Chapter 1 The Gravity of Bone #9
CHAPTER 6: THE MATH OF BETRAYAL
I. The Devil on the Line
The phone rang on Tuesday morning.
It wasn't Ryder’s cracked screen. It was the landline in the barn office—a dusty, yellowed receiver that hadn't rung for anything other than a telemarketer or a feed delivery in ten years.
Ryder was in the barn, "supervising." Which meant he was sitting on a bale of straw, watching Cole muck out stalls, and trying to ignore the way his leg throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
Cole was outside with the tractor.
Ryder stared at the phone. It rang again. A shrill, mechanical scream.
He crutched over to the desk. He picked it up.
"Stone Ranch," he answered, his voice rough.
"Is this Ryder Stone?"
The voice was slick. Texan. It sounded like money.
Ryder stiffened. "Who's asking?"
"This is Davis. From Red River Energy. We've been trying to reach your agent, but the emails are bouncing."
Ryder felt a jolt of adrenaline that was sharper than any painkiller. Red River Energy. They were the biggest sponsor in the circuit. They put their logo on the chests of kings.
"I'm between agents right now," Ryder said, keeping his voice steady. "What can I do for you, Davis?"
"We heard about the wreck in Vegas," Davis said. "Nasty business. But we also heard rumors. People say you’re a fast healer. People say you’re tough."
"People talk," Ryder said.
"Here's the deal, Ryder. We have a spot open on the team. The Tulsa Invitational is in four weeks. We need a headliner. Someone with name recognition. Someone with a story. 'The Comeback Kid.' You ride in Tulsa, you cover one bull, and we sign you to a two-year contract. Six figures. Plus a truck."
Ryder gripped the desk. The room tilted.
Four weeks.
His femur was held together by titanium screws. His muscle was still atrophied. He couldn't even walk without crutches, let alone ride two thousand pounds of dynamite.
But six figures. A truck. A way out of the guest room. A way out of Oakhaven. A way to stop being the "cripple" and start being the "King" again.
"Tulsa," Ryder said.
"Can you be ready?" Davis asked. "Honest answer, son. If you show up and fall off in the chute, the deal is dead."
Ryder looked down at his cast. He looked at the crutches leaning against the desk.
Then he looked at the wall, where an old calendar hung. Four weeks. Twenty-eight days.
Bone takes six weeks to knit. Muscle takes twelve.
But Ryder Stone wasn't made of biology. He was made of will.
"I'll be ready," Ryder lied.
"Good man," Davis said. "We'll send the contract. See you in Oklahoma."
Click.
Ryder hung up the phone.
His heart was hammering a frantic, violent rhythm. He had just signed a deal with the devil. He had four weeks to do the impossible.
He looked around the barn. It was empty.
Start now.
He grabbed his crutches. He hobbled to the center of the aisle.
There was a practice barrel set up in the corner—a fifty-gallon drum suspended on ropes, used to train balance.
Ryder walked over to it.
He leaned his crutches against the wall.
He stood on his good leg. He reached out and grabbed the handle of the bull rope tied to the barrel.
"Up," he whispered.
He hopped. He swung his broken leg over the barrel.
The impact of his inner thigh hitting the metal drum was blinding.
"Gah!"
He saw white stars. He gasped, sweat popping instantly on his forehead. The vibration traveled straight to the screw sites. It felt like someone was taking a hammer to his hip.
Push through it. Pain is just noise.
He settled onto the barrel. He slid his hand into the rope. He tightened his grip.
He squeezed his legs.
The muscle in his left quad seized instantly—a cramp so violent it felt like a tear.
Ryder screamed. A guttural, animal sound that echoed in the rafters.
He slipped.
He fell off the barrel, landing hard on his right shoulder—the torn one.
He lay in the dirt, gasping for air, tears streaming down his face. His body was screaming at him. Stop. You are broken. You are dying.
But in the center of the pain, a small, cold flame had ignited.
He had a deadline. He had a ticket out.
He wasn't going to rot in this valley. He wasn't going to let Elena look at him with pity for one more day.
He dragged himself up. He grabbed the crutches.
He looked at the barrel.
"Tomorrow," he whispered. "Again."
He wiped the dirt from his face. He checked the door to make sure Cole hadn't seen.
The secret life had begun.
II. The Trojan Horse
By Thursday, Ryder had a routine.
Daytime: The Model Patient. He did his leg lifts. He iced. He smiled at Elena during PT and pretended his pain scale was a manageable four.
Nighttime: The Maniac. He waited until the house was asleep, then he did pushups until his arms shook. He planked until his core burned. He visualized the ride until he could smell the rosin.
But he needed more than visualization. He needed mobility. And to get mobility, he needed to move.
"Elena called," Cole said at breakfast, pouring coffee.
Ryder froze, his fork hovering over his eggs. "She knows?"
"Knows what?" Cole asked, frowning.
"Nothing. Why did she call?"
"Her kitchen sink is leaking. The trap under the drain is rusted out. She asked if I could recommend a plumber."
Ryder set his fork down.
This was it. The entry point.
"I can fix it," Ryder said.
Cole laughed. "You? You're on crutches. And you're not exactly a handyman. You're a demolition expert."
"I can fix a sink, Cole. It's just PVC and a wrench. I'm going stir-crazy. Let me do something useful."
Cole studied him. He looked at Ryder’s face—the dark circles, the jittery energy. He probably assumed it was cabin fever. He didn't know it was reconnaissance.
Ryder needed to see her. Not as a patient, but as a man. And more importantly, he needed to see the boy. The suspicion from the porch had been festering in his gut like an ulcer. He needed to know.
"She's at the clinic all day," Cole said. "Her mom picks up the kid."
"Perfect," Ryder said. "I'll go over, fix the leak, and be gone before she gets home. A ghost plumber."
Cole hesitated. "You sure you can drive? The truck is an automatic, but..."
"I can drive," Ryder lied. He couldn't drive. He would have to use his left foot for the brake, which was impossible. He would use his hand. He would figure it out.
"Fine," Cole sighed. "Keys are on the hook. Tools are in the bed. Don't flood her house, Ryder. She's got enough stress."
"I'm a professional," Ryder grinned.
Thirty minutes later, Ryder was pulling Cole’s truck into the driveway of a small, white bungalow on the edge of town.
It was a modest house. A porch with a swing. A tricycle in the yard.
Ryder killed the engine. He sat there for a moment, his heart thumping.
He wasn't here for the sink. He was here for the answers.
He grabbed his crutches and the tool bag. He hobbled to the door.
He knocked. No answer.
He tried the key Cole had given him. It turned.
Ryder Stone stepped into the house of the woman he loved.
It smelled like her. That same vanilla and rain scent, mixed with the smell of toast and laundry detergent. It was warm. Lived-in.
He walked through the living room. It was tidy, but cluttered with the debris of a child’s life. A pile of Lego bricks on the rug. A backpack hanging on a chair. Drawings taped to the wall.
Ryder stopped at the wall of drawings.
They were crayon masterpieces. A red house. A green dinosaur. A black bull.
He touched the drawing of the bull. It had a rider. A stick figure with a hat.
"Leo," Ryder whispered.
He moved to the kitchen.
The sink was indeed leaking. A bucket under the cabinet was half-full of gray water.
Ryder set the tool bag down. He should fix it. He should do the job.
But the silence of the house was pulling at him.
He turned. He walked down the hallway.
There were two doors. One was open—a bedroom with a quilt on the bed and a book on the nightstand. Elena’s room.
Ryder stood in the doorway. He felt like a trespasser. A violator.
He looked at the bed. He imagined her sleeping there. Alone.
He turned to the second door.
It was closed. A sign on the door, written in wobbly marker, read: LEO’S ROOM. KEEP OUT.
Ryder pushed the door open.
It was an explosion of cowboys.
The wallpaper was rodeo-themed. The bedspread had horses on it. The shelves were lined with plastic bulls, horses, and riders.
Ryder walked in. He felt giant and clumsy in the small space.
He looked at the dresser.
There were photos. Leo at the park. Leo on a pony. Leo with Elena.
And then, tucked in the corner, a framed photo of a baby.
A newborn. Wrapped in a hospital blanket. Red, wrinkled, screaming.
Ryder picked it up.
His hands were shaking.
He turned the frame over.
There was a date stamped on the back of the photo paper. Digital printing code.
09/14/2019.
Ryder stared at the date.
September 14th.
He closed his eyes. He did the math.
September. Count back nine months. August. July. June. May. April. March. February. January. December.
December 2018.
Ryder opened his eyes. The room seemed to tilt. The floor dropped out from under him.
December 2018.
He was still here in December. He didn't leave until January 15th.
He remembered December. He remembered the snow. He remembered the night in his truck by the creek, the heater running, the windows fogged up. He remembered Elena crying, telling him she loved him, begging him to stay.
He remembered leaving two weeks later.
He remembered ignoring her calls.
He looked at the baby in the photo.
You were there, the photo screamed. You were there when this happened.
Ryder felt a wave of nausea so violent he nearly dropped the frame.
He wasn't just a guy who ran away. He wasn't just an ex-boyfriend.
He was a father.
And he had left his pregnant girlfriend in the middle of a Montana winter to go chase a belt buckle.
"Oh my god," Ryder whispered.
The frame cracked in his grip.
The sound of the front door opening echoed through the house.
"Ryder?"
Elena’s voice. She was home early.