Chapter 8
One Week Later
Dawn broke blue over Big Timber’s fairgrounds. Titus braced a boot against the bottom rung of the chute, leaned into the wrench, and let the ringing carry across rows of trucks and trailers. Sweat gathered beneath his shirt early, settling along the band of his jeans.
Horses shifted in their pens. Metal complained under strain. Someone called out a greeting and another voice answered near a truck that struggled to turn over. He rolled his shoulders, dragged a streak of grime down his thigh, and set himself for the last stubborn hinge.
Stay focused. Don’t look left. Don’t look toward the white block of canvas that marked Kyla’s catering tent a few hundred yards off, far enough to make distance feel like a choice.
The ground stayed firm beneath his boots, morning chill already lifting, dust hanging low along the paths cut through the grass. Volunteers argued over extension cords and water barrels.
Every small sound pulled at him. He measured the hinge angle again and tightened his grip on the wrench. His knuckles reddened against the metal, and he welcomed it. The sting kept him here, fixed in a task that still made sense.
He swung the gate wide, checked the arc once, then again, and caught himself glancing north before he could stop it. The town’s best shot at a supper club had raised her tent like a challenge, bright against churned earth.
His mouth dried. Her voice threaded through memory without warning—too close, too recent. He drew a deeper breath to clear it and bent back to the rail.
Metal shrieked as he adjusted the hinge. He wiped sweat from his brow and reached for the rosin tin, working the powder into his palms by habit. It lodged beneath his nails, rough and grounding.
Each inhale pulled in leftover barbecue smoke, leather, grass, and the steady truth that everything he had could snap loose if tomorrow went wrong.
A truck rolled in along the outer lane. Idaho plates. A sheepdog paced the passenger seat, alert and restless. Titus kept his gaze on them longer than needed, then dropped his head and wiped down the rail.
His arms ached. The scar at his wrist prickled where it always did under strain. Voices rose and fell around him. Someone argued about raffle tickets. A pickup backfired. Horses answered in low, impatient bursts.
Fair week stretched outward in every direction, the noise and motion pressing at the back of his neck.
He kept his focus forward. No need to look toward her.
He already knew the rhythm of her walk from yesterday.
The steady pace, the way she squared her shoulders against anyone who watched too long.
The morning carried promise he had no business entertaining, every bit of it tied to red lipstick and the memory of her voice in the dark.
Wind snapped the white tent harder. Canvas whipped against its frame. A loose zip tie cracked against the pole. From where he stood behind the chute rails, he caught only a slice of movement.
Kyla bent over a line of coolers, arms bare despite the chill. Her sleeves rode high, exposing the burn scar along her forearm. He closed his hand into a fist and went back to work. A part of him tracked every step she took, measuring distance without meaning to.
A whistle cut through the noise. Someone needed help with parking. Titus answered without thinking, tossing the wrench onto the tailgate and stepping into the lane. He fell into routine.
Work filled the space where everything else pressed too close. Glass clinked somewhere near the breakfast stand. Diesel mixed with manure and frying bacon. His stomach turned. He had not eaten since before sunrise.
Back in the chute line, he reset his stance and checked the gate again. The hinge sat right. The hardware no longer complained. He straightened and drew a slow breath, letting it out through his teeth.
The sun lifted higher, striking metal and throwing glare across the rails. Across the grounds, her tent flashed with every snap of wind. He kept his gaze fixed ahead and tightened his grip on the wrench, choosing work over the pull that never seemed to ease.
Deacon found him at the east pen, a heavy hand landing between his shoulder blades. The morning had thickened with noise. Handlers called out over restless stock. Teenagers shouted for burritos. Traffic clogged every stretch of gravel. Deacon’s laugh came easy, loud enough to cut through it all.
“You gettin’ ready for that rank old bronc? Heard she’ll put you flat if you blink wrong.”
Titus adjusted his gloves and kept his voice even. “Still just a horse.”
The grin he offered did not last. Deacon clapped him once more and moved on, already talking to someone else. Titus bent to the rail and checked the latch again, though it did not need it.
People pressed in around him. Neighbors. College teams. Old hands with coffee in one fist and opinions in the other. He stayed in motion, moving from one small task to the next. Check the fencing. Loop the water lines. Keep his head down.
Then she crossed his line of sight.
Kyla carried a blue cooler, arms tight around it, bent forward under the load. Her hair had come loose, curls escaping and catching the early light. His step faltered. Heat climbed along his neck.
His hands tingled as if blood had drained from them. Instinct pushed him forward. Step in. Take the weight. Say nothing and mean everything.
He stopped. He turned away instead, grabbed a length of hose, and forced his attention onto the coupling. His chest tightened. Air came harder than it should have. A kid from the co-op waved from a tractor. Titus nodded once, jaw set, and kept working.
Later, he saw her again at the prep table.
A knife flashed through something green and crisp.
She moved like the entire operation bent to her timing.
Sweat marked the back of her neck. He did not look away soon enough.
His heel dragged against the dirt as he shifted.
The urge to step closer pressed harder than it had any right to.
He turned before it showed. He circled behind the announcer’s booth and let the noise swallow him.
Rodeo hands traded stories. Laughter rolled through the space, loud and easy.
He picked up a lead rope, ran it through his hands, focused on the rough fibers biting into his skin. Anything to keep from looking back.
The grounds filled in around him. Cowhands called for feed.
A mother dragged her kid away from the snack stand.
Cotton candy drifted through the air, fighting with manure and smoke.
He mapped his movements without thinking, cutting paths that kept distance between him and the food tent. Every turn became a calculation.
Too close.
Their eyes caught once, quick and unplanned, as he lifted hay over the rail. Her lips parted, then she dropped her gaze. His chest tightened hard enough to slow his next breath. No one said anything. He moved again, faster this time, heart driving harder than the work required.
He ended up near the bull chutes, gloves tight against the rail, forcing his attention onto something solid.
Twine. Knots. The pull of muscle and effort.
Around him, the fair built toward something bigger.
The tension did not ease. It settled deeper, harder to ignore with each pass across the grounds.
* * *
By Friday sundown, the fairgrounds shifted from loud to charged. Titus sat behind the main stock pen, legs stretched across packed dirt, gear bag at his boots.
Generator noise carried across the grounds, uneven and constant. Laughter cut through from a group of riders arguing over draw order and payouts. He bent over his rigging, fingers tracing the worn seams of leather, checking every inch for weak spots.
Rosin coated his palms, working into each callus as he rubbed it in. The friction steadied him. His wrists burned from practice earlier that week. He welcomed it. Pain stayed honest. Pain didn’t ask questions he couldn’t answer.
He focused on the glove, tightening the laces with slow pulls, making sure the fit stayed clean and secure. No slack. No chance for failure. Doubt didn’t belong here. Doubt cost more than anything he had left to give.
The rumors had started quiet. They never stayed that way. A loan. A deadline. Talk that moved from one voice to the next until it circled back louder than before. He kept his head down and worked his hands harder, refusing to let it take root.
Boots scraped against gravel outside the pen. “Titus?”
He didn’t look up right away. He finished the pull on the strap, then lifted his head. Jonah hovered a few steps away, apron gone, hair sticking up from a long shift. The kid looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. Titus gave a short nod and went back to the leather, keeping his focus there.
Jonah shifted his stance. Tried once. Failed. Tried again. “Hey, I—uh—just wanted to—” His voice caught, then pushed through anyway. “Is it true what folks are saying about the bank?”
Titus’s grip tightened on the strap. His fingers pressed harder than needed. He did not answer. His jaw locked, teeth set against anything that might come out wrong. Silence stretched long enough to say everything.
Jonah stepped back fast, already shaking his head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean—I heard—”
Titus stood. He moved with intent, every motion controlled, carved down to what he could manage without breaking something he couldn’t put back together. He grabbed the gear bag and slung it over his shoulder. Air moved through his chest in short pulls. He kept his eyes forward.
He walked for the chute alley. Noise surged back in around him.
Boots hit dirt. Gates rattled. Voices rose and fell in bursts of bravado.
None of it reached him clean. He moved through it like he had all week, locked into the one thing that still made sense.
Keep moving. Keep working. Don’t stop long enough to think.