll be good to spend some time at home for a change. Getting the hell out of Westridge for a bit is the main draw, though.
“Are you still leaving to drive home tomorrow?” Missy asks.
“First thing in the morning,” I answer, scowling at the barn when the music changes to a song that’s somehow more annoying than the last one. “After chores.”
The sooner the better. I may have to put up with inhaling powdered sugar dust at my parents’ place because Mom makes way too many cookies. But at least she doesn’t play Cowgirl for Christmas at max level for a mandatory ranch-wide jam fest.
I’d yell at Tripp to turn that shit down, but he’d ignore me.
“Will you stay more than two days this time?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “We got another group of calves due in a week, and I have some work here I need to wrap up before snow decides to hit at some point.”
“Oh, right,” she says. “Solana Bluffs gets so much snow, you’d better watch out for those pesky West Texas blizzards coming through.”
“Shut up,” I mutter. I’m tempted to lie and say I wasn’t talking about Solana Bluffs, but I don’t have the energy to pick a battle I know I’ll lose.
Missy laughs, enjoying my annoyance like any good sister would. “Grunt a little more. I hear it’s good for gut health.”
I shove my free hand in my pocket as I turn around to lean my back against the fence.
There’s nothing unusual about the long stretches of dry grass and huddles of cattle breathing clouds of vapor into the cold air in front of me.
Except for the blurry illusion of a girl riding through them on a buckskin gelding that’s almost as beautiful as she is.
It makes my shirt collar feel tight enough to strangle me.
I accidentally let out an audible groan and pinch my temples with my thumb and forefinger.
“Hello?” Missy says.
I regain a good grip on the phone and hold it closer to my ear. “Sorry. What?”
“I said, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I spit back right away.
“Still thinking about it?”
I don’t need to ask what she’s referring to. After I went to Hattie’s three nights ago, I called my dad because he’s the only person I’ve ever taken advice from on things like this. He was on speaker phone, which I didn’t know at the time, but Missy heard me spill it all just the same.
“No,” I lie.
“Yeah, right. Seems like a good time to quit pussyfootin’ around and get your shit together, brother.”
I chuckle because she’s one to talk after cutting her losses and moving back in with Mom and Dad this year at the ripe, old age of twenty-nine. “My shit’s in order.”
“No,” she argues. “Your shit’s in a scattered pile on her front lawn after you showed up all barbaric and grilled her with questions you have no right asking in the first place. Poor girl.”
Dad said something similar. I still don’t know if I believe them entirely, but I’m damn sure not going to sit here on the phone and argue about it. There’s no point.
“I’m just trying to forget about it, Miss. Help me out here and stop bringing it up.”
She sighs through the phone. I probably said it harsher than I needed to, but damn.
It’s like the universe, and everybody in it, is hell-bent on giving me reminders everywhere I go.
No place is safe—not my room, not the bunkhouse, not these pastures .
. . Not even a conversation with my sister exists without connecting back to Hattie in some way.
Dirt kicks up around my boots as Lucky comes running up and skids to a stop beside me, and I get a quick vision of her jumping into Hattie’s arms. Not even my dog.
Everywhere I look is nothing but a breeding ground for misery. Maybe that’s my problem. It all goes back to her.
A few years of living like that, and I’ve about reached my limit. Revisiting the idea of getting out of here and trying to start over somewhere else might be the only way I don’t end up losing my mind completely.
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” I say, trying to sound less aggravated this time.
“Okay,” she says. “Should I tell Mom to expect you for lunch?”
The line beeps, and I lift the phone away to see Tripp calling on the other line. I hit the red button and put the phone back to my ear, only for Gage to try beeping in a second later.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, craning my neck and glancing past the barn. Lucky’s ears are straight up, and I hear a cluster of voices coming from the bunkhouse. “I’d better go, sis. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Love you!”
My eyes narrow when I finally spot a strange vehicle. “Love you,” I reply absentmindedly, already making my way over.
“Do you ever answer your damn phone?” Gage asks. He’s standing by the front door when I finally reach the bunkhouse.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, when my sister calls.”
“Some kid is in there looking for you,” he adds.
“Huh?” I have no idea what he’s talking about, and Gage usually doesn’t take kindly to strangers. “And you just . . . let him in the gate? Who is he?”
Tripp comes through the door and closes it behind him, slapping a hand on my shoulder. “Buddy. Did you knock up a chick in high school?”
I stare at him, flat-faced. “No.”
He juts a thumb over his shoulder. “Because this kid looks about sixteen, and y’all share the same exact face. He’s asking for you like he’s been waiting to meet you all his life.”
“Don’t be a dick to him, alright?” Gage tells me in a very weird, soft voice that he never uses. “Just man up, walk in there, and do the right thing. We’re here for support.”
I hate that Warren isn’t around since he runs the equipment dealership in town these days. He’s a lot easier to read than these two are when they’re fucking with you. I look between them, then at the door. My head tilts. They’re definitely fucking with me. I think?
Tripp bursts out laughing and pushes the door open right before I start to panic. Gage lightly slaps the side of my face while holding back a laugh of his own. I glare at their backs as I follow them inside.
“Found him,” Tripp announces.
He steps to the side, revealing a boy who looks absolutely nothing like me.
In fact, he’d pass as any of the other guys’ long-lost child sooner than he would mine.
He’s scrawny like Tripp was when he was about eighteen, lighter hair similar to Warren’s, and eyes full of secrets like Gage.
I almost flinch when he bursts to his feet and strides right toward me.
“Damn,” he says, astonished. “You’re really here.”
I cock a brow. My defenses kick in on autopilot, and I wait for him to shove a camera in my face or start asking questions.
Then, I let my attention fall to his Tin Haul boots and the steer on his buckle.
Well, shit. If he’s not here for a scoop, then he’s a bulldogger.
A comically small one. I eye him, trying to figure out what the hell he wants.
“You’re not easy to find,” he adds with a laugh. His smile is so big that he can barely get his words out. “I drove all the way from North Dakota with a hunch and a few tips.”
I cross my arms. “For what?”
Tripp bumps my elbow and pins me with a look.
“Sorry,” I backtrack. “Uh, look, kid—”
“Oh,” he cuts me off in a rush and holds his hand out between us, “Granger.”
I shake his hand, impressed by his strong grip. He’s still grinning like an idiot, but I’m out of practice with pleasantries.
“Granger,” I repeat. “Got it. Was there something you needed, or?”
“Well,” he bends one arm and rubs a nervous palm on his shirt sleeve. “I was kind of hoping you might take me on.”
The more he says, the more my jaw clenches.
“I’m pretty good,” he adds, pleading his case. “I mean, not that good. Not as good as you. But I will be. I’m going straight to the top.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” I lie.
I almost turn to walk away, but instead of giving up, he whips out his phone and taps the screen to start a video. Gage and Tripp lean in on either side of me just as the audio plays out through the phone’s speaker.
“You can’t dead stop a six-hundred-pound steer,” the commentator narrates over a slow-motion replay video. “Your only hope is to change his momentum and use it to your advantage.”
My brows crunch together as I watch a twenty-year-old version of myself stretch my legs out in front of me and dig my heels in the ground.
The rough-edged technique would make most pro rodeo analysts cringe.
Dirt flies all around me while I grit my teeth and make one swift twist to complete the takedown.
The clock in the corner of the screen stops at 3. 4 seconds.
“Heston Landry takes that theory and throws it in the dumpster out back,” a different voice jumps in over the video.
Both of the commentators laugh. “This young man has taken the art of steer wrestling and turned it into a game of brute force that no one has been able to figure out a way to compete with yet.”
The video shows me spitting in the dirt.
Flashes distort the edges, and I pull off my hat and hold it up to the crowd.
I remember flipping off the camera behind the chutes that day because they kept pushing it closer and closer to my face when I was trying to stay focused. The fine for that wasn’t pretty.
“That’s right, Jake,” the first commentator agrees.
“Let’s see that run again to get another glimpse of how, once again, the world of rodeo’s newest prodigy finds himself at the top of the standings, with only three months before the finals.
No doubt, Landry will be pushing for a repeat of last year’s championship. ”