17. Clay
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Clay
By the fourth day of pretending I’m useful, Rusty and I have developed a routine.
I limp somewhere. He follows. I drop something. He investigates it. I swear. He looks pleased with himself. It’s not exactly a partnership built on mutual respect, but it passes the time.
“Move,” I tell him as he plants himself directly in front of my crutch for the third time in ten minutes.
Rusty blinks up at me, tongue lolling out of his mouth, not moving an inch.
“You’re doing this on purpose.” His tail thumps once against the porch boards. “Traitor.”
He huffs.
The thing about being injured is no one tells you how loud the quiet gets.
At first, I thought the worst part would be the pain. Then I thought it’d be the cast, heavy, hot, and miserable, making every step some kind of punishment. Then I assumed it’d be the pills, leaving my head slow and strange, as if somebody stuffed cotton between my thoughts.
Turns out, the worst part is time. Too much of it. Time to think. Time to remember. Time to notice every place I don’t fit.
Boone’s up before dawn every day, moving through ranch work because the land itself gives him instructions.
Dallas spends mornings in the office, with spreadsheets, schedules, and invoices that’d make me want to chew glass.
Nash is split between the dude ranch and hovering around Tessa and Hailey, looking tired and happy in a way that makes my chest pinch if I stare too long.
Everybody’s busy. Everybody’s needed. And me… I hold things. Sometimes.
Dad used to joke that I’d either die famous or broke before thirty.
Everybody laughed when he said it.
Me too.
But I remember the way Boone always got taught the serious stuff. Ranch accounts, cattle contracts, land taxes. Dallas learned schedules and logistics. Nash got folded into the guest side of things.
Me?
I got told not to break my neck.
That’s my grand contribution to the McCoy legacy.
Clay McCoy: professional object holder. Former bull rider. Current porch decoration.
So I help where I can. Or where Mom tells me to, which is usually the same thing.
I carry folded laundry one-handed down the hall and nearly knock over a framed photo of Boone’s wedding.
I sit on a stool in the barn and untangle lead ropes until Rusty decides one is his mortal enemy.
I help Nash label boxes for the dude ranch, which mostly means I write on them while he talks too fast about guest experience, trail packages, and whether people from Portland know how to behave around horses.
“They don’t,” I tell him.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough.”
“They’re paying guests.”
“That doesn’t make them smart.”
He grins. “You’re charming when you’re trapped here.”
The word lands wrong instantly. “I’m not trapped.”
Nash’s eyes flick to my cast before he can stop himself.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck.
I look at him until he finally lifts both hands in surrender and changes the subject.
By afternoon, the heat presses hard enough over the ranch that everyone starts moving slower, except Mom, who doesn’t believe in weather as an excuse. She finds me in the kitchen trying to make coffee with one crutch hooked awkwardly under my arm and Rusty sitting on my boot.
“You look ridiculous,” she says.
“Appreciate the support.”
“You want coffee or are you just threatening the pot?”
“I’m making coffee.”
“You forgot to put water in it.”
I pause and look at the machine.
“Well,” I say. “That explains the lack of progress.”
Her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t laugh. Mom’s got a talent for saving laughter until you least expect it. She reaches around me, fills the pot, and starts the coffee properly before taking the mug out of my hand. “Come help me in the office.”
I lean back against the counter. “That sounds like paperwork.”
“It is.”
“I’m injured.”
“Your leg is injured. Your hands aren't.”
“Spiritually, my hands are exhausted.”
“Clay.”
I sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”
Rusty gets up as if he’s been personally invited.
“Not you,” I tell him.
He follows anyway.
The ranch office is small, tucked off the back hall where the house gets quieter.
It used to be Dad’s domain, then Boone’s, then somehow all of theirs depending on the day.
I’ve avoided it most of my adult life. Too many ledgers, too many documents, too many reminders that running a ranch is less about riding across open land looking impressive and more about drowning slowly in bills, feed orders, veterinary records, and tax forms.
Mom has boxes stacked against one wall, folders spread across the desk, and an expression that suggests she’s already regretting asking for my help.
“I need those sorted by year,” she says, pointing to one stack. “And before you get creative, I mean actual years. Not whatever weird system exists inside your head.”
I lower myself into the chair with a careful breath, stretching my cast out beside the desk. “Years. Got it.”
For a while, we work in quiet.
Mom sorts receipts. I separate bank statements and insurance forms into piles that slowly begin to make sense. Rusty sleeps under the desk, snoring loud enough to be offensive.
The room smells of paper, dust, and the lavender sachets Mom hides in drawers. Sunlight cuts across the desk, catching in the floating dust. Every so often Mom mutters to herself about missing invoices or Boone’s handwriting or whether Dallas moved a file without telling her.
It should annoy me.
It almost doesn’t.
That’s been happening more lately. Things that used to crawl under my skin don’t always hit the same. The ranch sounds. The family noise. Mom fussing. Rusty following me as if I’m worth keeping track of.
Even Josie.
Especially Josie.
I haven’t seen her since the calf. Not in person, but we’ve texted a little.
Enough to make me stare at my phone more than any grown man should.
Enough to make me smile once in front of Faith, which was a mistake because she immediately asked who I was talking to and then made a face because she was going to dig until she hit bone.
I told her it was Earl Haskins.
She didn’t believe me.
No one would.
My phone buzzes now where it sits on the desk, and my attention snaps to it before I can stop myself.
Mom notices. “Expecting something?”
“No.”
She looks at me over her reading glasses.
I flip the phone face down without checking it. “Sorting by year. Very focused.”
“Mm.”
“That sound means you think you know something.”
“I know many things.”
“Terrifying.”
She goes back to her papers, but I can feel her curiosity sitting there, warm, patient, and dangerous.
I sort faster.
That’s when I find it.
At first, it’s just an envelope near the bottom of an old box, tucked between tax files from years ago and a worn folder labeled equipment repairs. It doesn’t belong with the rest. Everything else is neat, filed, accounted for. This is different.
Heavier. Older. The paper has yellowed at the edges, softened from being handled, then stored away. My name is written across the front in black ink.
Clay.
I know the handwriting immediately.
My chest tightens before my brain catches up.
Dad.
His handwriting looks exactly how I remember it. Strong, slanted, impatient-looking. He pressed too hard because the pen wasn’t moving fast enough for him.
I turn it over. Sealed once, then opened and tucked closed again.
“Mom?” I say.
She looks up. “What is it?”
The papers crinkle in my grip.
I should hand them over. Ask questions. Let her explain.
But my lips tighten. This might just be for me. “Never mind.”
My thumb slides under the flap.
Bank documents?
Several sheets, folded together. Account summaries. Deposit records. My name printed in black and white.
Clayton James McCoy.
My full legal name always looks strange. Too formal. Too much not mine.
I scan the first page. Then the second. Then I stop breathing right.
It’s an account.
In my name.
This thing goes back years. Years of deposits. Regular ones. Some small. Some larger. All made over time with the kind of patience that doesn’t happen by accident.
I flip another page. The balance at the bottom makes my stomach drop.
And still I keep my mouth shut, for reasons I cannot fathom.
I stand too fast.
Pain flares bright up my leg, and the crutch clatters against the side of the desk before I grab it. Rusty jerks awake, scrambling to his feet, nails clicking on the floor.
“Easy,” Mom says, rising. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head, pressing my lips together, unsure if I can trust myself. “I need some air.”
I head out, letting the silence damn near consume me. That’s the problem with silence. It lets your worst thoughts speak first.
I look back down at the papers, at the years of deposits, the careful account, the proof of something planned without me.
The account feels like it’s been sitting here waiting for me.
For what, though?
For the day I screwed up badly enough to need saving? For the rodeo to spit me out? For everyone to finally say they saw this coming?
My grip tightens, paper creasing under my fingers.
Did my father set up a failure fund for me?
I make it down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door with Rusty scrambling behind me because he’s afraid I’m leaving without permission. The heat hits me hard.
I need my brothers.
No.
I need answers.
Boone is by the barn, talking with Dallas near the side-by-side. Nash is there too...
I slow.
They’re laughing about something. Easy. Normal. Everything’s fine. I didn’t just find proof that I was the one he was waiting to fail.
And suddenly I can already hear how this conversation goes.
Boone getting careful. Dallas trying to explain it logically. Nash telling me I’m being dramatic.
Maybe they’d deny it.
Maybe they’d mean it.
But none of that changes the fact Dad never once looked at me like he looked at them.
My grip tightens on the papers.
No.
I can’t do this here.
Not while they’re all standing there acting normal.
So I turn before they notice me. Before Boone asks what’s wrong. Before Dallas starts paying attention. Before one of them says something that cracks this open wider than I can handle right now.
I shove the papers against my chest and walk the other direction.