8. Lucas
— ? —
Lucas
The door clicks shut behind her.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the wood grain, listening to the uneven rhythm of her crutches fade down the hallway.
Each sound is an accusation.
I drag my hand down my face and turn back to the spreadsheets scattered across the conference table. Numbers. I need to focus on the numbers. The feed costs climbing. The sponsors who’ve gone quiet since the accident. Three of them have stopped returning my calls.
I sink into the chair and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars.
The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.
Before the accident, everything made sense. Delilah was training for Houston. The ranch was solid. Allana was happy. I knew my place in the machinery of this life - the money, the logistics, the behind-the-scenes work that kept everything running while my wife shone in the arena.
Now?
Now I’ve got a wife who looks at me like I’m a stranger. A horse that threw my best rider into the dirt in front of a packed arena. A training season that’s falling apart faster than I can patch the holes. And Houston coming up fast with our entire season riding on it.
Everything rides on Houston. If we don’t place, we lose the momentum. The sponsors who haven’t left yet will leave. The ones who stayed out of loyalty will run out of patience. And the rodeo Delilah and I built starts to shrink instead of grow.
I didn’t tell Delilah how bad it’s gotten. I was going to tell her after Houston, after we won, when the news wouldn’t feel like another weight on her chest. She was already carrying enough.
But then the fall happened.
And suddenly I had to make choices. Fast choices. The kind you make at two in the morning when your wife is in the hospital and the calendar won’t stop moving.
Aimie was the obvious solution. She was ready. Available. Talented enough to maybe - maybe - pull this off.
I didn’t think about how it would look.
And the thing is, she’s been good. Aimie has been genuinely helpful. She shows up early, works hard, and doesn’t complain. Without her stepping up, I don’t know where we’d be right now.
My phone buzzes. Another email from the Houston promoters. Looking forward to confirming your featured rider for the main event.
Your rider.
Not Delilah. Not anymore.
I close the laptop harder than necessary.
A knock at the door. I don’t look up.
“We’re done for today. Tell Ramirez to finish the inventory himself.”
“It’s me.”
Dario walks in without waiting for permission. He’s got that look on his face, the one that says he’s got opinions he’s barely holding back.
“You look like shit,” he says, dropping into the chair across from me.
“Thanks.”
“When’s the last time you slept? And I mean actually slept, not passed out at your desk for three hours.”
I don’t answer. He already knows.
Dario leans back, crossing his arms. We’ve known each other since we were teenagers. He was the best man at my wedding and the godfather of my daughter.
Which means he’s earned the right to look at me like I’m an idiot.
“You want to tell me what that was about?” he asks. “Out there with Delilah?”
“It’s handled.”
“Handled.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Brother, I just watched you walk your wife out of a meeting about her own breeding program. In front of the staff.”
“She shouldn’t be stressing about work right now. She just got out of the hospital.”
“That’s what you’re going with?”
“It’s the truth. The doctor said rest. Minimal stress. She showed up in there looking like she was about to pass out.”
“She showed up in there looking like a woman who wanted to be included in her own life.”
I rub the back of my neck, tension coiling at the base of my skull.
“Dario. I don’t know what you want me to say. Houston is coming. Aimie needs to be ready. Delilah needs to heal. Those are the facts.”
“You moved another woman into your guest house.”
“For training. She needs to be close to the stables for morning sessions.”
He’s right. Aimie mentioned the guest house would be easier, and I said yes because I was signing hospital release forms and fielding calls from sponsors at the same time and I just wanted one less thing to deal with.
“I’m doing the best I can,” I say, and it comes out flatter than I intended.
Dario watches me for a long moment. Some of the edge leaves his face, replaced by something worse - concern.
“I know you are,” he says, quieter now. “I know things are tight. I know you’re trying to keep this place running.” He leans forward. “But you look like a man who’s drowning, bro. And I just watched you push away the one person who’s always known how to keep your head above water.”
The words sit in my chest like a stone.
“She’s hurting,” Dario adds. “You can see it. The whole house can see it.”
“She’s recovering from a broken leg-”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
I don’t have a response for that.
Dario stands. Claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezes once, lets go.
“You should get some sleep. You really do look like shit.”
The door closes behind him.
I stand alone in the empty conference room, surrounded by spreadsheets and projections and a season I can’t quite save.
I pull out my phone. Open a text to Delilah and stare at the blank screen for a long time.
Then I put it away and reach for the laptop instead.
The gala is tomorrow. She planned the whole thing. Maybe that’ll pull her back in. Maybe seeing everything she built will remind her that she’s still part of this.