Chapter 13 - Nate
The sun’s brutal by late morning, that prairie kind of heat that bakes from above and reflects back up from the dirt, like the world’s trying to cook you twice.
Sweat slides down my spine, gluing my shirt to me.
My hands are raw, shoulders burning, and for once, it feels good.
Real. Simple. Every clang of the post driver, every grunt and curse, works something loose in me that I didn’t know was stuck.
Out here, there’s no noise but wind, tools, and the occasional “shit” when someone misses the mark. The girls are whining, the guys are sweating, and Jamie looks like he’s having a religious experience. He’s grinning behind that camera like this is his Super Bowl.
If social media awards had Oscars, the kid would be writing his acceptance speech right now.
Kenzie and Tessa are saints, patient, efficient, calm, even when the groupies start complaining about the bugs and the smell and “cow poop proximity.” I’m half-tempted to offer them a refund for coming. They’d do us all a favour if they packed up and went back to the city.
Tessa doesn’t slow. She’s triaging at a glance, who needs water, who needs a tip on the driver, which panel is too loose, which wire doesn’t look right.
She crosses to Anders, who’s trying to brute-force a post like it insulted his ancestors. “You’re muscling it,” she says, voice even. “Let the weight do it. Elbows loose.”
He tries it her way, and the post slides cleaner. He tips her a grin like the sun came out just for him. “If we’re both single at thirty, marry me.”
“Hey, fucker,” I call without looking up. “You are already thirty-one.”
She huffs, but it holds no heat. “I am pretty sure that was proposal entrapment.”
Laughter trickles down the fence line, even Eli’s mouth twitches.
We call a water break under trees older than all of us.
The shade is thin, but it’s something. I drain half a bottle, head back up, because stopping makes the ache catch up.
Tessa is a few yards off, lips moving, counting the group.
It’s the same habit I have on the bench, heads, numbers, lines.
She pauses, brow pulling tight. Scans left, then farther right.
Everything about her goes very, very still.
“What?” I ask before I know I’m talking.
Her eyes narrow toward the far fence where a run of corrals sits slightly apart. Sun on metal. The pen they put the big guy in to rest a tender hoof and keep him away from today’s chaos. We were told to steer clear, full stop.
Tessa’s voice cuts low. “Where is...” She breaks off, sharpens. “Sloane. What the hell is she doing?”
Who the? and then it sinks in. Sloane. The girl from the hallway. From the photos. From my worst morning-after.
Tessa is already moving. The bay she’s been using is ground-tied near the fence; she’s up and on in one clean swing, knees hugging muscle, a squeeze of her strong legs, and he rockets forward. She is flying, hat gone, braid unspooling behind her like a live wire.
I watch, trying to piece together what has her freaked out. The sun is in my eyes. I wipe my brow and take a few steps forward, trying to put it all together. And then I see it.
Fuck.
“Eli!” I shout, pointing. He follows my line of sight, mutters something that would peal paint, and sprints. He vaults onto his mustang and kicks hard.
Everything else staggers into slow motion. Dad’s truck pulls up next to our group, Mom riding shotgun, Olivia between them with a basket of sandwiches, snacks and the proudest smile under the sun.
The girls next to me in their athleisure sit up like meerkats, phones already tilting in anticipation of what is to come.
Sloane has climbed into the bullpen. Heels in mud, the bull behind her, camera up and angled, lips parted, sunlight catching the glitter along her collarbone.
The bull stands maybe thirty feet away, switching his tail at the flies, watching with that flat, patient attention that’s felt more than seen.
Tessa is there first. She reins in hard outside the panel. Voice low, carrying. “Sloane. Do not run. Walk to me... slow.”
Sloane does what people like her do when someone tries to save them: she takes another fucking selfie. Then she looks down, realizes her heels are cemented in July muck, and yanks. One heel pops free with a sound like a hiss. The other holds. She flails, screaming.
Tessa swings down without hesitation, tosses the reins over a post, and clears the panel.
Two strides and she’s beside Sloane, hands under her elbows, a clean jerk that lifts her up enough to slide her foot out, if Sloane would cooperate.
The second heel refuses. Tessa curses softly, goes lower, grabs Sloane behind the knee and yanks, heels gone, feet free, Sloane screeches, "They are fucking designer, you hilbilly. " ...and the bull moves.
It’s not a sprint; it’s a decision. Head lifts, chest rolls, one huge shoulder dips, and the ground seems to move with him. The sound he makes is old and big enough to vibrate my soul.
“Tessa!” I hear myself bellow.
Eli is a streak on the far side, but he’s still too far. Tessa doesn’t hesitate. She shoves Sloane at the panel, palms braced under her ass, throws her up and over the top rail. “Go now,” she snaps, and then she turns to face something ten times her weight and not in a talking mood.
The bull turns at the last minute, still focused on Sloane, and his side hits the gate, hard enough to shriek metal. The panel bows, the pins bite. Dust detonates, hot and choking, and Tessa goes back against the rail like a ragdoll, clips the post, and disappears.
Olivia’s scream cuts through everything. “TESSA!”
Dad is running towards the pen faster than I can ever remember seeing him move.
Reeves is moving, sprinting for the truck to get to Olivia, folding her up against his chest before her feet can find the ground. “She’s okay, Princess. Eyes on me.”
The dust thins and I see her: Tessa on hands and knees tucked up under the lowest rail, dragging herself out, face tense, eyes still on the bull, one arm clamped around her ribs.
Olivia lets out a sob for Tessa, and she turns toward the sound like nothing else matters and lifts a shaking hand, thumb up. The kid hiccups, breath returns to her in little jerks.
The bay is losing his mind, dancing sideways on the outside of the panel, whites of his eyes showing.
Tessa staggers up, puts her palm to the bridge of his nose, forehead to his, breath syncing in five-counts until the animal remembers the world’s not ending.
Eli arrives and slips the reins from her fingers. “I’ve got him,” he says.
Kenzie is already on the phone, voice clipped. “Chase? Yeah, we need you. Now.”
Behind Eli, Sloane is shrieking at her ruined shoes. “Those were Louboutin’s, oh my God, do you even know?”
Dad turns slowly, jaw working, temper fighting through.
For a second, I honestly think he’ll toss her back into the paddock and let God sort it out.
He doesn’t. The muscle in his cheek jumps once, twice.
He watches Tessa with Eli for a moment, making sure she is up and breathing, then he walks to the pen to check the gate and the animal.
I know this is how he is steadying himself.
Jensen swings a side-by-side around. “Up with me,” he says to Tessa, voice all authority. She tries to argue, breath hitching. Eli doesn’t let her. He helps her up beside Jensen and starts walking the horses back to us. His head is down, and I know he is trying to rein in his emotions, his temper.
The world moves in a blur after that. The girls are crying like they’re the ones who almost got killed. Jamie’s hovering, torn between filming and looking horrified. My dad’s pacing like he’s trying to contain the storm in his chest.
Mom finally crosses to me, quiet but firm. “After lunch, you and your friends should head out,” she says softly. “It’s been… enough excitement for one day.” Her voice wavers only when she glances toward Tessa.
Eli crouches beside Tessa in the UTV, peels the denim button-up off her shoulder. McKenna sucks air through his teeth. “Jesus.” The bruise looks like a storm front rolling in under her skin. Tessa’s jaw flexes once, twice, because she won’t give pain the satisfaction of a sound.
Eli looks like he is the one in pain. She looks up at him and tries to offer him a smile. He shakes his head at her, and she tries again.
“I am ok, Eli. I don’t need a doctor.” It’s almost convincing.
Eli stares her down. “Yeah, you do.”
Kenzie jogs up. “Chase is almost here; he was already headed our way.”
“Good,” Eli says, not looking away from Tessa.
Dad stalks in a tight circle, then veers toward me like a storm changing tracks, rage out front, some other rough thing behind it. Tessa lifts her head and catches him with a single word. “John.”
He stops and changes direction to check on her. She shakes her head once, breath thin. “It isn't anyone's fault. Accidents happen.”
They talk low, nothing for the crowd. Whatever she says lets him bank it. He nods, jerks a thumb over his shoulder, and goes back to check on the bull.
Tessa eases herself down and limps toward the truck. Olivia peels away from Reeves and meets her halfway, face blotchy and tear streaked. Tessa lowers to one knee and winces, just once, then smiles like she practiced it for the kid alone.
"Hey, princess, did that give you a scare?"
Olivia gives her a shaky nod.
“Your dad ever get hurt at work?” she asks softly.
Olivia sniffles. “He got a tooth knocked out. Twice. And sometimes he comes home with bruises and cuts.”
“And did he get better?”
“Yeah.”
“See?” Tessa says gently. “This is the same thing. I got hurt at work, but I’ll get better, too.”
Olivia stares at her, then throws her arms around her neck. Tessa’s breath catches, pain flashing across her face, but she doesn’t make a sound. Just smooths the little girl’s curls and whispers, “I’m okay, sweet girl. I promise.”
Around us, the world starts to move again. People talking, eating, pretending things are normal. Jamie’s still too close with his camera, his eyes shining like this is gold. I make a mental note to talk to him before he posts a single frame.
A truck rolls up fast, dirt spitting under its tires. It barely stops before the door opens, and Chase is out, moving quickly and controlled, doctor mode in full force. He goes straight to Tessa, crouches, assesses, and the second he sees her side, his tone shifts.
“You’re going for a scan,” he says firmly. “No arguments.”
For once, she doesn’t fight. Just nods, leaning into him as they head for his truck.
Kenzie touches my arm, voice soft but certain. “She’s tough, Nate. She’ll be okay.”
I watch them pull away, dust trailing, the tailgate glinting in the sun, and something settles heavy in my chest. Guilt. Fear. Respect. All tangled up.
I don’t say it out loud, but I know it as clear as I know my own name:
She shouldn’t have had to be the one to save us.
And I’m damn sure not going to forget that she did.