25. Clay
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Clay
The first time I put weight on my bad leg without wanting to black out, I take it as a sign.
Probably not the sign the doctor meant, or the sign Mom wants. Definitely not the sign Boone, Dallas, or Nash would appreciate if I said it out loud. But it’s there.
A little less pain. A little more strength. A little less of that sick, broken feeling every time I shift wrong.
Progress.
Enough that my brain immediately latches onto the only conclusion it wants.
I’m getting out of here.
I stand in the barn with one hand braced against a stall door, and I test my weight slowly and carefully. Pain has a way of making a man negotiate with the lord even when he doesn’t mean to.
It bites. Sharp enough to make my jaw lock, but I don’t fold.
I breathe through it, sweat gathering under my shirt, fingers tight on the wood.
“Clay.” Boone comes from behind me.
I close my eyes for half a second.
Of course.
Man has a gift for appearing right when I’d rather not be witnessed.
“I’m standing,” I say without turning. “Hold your applause.”
Boots scrape over the barn floor. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I did rest.” I ease my weight back onto the good leg. “For about a hundred years.”
“It’s been a few weeks.”
“Same thing.”
Boone stops beside me, arms folded, gaze dropping to my leg as if he can assess it better than the doctor. That’s Boone.
“You push too hard, you’ll set yourself back.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sweating.”
“It’s July.”
He gives me that look.
The Boone look.
The one that says he knows I’m full of shit, but he’s deciding whether calling me on it's worth the effort. Usually, he decides yes. Today, apparently, is no different.
“You already called your circuit manager?”
I glance toward the horses instead.
That’s answer enough.
Boone exhales through his nose. “Clay.”
The warning in his voice drags at something old in me. Fifteen years old, covered in mud, getting caught sneaking out to a rodeo three counties over.
“What?”
“You can barely walk across the barn.”
“I’m improving.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re ready to get back on a bull.”
“Didn’t say I was riding tomorrow.”
“You’re thinking about it.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “You always this dramatic, or is that Rose rubbing off on you?”
He doesn’t smile. “I miss having you around.”
That shuts me up.
The barn goes quiet except for the horses shifting in their stalls and Rusty snuffling somewhere near the tack room, probably looking for something dead or edible. With that dog, there’s usually overlap.
I keep my eyes on the stall door. The wood grain, the old bite marks, anything but Boone.
“You’ve had me around,” I say. “I’ve been stuck here.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
No. It wouldn’t be.
Boone never says the easy thing when he can say the thing that digs straight under a rib.
He leans one shoulder against the stall. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. Getting hurt and coming home to this. But it’s been good, having you here.”
I almost laugh.
Good.
That’s a hell of a word for it.
I’ve been moody, useless, half drugged, half mad, and one bad moment away from chewing through the walls. I’ve snapped at Mom, ignored Dallas, dodged Nash, said things to Josie I still can’t think about without my stomach turning.
Good.
Sure.
“Glad my broken leg’s been a real blessing,” I mutter.
Boone’s jaw tightens. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn everything into a joke before anyone can mean it.”
I push away from the stall too fast.
Pain flares. I hide it badly. Boone notices and his face shifts, but he doesn’t reach for me. Smart man. I might’ve bitten.
“I’ve got a life out there,” I say, pointing vaguely toward anywhere that isn’t Buckhorn. “A job. Sponsors. People expecting me.”
“You’ve got people here too.”
“People here don’t need me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah?” I look at him then. “Ranch runs fine. Your family’s fine. Dallas keeps the paperwork straight. Nash has his dude ranch. Mom has all of you hovering around. What exactly am I needed for?”
Boone holds my gaze. “Being needed isn’t always about chores.”
My throat gets tight in a way I don’t like. So I look away. “Sounds like something from one of Rose’s inspirational classroom posters.”
“She’d make it look nice.”
Despite myself, emotion almost shifts in my chest. The thought claws back before I can stop it.
Dad’s handwriting.
That account.
Years of money sitting there waiting for me like everybody already knew how this story ended.
I look at Boone before I can talk myself out of it. “You ever know Dad was setting money aside?”
Boone’s brow furrows. “What?”
“That account.” My grip tightens on the crutch. “The one in my name.”
Boone exhales slowly. “Mom should’ve talked to you about that.”
It isn’t surprise on Boone’s face.
It’s something quieter. Heavier.
Resignation.
Like this has always made sense.
I laugh once under my breath, meaner than I intend. “Yeah. Figured.”
“Clay—”
“It’s fine.”
Because what else am I supposed to say? Thanks for planning ahead in case I turned out exactly like this?
“I need air.”
“We’re in a barn.”
“Different air.”
Boone sighs. “Clay—”
“I’m not asking permission.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You never do.”
I don’t answer. Just limp out before the barn starts becoming a room with no doors.
Outside, the sun hits bright and mean. The kind of heat that presses down on the back of your neck and makes everything smell of dust, hay, and horse sweat.
Home smells.
I hate that I know them.
I hate that some stupid, soft part of me missed them.
Rusty trots after me, tongue lolling out of his mouth.
“No,” I tell him. “Don’t start.”
He sneezes.
“Exactly. Stay out of it.”
He follows anyway.
By lunch, Dallas gets his turn.
I’m at the kitchen table with a plate Mom made me that I didn’t ask for. Sandwich, pickles, chips, tall glass of tea sweating rings onto the wood.
I eat because if I don’t, somebody will notice.
Somebody always notices in this damn house.
Dallas sits across from me with a folder under one arm and Brooklyn’s teething toy in his shirt pocket because that’s a normal thing for a grown man to carry. It’s shaped as a giraffe.
I stare at it.
He follows my gaze, pulls it out, and sets it on the table. “Don’t judge. Brooklyn threw it at my head this morning, and I forgot it was there.”
“I wasn’t judging.”
“You were absolutely judging.”
“Maybe a little.”
He smirks, then opens his folder. “Nash said you’re already talking about leaving.”
I chew slowly. “Y’all start a committee?”
“We have meetings. Matching jackets. Very official.”
“Sounds miserable.”
“It is. Boone insists on minutes.”
That gets a short laugh out of me before I can stop it.
Dallas leans back.
“Seriously, though. You don’t have to rush.” His expression softens just enough to make me nervous. “I was thinking, once your leg’s stronger, we could ride out to the north pasture. Haven’t done that in a while. Maybe grab drinks after.”
I look down at my plate.
There it is again.
That thing they keep doing.
Making room.
As if there’s a Clay-shaped spot here they’ve been keeping open all this time, and I’m the only idiot refusing to stand in it.
“I’ll probably be gone by then,” I say.
Dallas is quiet. He’s watching me the way he watches numbers when they don’t add up. “Why?”
I shrug. “Because that’s what I do.”
“Leave?”
I pick up my glass and take a drink I don’t want. “Ride.”
“Same thing?”
My hand tightens around the glass.
Dallas sees it. He always was too damn observant for a man who spent most of childhood pretending he wasn’t listening.
“Don’t,” I say.
He nods once, but not in agreement.
After lunch, Nash finds me on the porch, because apparently today is scheduled.
I’m starting to suspect there really was a committee.
He’s got Hailey strapped to his chest in one of those baby wrap things, and she’s asleep with her tiny face smooshed sideways against him. He looks ridiculous. Also happy. Exhausted, but happy.
I don’t tell him that; he’d get emotional, and nobody needs that.
“You look like a kangaroo.”
He glances down at the baby. “She likes it.”
“She have a choice?”
“Nope.”
He drops into the chair beside me with a sigh so deep it might as well be his soul leaving. “Tessa’s sleeping. Mom’s making soup. I have six unanswered booking emails and a guest arriving next week who asked if we offer ‘authentic cowboy meditation.’”
I blink. “Do we?”
“We do now, apparently.”
“That just means sitting quietly on a fence, right?”
“Probably. You free to lead it?”
I snort. “I’m not exactly the picture of inner peace.”
“Could be part of the authenticity. Nash watches me, humor fading. “I could use you at the dude ranch.”
I look toward the yard. “You’ve got Boone and Dallas.”
“Yeah, and they’re great. But they’re not you.”
I stare at him.
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me say nice things twice. It causes hives.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I mean it.” He adjusts Hailey carefully, one hand spread protectively over her back. “People like you. You can talk to anybody. You know rodeo. You know horses. You know how to make things feel exciting. That’s useful.”
Useful.
The word should feel good.
It doesn’t.
Because useful is temporary. A tool is useful until it breaks. Then you replace it.
“I’m not sticking around to entertain tourists,” I say.
Nash’s face grows taut. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.”
“No, you don’t.” His voice sharpens, and Hailey stirs. “You hear whatever version lets you run fastest.”
I go still.
The porch air goes tight between us.
Nash looks away first, jaw working. “Sorry.”
I should say something, but I don’t, because the worst part is, he’s not wrong.
He stands after a minute, careful with the baby. “Just think about it.”
I watch him walk back inside.
Rusty lies near my boot, one cloudy eye cracked open; even he’s disappointed in me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him.
He thumps his tail once. Judgmental bastard.
By late afternoon, the walls start closing in again.
It’s not the house, it’s me, I know that. Doesn’t make it easier.
I grab my hat, my crutch, and head for the door.
Mom catches me in the hallway. “Where are you going?”
“Town.”
Her eyes drop to my leg. “Alone?”
“I’m injured, not dead.”
“Clay.”
I sigh. “I need to clear my head.”
“You don’t have to run every time something hurts,” she says.
My chest locks. I look over her shoulder. “Walking to town isn’t running.”
“No,” she says softly. “But you’ve always been creative.”
Damn her. Damn this house. Damn everyone for seeing too much and still not seeing the one thing that matters.
Dad knew me better than anybody.
Maybe that was the problem. I step back. “I’ll be fine.”
She lets her hand fall.
I hate the look on her face.
So I leave before it follows me.
Town’s not far, but with the crutch and the leg, it’s dragging myself through a punishment I volunteered for. By the time Main Street comes into view, sweat has soaked down my spine, and my bad leg is pulsing hard enough to make me see white at the edges.
Good.
Pain gives the thoughts somewhere to go.
Buckhorn is doing what Buckhorn always does. Existing too loudly for a place this small.
Trucks line the curb. Folks remain outside the feed store as if there’s an official town requirement that all gossip be conducted within ten feet of Virgil Tucker’s register.
Buttercup Bakery has the door propped open, cinnamon and sugar spilling onto the sidewalk.
Across the street, a kid drops a paper bag, and three apples roll into the road while his mother scolds him in a voice half the town can hear.
I pause outside the diner, leaning on my crutch harder than I should, breathing through the throb in my leg.
A couple of people nod my way.
“Clay.”
“Good to see you walking.”
“Leg healing up?”
I answer with half smiles and easy lies.
“Getting there.”
“Can’t keep me down.”
“Doc says I’m too stubborn to die.”
They laugh because that’s what they expect from me.
The easy one, the wild one, the one who takes a hit and grins with blood in his teeth.
Nobody wants to know about the rest.
I keep moving.
I don’t mean to end up near the clinic.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
But there I am, across the street from the small building with its neat sign and clean front windows. Buckhorn Veterinary Clinic. The blinds are half open, sunlight glancing off the glass.
I slow before I can stop myself.
Then I see her.
Josie.
She’s inside, near the front counter, talking to Dr. Harris.
Her dark hair is pulled back in that practical bun, a few pieces loose around her face.
She’s wearing jeans and a veterinary jacket, sleeves pushed up just enough to show her forearms. She has a clipboard in one hand, pen in the other, looking focused and composed and entirely out of reach.
My chest goes tight.
She says something to Harris, then looks down at the clipboard. Her mouth pulls slightly to one side, thinking through a problem.
I know that look.
I’ve seen it turned on me.
I miss it.
The thought hits hard enough to piss me off.
I shift my weight and pain shoots up my leg. I barely notice.
All I can see is her walking out of my room six days ago with that quiet, polite hurt on her face. I hope your leg heals well.
As if I was nobody.
No.
I’d made myself nobody.
I close my eyes.
I didn’t ask you to care.
Damn.
The words come back ugly and sharp. I heard them when I said them. Heard how cruel they sounded. Still didn’t stop. Because she’d walked into that room and seen me too clearly. Seen the mess, the weakness, the anger I couldn’t point anywhere safe.
So I pointed it at her.
Real impressive, McCoy.
I open my eyes again.
Josie moves toward the exam room, then pauses when a dog barks somewhere inside. She disappears from view.
I stand there idiotically on the sidewalk, one crutch under my arm, bad leg throbbing, heart doing something I don’t have patience for.
If I’m going to leave, I need to do the impossible.
I need to go in there and apologize.
I just need to… go inside.