“I’m not asking you to stop.”
Kinsley sits back down, close enough that I can smell her perfume over the hospital's antiseptic sting. "Because that's who you are," she says simply. She reaches for my hands again, and this time I don't clench them into fists. "If you quit rodeo, you'll lose yourself.”
The doctor appears before I can respond—a tired-looking woman in surgical scrubs who surveys the room full of cowboys with the kind of patient professionalism that says she's done this before.
"Mr. Morrison is stable," she announces, and the tension in the room dissolves like sugar in rain. "Surgery went well. We repaired the internal bleeding, and while he's got some down time, he should make a full recovery."
Madison starts crying—the kind of tears that come after you've been holding your breath for hours. I stare at her—wondering what's really going on. A woman doesn't cry like that over a guy she isn't invested in.
Before I can process what's happening, she wipes her eyes and asks, "When can I see him?"
The doctor glances at her clipboard. "Sister?”
Madison nods.
“Immediate family can see him once he's settled in recovery. Why don't you follow me." The doctor's smile is kind but tired. "He's lucky. A few inches higher, and we'd be having a very differentconversation."
Lucky. There's that word again.
As the crowd starts to disperse—promises to check on him tomorrow, the usual rituals of rodeo brotherhood—Kinsley and I find ourselves alone in the hallway outside the waiting room.
"You okay?" she asks, studying my face in the harsh fluorescent light.
"No." The word comes out rougher than I intended. "I don't want to lose you because I'm too stubborn to quit doing something that might get me killed."
She steps closer, blue eyes alive with glints of gold. "Then don't be stubborn. Be smart."
"What's the difference?"
"Smart means you figure out what you're really fighting for. If you're riding bulls, it had better be for the right reasons."
I lean back against the wall, feeling the weight of everything that's happened today settling into my bones.
Kinsley puts her hands on my chest and looks up at me. "And just so you know, I'm not going anywhere while you figure it out.” A soft smile plays across her lips. ”You're worth the risk."
For the first time since Jake hit the dirt, I can breathe again.
Tomorrow I'll climb on another bull. Maybe I'll ride him, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll walk out of that arena on my own two feet, maybe I'll end up laid up like Jake.
Either way, tomorrow's coming.
The question is whether I'm climbing on that bull because I'm chasing something worth having or just running from something I'm too scared to face.
Thirty-Two
WOMEN LIKE THAT DON'T STOP UNTIL SOMETHING MAKES THEM STOP.
KINSLEY
The Oregon morning bites cold as Wyatt and I cross the hospital parking lot toward a building that promises mediocre coffee and the chance to see Jake awake.
Wyatt's hand finds mine; his fingers warm against the chill. "Think he'll milk this for sympathy?" he asks.
"Absolutely." I squeeze his hand. "And we're going to let him."
Inside, fluorescent lights buzz overhead. We follow signs to Jake's room, and I can already hear voices—Jake's laugh, weak but genuine.
He's propped up in bed, pale beneath his tan but awake. Madison sits in the bedside chair, her usually perfect composure unraveled—tangled hair, mascara tracesbeneath red-rimmed eyes.