Chapter Nine. Winnie

Color me shocked when Case is present, accounted for, and apparently sober bright and early the next morning.

I make a show of looking around and affect a generic cowboy stance (hip jutted out, one thumb hooked in my belt loop, another jerking east). "You know this here is the stables, right? You usually sleep in the big house down yonder."

His face flushes, and he picks a pitchfork off a hook. "Very funny."

"Seriously. What are you doing here? The sun is barely up." If Mr. Michaels is gonna start using the stables as a punishment for his attractive-yet-wayward son on the regular, I'm gonna need to have some words with Camilla. There's not enough work for the both of us.

"And yet, you're here," he points out, a slight edge of annoyance creeping in his tone. Probably because he's hungover. I consider for a hot second giving him shit. He's more than earned it. Garrett was properly devastated to miss seeing him ride, and we paid twenty dollars to get past the gate.

There's something in his eyes, however, that prevents me. Or maybe it's that I still feel bad for last week, when I implied he wasn't able to deal because he's never had something bad happen to him.

Because while that may be true, it's not only "something bad," it's grief. I've never had someone I love die, but I imagine it's the worst thing you can ever experience. I might be broke, but grace costs nothing.

"I'm paid to be here. That pitchfork even has my name on it."

He swings the pitchfork up, squinting in the dimness. I flip a switch in the tack room, and it glows yellow into the aisle. Then I walk over and use my pointer finger to trace the spot where I'd carved my initials into the wooden stake.

I hold my hand out. "I hate the other one. The handle is plastic, and it chafes."

His eyes widen. "You've seriously claimed a pitchfork?"

I sigh, flexing my hand again. He slaps the handle into it, and I beam.

"I don't have a lot in this world, Case Benton Michaels the Third, but I do have infinite dibs on the pitchfork with the wooden handle. It's smooth as an eight ball after generations of mucking stalls and molds perfectly to my hands." I lower my voice conspiratorially. "I've earned it."

He shakes his head and reaches for the other fork, but a smirk teases the corners of his mouth. The sight of it eases something inside of me. Like a balance being restored.

"Can I trust you to take that half of the stalls without puking your guts out?"

He heads over without complaint and throws himself into work while I start from the opposite end of the aisle. The only sound is the quiet rush of our breathing, the grating scrape of pitchforks, and the sliding of stall doors. After a while, I start to feel twitchy. I never work in complete silence.

"Do you mind if I put on a podcast?"

He pauses his lifting and wraps an arm around his pitchfork. His breath puffs out in the chilly morning, drawing my attention to his mouth. "Is that what you usually listen to?"

I shrug, pulling out my phone and walking over to the dusty community Bluetooth speaker. "I've tried music, but it makes some of the elderlies antsy."

"Not Her Royal Highness?" he asks.

"Nah. She's cool with tunes, but her tastes are honestly a little embarrassing."

"Let me guess? Olivia Rodrigo?"

My jaw drops. "Wow. What, you pick the one young, successful female singer you could think of to make some snarky remark about?"

He winces and raises a hand in surrender. "Dang, girl. I was only kiddin'."

"For the record, Mab's tastes run to nineties country. Alan Jackson. Travis Tritt. Garth Brooks."

His expression clears. "You're right, that is embarrassing."

I pretend to sniff. "Like I said."

He clears his throat and tries again. "So, what do you listen to, podcast-wise?"

"Do you know any?"

He shakes his head. "Not really, no."

I smile big and scroll for the most recent episode of my and Mab's favorite. "Excellent."

To his credit, Case makes it about two and a half minutes before he shoves open a stall door and comes to stand in the middle of the aisle, his hands on his trim hips.

I press my lips together. "Can I help you?"

"What the hell is this?"

"Oh, right. I thought you knew. This is called a podcast."

"About serial killers."

I lift a shoulder. "Mab likes it."

His eyebrow quirks in amusement. "Mab is into some dark shit."

I fight a smile.

"You're really gonna stand there, holding a spiky metal weapon in your hands, acting like I'm not listening to a recording of an actual autopsy report?"

I open my eyes wide, as innocent as I can manage. "The murderer is still at large, Case. We might be able to help find him before it's too late."

"‘We' as in…?" He circles his hands between us.

I'd die before admitting this out loud, but his exasperation is adorable. His eyes are puffy with exhaustion, he's got this cowlick sticking straight up in the back, and I have to imagine this is exactly what he looked like as a toddler after naptime. "Obviously, you and I. Mab is a horse. She can't understand the autopsy; she enjoys the cadence of the narrator's voice. Finds it soothing."

"Winnie Sutton listens to true crime podcasts."

"Clearly."

"What else?"

"Do I listen to?"

He nods, leaning on his fork.

"A little of this and a little of that." Something has me feeling honest. "Some nineties country if the mood strikes."

His expression brightens like he's been given a gift. "I thought that was Mab's vice."

"I already said it was embarrassing, Case. We don't need to harp on it."

He grins, and I notice how nice his teeth are. White and straight and even. I catch myself running my tongue along the gap in my own front teeth.

"So you like the classics," he offers, easily. "If it's any consolation, I went through a phase in middle school when I thought I wanted to be a pirate like Kenny Chesney when I grew up. Walker was merciless about it."

I snicker. "I love that you thought Kenny Chesney was a real pirate."

"I had this whole plan worked out that after we graduated high school, Walker and I would travel to the Keys and learn how to sail."

I tilt my head, leaning on my own fork. "Not the Pbr?"

His expression slips, and his eyes shift someplace in the distance. "That was all Walker. He lived and breathed rodeo."

"I didn't know that. I assumed…"

"Yeah. Everyone does. It's okay."

"So about last night," I hedge. "Is that why…?" Because, okay, I was pissed when I heard Case's name over the speakers, pulling from the competition. I would give anything to have half his resources and opportunities, and he's just throwing them away.

He considers me for a long moment. "Yes and no. I know what everyone thinks, and maybe… I let them think it."

Aforementioned grace or no, I'm dubious. "So you didn't puke your guts out?"

He grimaces. "Oh, no, I definitely did. All over the ground. It was disgusting, but it wasn't alcohol-related. Regretfully, I was sober."

I frown. "So you pretended to be drunk? Because I spoke to Brody after, and he was pretty pissed."

He wavers. "Yeah. He was." Case rubs at the back of his neck. "I didn't fake it. It was more like I would rather let Brody think I was drunk than the reality." He hesitates for a beat before exhaling in a gust and continuing, "The reality being it was my first time in the arena without Walker, and I couldn't face it."

My stomach drops at his confession. It feels like a punch. "Oh."

He frowns. "Yeah. Which, now that I admit it out loud, seems just as pathetic as it would have been if I'd actually been drunk."

I quickly shake my head. "No! Definitely not. Don't think that. You're sad." I rush to reassure him. "That's normal. Human," I offer, as if I know what the hell I'm talking about. My voice is barely above a whisper in the stillness, because suddenly, this feels like a secret. I guess because, technically, it is. "So what are you going to do?"

He scuffs at the concrete with his work boot, tucking his free hand into his coat pocket. "No idea."

"Do you want to do rodeo at all?"

He doesn't answer right away. I watch his face as he truly seems to consider his future, and I work hard to repress the jealousy that he's even given the choice. Clearly, after what he's confessed, now isn't the time for pettiness. "I'm not sure. I thought I did, but I'm starting to wonder how much of that was wanting to support Walker. If he were alive and well, we'd be touring with the Pbr right now, and I know he wouldn't regret it one bit. But me?" His hand comes out of his pocket and tugs his hat off his head. He exhales. "I like rodeo. I love to ride. But… I've never been as fearless as he was. Walker did not give a single fuck, and I've never been able to pull it off the same way. I'm not sure I want to." He fidgets with his hat again. "I've never admitted that before."

"Not even to Walker?"

He chuckles humorlessly. "Especially to Walker. I couldn't. I knew I had my whole life ahead of me, and deep down, he always knew he didn't."

At once, I'm struck by how decent Case Michaels is. Sure, he's a rich dope who doesn't seem to have a clue about the real world and how stupid-fortunate he is, but he was a good friend to Walker Gibson.

It warms me toward Case a little. Like a teeny-tiny bit. But there is a thaw happening. Walker was a special kind of human. Not because he was terminal—I didn't even know until the very end. He never seemed sick to me, though I'm pretty familiar with the lengths we go to keep people from seeing our vulnerabilities. I'm fluent in the concept of denial, that maybe if we keep those scary parts of us hidden, we won't ever have to face them.

But, eventually, Walker could no longer keep his hidden.

Case picks up his pitchfork and turns to the next stall, conversation apparently over. Which is okay. I turn off the podcast and scroll to find some Kenny Chesney, turning it on low enough so the old ladies in stalls 8 and 9 won't get all worked up. At the first strums of Kenny's guitar, Case sticks his head out and beams, damned dimple popping in his cheek. It's one that says "Thank you," I think. I roll my eyes and wave him off in a way that hopefully translates to "Shut up. It's not for you."

As I shovel, I remember. Walker and Case used to train in the same barn where we found Case and Brody last week. I never saw them working out or anything, but Walker would occasionally come by the horses when Case was drilling and visit with me. He had this massive crush on a girl who went to a different school, and he would ask my advice on how to flirt with her. In retrospect, this had to be Walker's way of starting a conversation, because I'm the last person on earth who should give relationship advice.

Walker and I formed a pretty casual friendship. Somewhere spanning the border of more than acquaintance and less than Case. Because no one was as close as those two. But we would sometimes eat lunch together, and he always waved in the halls at school. Then I graduated at the semester break, and not long after, Walker got really sick. He stopped coming around the stables, and I wasn't in school anymore. By the time I learned he was dying, it felt too late to visit him—out of place, maybe. Presumptive. In truth, I was afraid.

I wish I'd been braver. I would have liked to tell him thank you for those moments of friendship. They were the closest I'd had to the real thing in a long time.

Case finishes up on his half of the stalls, and I see him leading a mammoth of a Thoroughbred named Moses toward the tack room. He notices my curiosity. "It's okay. He's mine," he explains.

"Wait. Really?"

Case looks sheepish. "Technically. I don't ride very often, but my dad had hopes. He bought him for my thirteenth birthday."

I whistle low, too impressed to be annoyed. "A top-dollar beauty of a stallion for a thirteen-year-old who will never ride him."

He winces. "Yeah. Well, to be fair, I did ride him a lot at first, but high school happened. Anyway, I'm fixin' to change that. Wanna join us?"

I swallow. I mean. I absolutely do. I always want to ride. And Mab could use the exercise. I have a trail ride this afternoon, but not for hours, with plenty of time to come back and prepare.

But Case Michaels and me? Alone? And not only alone but also on horseback?

Listen. I have been very comfortable with my horse girl status for at least a decade. I'm familiar with the stereotypes, and I've embraced them. Any real horse girl will tell you trail ride dates are, like, the epitome of romantic.

And while it's perfectly acceptable to offer grace to Case Michaels, I'm not a total idiot.

I shake my head. "I can't," I lie. "I need to finish up here, and then I have chores for Camilla. But have fun." I swear his face falls, as though he's disappointed. But a blink later, it's gone, and I'm not positive I didn't imagine the whole thing.

I take my time finishing what I'm working on, stalling, while surreptitiously tracking Case's progress in saddling his horse. Eventually, I can't stand it anymore. I prop my fork against the door and walk up to him, gently nudging him out of my way.

"Been a while, huh?"

I watch as a flush of color creeps up the back of his neck. I'm not used to seeing him so flustered.

"I mostly remember the steps," he admits, "but if memory serves, Moses won't suffer no fools."

I snort. "You're absolutely right about that." Moses is the kind of horse who likes to "accidentally" stand on your foot until you're begging for mercy.

I finish in short order and make a show of double-checking Moses's setup (for the benefit of his rider) before giving the handsome horse an affectionate nuzzle. I stage-whisper in his long ear, "There's an extra sugar cube for you if you toss him on his ass."

Case chuckles low, his confident swagger slipping back into place. "No offense to Moses, but I think I can hold my seat."

And after seeing him out of his element, I decide I might be hating this cocky side of him a little less.