Mom’s quiet for a second. When she finally speaks, her voice sounds smaller.
"Have you seen … him?"
Her question catches me off guard, but I know exactly who she’s talking about. "A couple of times. Neither pleasant."
"I'm sorry you had to face that alone." She clears her throat. "Gritstone... it's been a long time since I've thought about that place. There are memories there. Complicated ones that I buried so deep I almost convinced myself they never happened."
Something cold settles in my stomach. I didn't realize I was resurrecting ghosts.
"Mom—"
"I'll come," she says, cutting me off with a decisive tone. "But it’s going to cost me. Being in that place again..." She trails off, then continues with quiet intensity. "Just know that what I'm doing, I'm doing for you. Not for some ranch or some family that hired you or some man who might break your heart the way they all do."
I'm shocked. I really didn't know what to expect, but that much loyalty surprises me. "Thank you." We end the call, and I'm left with the terrible certainty that my mother carries secrets about this place—about Gritstone—that run deeper than I ever imagined.
It's only now that I realize I didn't tell her that, as of a half hour ago, Ford was on the invite list. I'm not sure how to bring that up or if he'll even come. Unlike kids who come from healthy divorces, I've never had to navigate my parents' relationship before. I'm not sure what to do with this.
The question is, will we survive when the thunder rolls?
Thirty-One
NO ONE IS EVER IN CONTROL.
WYATT
Pendleton is a nightmare that started as a dream.
Three days showing Kinsley the real deal—arena dirt, rank bulls, and the guys who’ve got your back behind the chutes, no matter what. She didn't just tolerate it. She laughed at Jake's dumb jokes over eggs and coffee, hollered herself hoarse when I made the buzzer on a spinner that'd sent two guys to the hospital that week, and fit right in with the whole scene. Like she'd made up her mind to be all in, nerves and all. We even started talking Vegas over steak—actual plans. Everything was lining up the way it should.
Then there was blood in the dirt.
And the arena went silent.
The ambulance lights burn behind my eyelids—red and blue strobing through the hospital entrance,reflecting off glass doors and white walls like some kind of emergency disco.
Kinsley's hand in mine is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind completely.
Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly, and when I glance over at her, those blue eyes are wide with the kind of worry that makes me wonder what I’m doing to her.
The paramedics' voices echo in my head: "Multiple injuries... possible internal bleeding... need surgery immediately..."
"He's going to be fine," they said.
She just squeezes my hand tighter as we move down the sterile corridor that smells like disinfectant and fear. The fluorescent bulbs buzz overhead like they're trying to drown out the sound of my heart hammering against my ribs.
I look up at the ceiling—white tiles with a brown stain shaped like Texas. For a split second, the world tilts. The smell of antiseptic. The sound of machines beeping.
Three hours ago, Jake was joking about the buckle bunnies in the stands, complaining about the concession stand hot dogs, ribbing me about how Kinsley was making me soft. Now people use phrases like, "He's lucky to be alive."
Lucky. Right.
The waiting room is full of cowboys and cowgirls from the circuit who heard what happened and showed up because that's what you do. Madison sits in the corner; mascara streaked down her cheeks. A few of the bull riders lean against the vending machines, their hats pulled low, talking in voices too quiet to hear.
Nobody looks at us directly. They nod, tip their hats toKinsley, make space on the plastic chairs. But I can feel them watching, cataloging, thinking the same thing I am: it could've been anyone.
It could have been me.
"Morrison family?" A nurse in blue scrubs appears, clipboard in hand, and we all turn toward her like she's holding the keys to salvation.