At seven o’clock on Monday night, Hank was back at the auto parts store in Dumas, this time for new bearings before the wheels fell right off the chore pickup. The woman at the service counter recognized him on sight and automatically pulled up Johnny Brookman’s account. At the rate Hank was buying parts, he would be at the top of their Christmas card list by the end of the week.
He’d fired up his old Chevy for this trip. The body was rusted out around the fenders and the maroon paint was flaking off the hood, but it ran well enough. Once Hank aired up a couple of low tires, it was good to go.
As he headed down the main drag, he spotted the sign for the sports bar ahead on the left. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he’d put in a lot of hours since he and Cole had polished off the leftovers from Grace’s Sunday dinner. And since he’d dropped that seven-hundred-dollar check into the night deposit at the bank, his checkbook and debit card weren’t just souvenirs.
He hadn’t been surprised when he’d called in and the teller had said yes, his account was in good standing, with a balance of thirty-three dollars and nineteen cents. It would be like Melanie to make sure there was enough to cover the monthly service charges. He’d have to get the deposit records and figure up how much he owed her. That was one debt he would not leave outstanding.
In the meantime, he might as well enjoy this paycheck. His hospital bill from Toppenish had been turned over to collections, and he assumed the agency had his account flagged. At the first scent of money, they would come after whatever they could get. With interest and penalties, he’d probably get them paid off about the time he qualified for social security.
He had to park in the far back corner of the bar’s lot. Sure was busy for…oh, right. Monday night. Sports bar. He hadn’t even thought about football—and him a Texan. This was what he got for falling off the grid.
As he stepped inside, he was hit by a wall of noise and mouthwatering aromas. The place was packed, but the only one who paid him any mind was the frazzled hostess, who blew a loose strand of hair out of her face as she hurried over to dump an armload of menus into the rack, then pull one out again along with a welcoming smile. “Eating or just drinking?”
“Food, please.”
She ran a practiced gaze around the restaurant. “It’ll be a few minutes until I can seat you.”
“What about that one?” Hank pointed to a table tucked in behind the hostess stand.
“You can’t see the game from there.”
He checked the nearest screen, where the Jacksonville Jaguars were lining up on offense against the…what? “When did the Chargers move to LA?”
The hostess laughed and handed him the menu. “Table zero it is. I’ll send a waitress right over.”
“No rush.”
The only date he had was with an empty apartment and the last few chapters of his book. He preferred the company of a couple hundred strangers, and what the hell, one cold brew wouldn’t hurt him. When the waitress swung by, he ordered a tap beer and settled in to read the entire menu, even though he already knew what he wanted. He was pondering his choice of sides when a familiar voice made his head jerk up.
“…taco pizza to go,” Grace was telling the hostess.
“I’ll go check on that for you.” She hurried off.
Hank’s first instinct was to hide behind his menu. He had no idea where they stood after his confession of undying lust. Then he heard himself say, “If you want a taco, why don’t you just order a taco?”
Grace froze, her head bent over her wallet. For a moment, he thought she didn’t remember that he’d used the same opening line at that pizza joint in Canyon. Or that she was going to pretend she hadn’t heard him over the din. Then a boisterous group of twentysomethings crowded through the door, forcing her to turn toward Hank to let them pass, and he caught a glimpse of puffy, red-rimmed eyes.
He jumped to his feet. “Grace? Are you okay?”
She ducked her head again, rubbing at smudged mascara with the side of her finger. “Yeah. Just a rough night. Our leading scorer blew out a knee at practice, not even a whole day after giving her verbal commitment to play at Baylor. She was crying, her teammates were crying, her mom was crying…”
“You were crying.”
She scrunched up her face. “Not until they were all gone.”
“I’m sorry,” the hostess interrupted with an apologetic smile. “The kitchen is slammed, so it’s going to be another ten or fifteen minutes for the pizza. If you want to have a seat, I’ll have someone bring you a Coke on the house while you wait.”
“Sure. Dr Pepper would be great.” Grace glanced over at the bench opposite the hostess station, then at Hank, clearly undecided.
He pulled out the other chair at his table and steered her into it. Lord, she looked wrung out, her hair straggling out of an off-center barrette, freckles and the thin, red scratch standing out against pale skin.
“Wow. Baylor. That’s huge.”
“It was.” She blew out a weary sigh. “Until tonight our team had a legitimate shot at going to the state tournament. And Jennifer will probably lose that scholarship.”
“No wonder her mom was crying.”
Grace half smiled at his lame attempt at humor, then gave herself a visible shake. “She’s tough. She’ll come back and play somewhere once she’s through rehab. It just might not be a top-ten Division I school.” She paused as the waitress set down their drinks, and her gaze caught on Hank’s beer for an instant before she picked up her straw and peeled off the wrapper.
He ordered his chicken-fried steak and the waitress left. “It’s hard not to let it get to you.”
“Yeah, but I have to keep my perspective.” She took a long and obviously much-needed drink of her Dr Pepper. “If I get too invested in the competition and all, it affects my ability to make the safest decision for the athlete. And torn ligaments aren’t the end of the world. It’s not like…” She trailed off, her face stricken.
“She won’t walk again?” Hank asked, going with sarcasm because he hadn’t practiced anything else.
Grace’s cheeks flamed. She braced an elbow on the table and pressed her forehead into her palm, closing her eyes. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
Yes, they did. Hank preferred to know how far the story had spread—and more important, if it was still anywhere close to reality. “Who told you?”
“Not your sister,” she said flatly. “I heard it from Philip Makes Thunder.”
Oh. Him. Hank had only met Philip a couple of times, but he was another of Bing’s lost boys—and Wyatt’s chosen ones. “What did he tell you?”
Grace’s brows pinched with aggravation. “You really want to get into this right now?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” She leaned back, folded her arms, and began to recite the story in a monotone that would have done Cole proud. “You were working the Indian rodeo at Toppenish when a guy named Dakota Red Elk got bucked off. The bull stepped on his lower back, causing a fracture-dislocation of two lumbar vertebrae and an incomplete spinal cord injury, and leaving him with almost no use of his lower body. On the video, it appears that you were out of position when the ride started and slow to react. However, since Dakota fell directly under the bull, there is considerable doubt whether you could have prevented the injury anyway.”
Hank could only stare at her, everything blurring around the edges the way it had been that day, even before the injury.
Grace kept going, a recording with no pause button. “You were so upset that several people asked if you were okay to go on. You refused to answer, and when the next bull came out of the chute, you stood there and let it run you down. You had three cracked ribs and required surgery for reduction and internal fixation of a displaced distal fracture of your radius and ulna.”
Jesus Christ. She sounded like she’d read his medical records. And she’d obviously taken a good look at the video from that night.
“Is that all?” Hank choked out.
She tilted her head. “You wanted the facts. Everything else is speculation.”
He made a motion with his hand. Bring it on.
Grace picked up her Dr Pepper and took a swig, then set it down again, her gaze locked on him the whole time. “Mariah Swift competed in the barrel racing on Saturday night. As far as anyone knows, that’s the first time you’d seen her since she got you fired. No one saw you drinking afterward, but the assumption is that’s why you were off your game on Sunday.” She let the words lie on the table between them for a long moment, then added, “Some people are convinced you wanted that bull to hurt you. Or worse.”
Bing’s question echoed in his head, blunt but not unkind. “Were you trying to kill yourself, Hank?”
No. Yes. He didn’t know. Didn’t remember wanting or knowing anything. The inside of his head had been a giant roar and crackle, like he imagined the wildfire had sounded as it swept up from the breaks and devoured their ranch. He recalled faces that had floated past, voices that didn’t add up to words. Overwhelmed, he’d pushed them away and retreated to the one place where he could be alone—the middle of the arena.
He’d understood they were going to buck that next bull. Hadn’t he? He wasn’t surprised when the chute gate opened. Or when the huge brindle burst out. It was happening, but at the same time it wasn’t. Like a dream. No, a nightmare. The worst kind, where his feet stuck to the ground, and he could do nothing to save himself as a ton of muscle, bone, hooves, and horns bore down on him. Then the pain had exploded through his body, and the nightmare had become excruciatingly real.
Hank pressed both palms into the edge of the table, fighting the urge to jump up and run out the door. He’d already tried to escape. Mile after mile along the river, over the hills, into the mountains on bear-infested trails that didn’t show on any tourist map. And deep, deep into himself, curled under a blanket in the camper for so long even Norma had started to worry. No matter where he’d gone, the darkness went with him, locked inside his head.
“Take a breath, Hank.” Again Bing’s voice was there, penetrating the toxic fog. “Count to ten. No rush. Another breath now.”
Slowly, the present filtered in—shouts and groans from fantasy football fanatics at the bar, the clink and clatter of dishes, the ebb and flow of normal, happy voices. Light, shining from the lamp over his head, reflecting off the mirror behind the bar, pulling him free of shadows that clutched at his legs.
And there was Grace, sitting across yet another table from him, staring into her glass as she poked at ice cubes with her straw. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He was surprised when he opened his mouth and words came out. “I asked for it.”
“I know, but that was harsh.” She glanced up with a ghost of a smile. “I’ve gotta be careful about channeling Tori and Shawnee. It’s some powerful stuff.”
“Combined? It’s terrifying.”
Her smile grew. “I guess that’s why they win so much roping together. Pure intimidation.”
The conversation had turned ridiculous, but it did the trick. Hank’s muscles unclenched, and he didn’t feel as if a two-ton truck was parked on his chest. He took a tiny sip of his beer, then another when that one went down okay. They sat for several minutes, retreating into one of the silences that had been another of the hallmarks of their friendship.
With three younger brothers underfoot in their too-small house, Grace had craved any space or moment of peace she could get when she was in school. For Hank, it had been the relief of not having to be anything. Not Johnny’s son or Melanie’s brother, the latest Brookman who would, naturally, carry the team to Friday night glory. With Grace he didn’t have to be the cool guy, forever ready with a grin and a joke. He didn’t have to wonder if, like the Jacobs family, she might only be putting up with him because his own parents weren’t interested. And in exchange, he shielded the geeky girl with her wild curls and schoolmarm dresses against anyone who might have been tempted to harass her.
He’d missed the comfort of their shared silences.
Finally, though, he had to break this one. “Mariah didn’t know she wasn’t legal in Texas. Where she’s from it’s only fifteen, not seventeen.”
“She knew her daddy was gonna come unglued if he found out,” Grace said, a simmer of anger beneath the words. “Once that shit hit the fan, there was no way Cole could keep both of you on his crew. And yes, I’ve heard how she felt just terrible about what happened…while she sashayed on about her life and left you to pay the price.”
Hank took in the bright spots of color on Grace’s cheeks. She was furious. Not at him, but for him. He shook his head, baffled. “Why are you sticking up for me? It seems like you’d enjoy seeing me get kicked in the gut.”
She gave a short, brittle laugh and slouched into her chair. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Try me.” Because he really, really wanted to know.
She wove the paper straw wrapper between her fingers as she considered her words. “Driving home tonight, I was thinking about Jennifer and how fast your life can change. One wrong step and boom! You’re in a totally different place. But sometimes what seems like a disaster can lead to good things…once you get through the hard stuff.”
He didn’t really follow, but, “O-kay.”
“What you said to me that night at the Lone Steer…it really hurt.”
He winced. “I know.”
“But because of it, I went to Oregon. I got to know your sister, and through her Shawnee and Tori, and you’ve seen what that’s done for my roping. None of it would have happened if you hadn’t been a jerk, so cursing your name seems…I don’t know. ‘Hypocritical’ isn’t the right word, but something like that.”
Hank had no idea how to respond. She had just called him both a jerk and, indirectly, her personal disaster, but somehow her life had turned out better for knowing him. So that was a good thing?
The hostess appeared with Grace’s pizza. “Here you go! Thanks for your patience.”
Grace jumped up and snatched the box, clearly done with a conversation that seemed determined to drag them toward places that were far too sensitive to the touch.
Hank stood too. “Do you have games tomorrow night?”
“No.” She eased back a step, wary. “My teams play in Thanksgiving tournaments, so they leave this Tuesday open.”
“Are you roping?”
She shook her head. “Shawnee has one of her checkups in Dallas.”
Cancer screenings, she meant. Between a bout with lymphoma in her teens and her family history, Shawnee’s risk was high, and Tori had dragged her into the best long-term study she could find involving new methods of early detection.
“I could come over and run the chute for you,” he offered and, before she could say no, added, “If you don’t mind me bringing Spider and working her on the roping calves. In the indoor arena, I don’t have to worry about her running them through a fence.”
Grace hesitated, her reservations clear.
“I’ve been eating your food for two days. I owe you a dozen nights of roping practice for the peach cobbler alone.” He tested a casual smile. “Besides, what are friends for?”
She still looked uncertain, but finally she nodded. “Okay. Around six?”
Hank exhaled. “Great. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She drummed her fingers on the pizza box as if debating her next words. Then she gave a slight, what the hell shrug. “I don’t either.”
“Excuse me?”
“Despite how it turned out, I don’t regret dragging you home.” She smiled, enjoying knocking him for a loop. “Have a good night, Hank.”
He watched until the door swung shut behind her. Then he sank into his chair, nodding blankly when the waitress set his plate in front of him and asked if he had everything he needed. It was like being thrown ass over heels by a bull. After everything Grace had hit him with, it was gonna take him a while to figure out which way was up. But he couldn’t help smiling as he cut off the first bite of steak and swirled it in gravy.
By damn, it was a good night.