Chapter Seventeen. Winnie

May arrives on the heels of a thunderstorm. One of those expansive ones that spin down from Oklahoma and settle for a while. They're rare enough we don't bother fighting it too much. Just let it roll through and green things up a bit. Since our trail rides were canceled for the day, I texted Maria, and she drove out to join us under the guise of "practice."

And by us, I mean me, Case, and Pax. I thought there might be some issues because last I heard, Pax was still off and on with Madi Wallen, but clearly, I understand nothing.

Enter Maria Santos, and suddenly, everything is well and decidedly off for poor Madi.

It's been an interesting few weeks around the ranch. Case has been making himself at home in the stables for months, but now it's stables in the morning, training in the afternoon, and the occasional evening practice when Maria's feeling pushy and Jesse's able to stay home with Garrett.

I've gone from zero social life to nightly plans in the course of three weeks. I'm still mega hesitant about competing, and to his credit, Case has kept up his end of the bargain and isn't forcing the issue, but Maria is another story. Give the girl an inch… I can't find it in me to be annoyed. I sort of like the change. Jesse hasn't missed a day of school in over a month, and I've been making more money than ever with the new horses Camilla has me working with: Risky Business and Pistol Annie. They're two longtime boarders whose owners are friendly with Mr. Michaels. He and Camilla have been talking me up while also discussing the grand adventure (and solid investment) that is rodeo and have convinced the owners to let me train their horses to race. Maria is positive she can find us riders looking for fast, well-trained horseflesh, and Camilla has even invited me to come on a trip down to Fort Worth in two weeks to check out a couple of other potential candidates we can train up and sell.

"Or," Camilla offered in a too-casual manner, playing with her leather work gloves, "you know, maybe even keep, in the event you decide to take Mr. Michaels up on his offer of sponsorship. You'll need more than Mab."

I didn't respond.

Things are going unusually well, but it feels precarious. As if at any moment, all these plates I've got spinning are gonna wobble and shatter on the ground. It's the way it's always been, after all.

It's like Mab. When we first got her from that horrific auction, she was skin and bones. Her ankles and fetters scarred, her coat dull and oily. She was skittish to the max. She still stutter-steps over new ground textures, but when she first came, it was as though she was deathly allergic to concrete and closed-in spaces. Her previous owners didn't have stables or even a shed, and consequently never allowed her inside, even in extreme weather. They kept her tied up in their backyard. I don't know if they ever struck her, but I am acquainted with neglect, and there's something fucked up that happens after being told no so many times. The hope dies. It hurts too much, and eventually, self-preservation kicks in. You stop trying to escape. You stop asking for more than what you have. You learn to be grateful, even, for the little you're given.

Eventually, you become protective of that tiny, muddy, shit-filled backyard. Because it's yours, and because all you love in the whole world is in that space.

The less you have, the tighter you hold on.

It's hard for someone like Case Michaels or Maria Santos, with their gobs of money and security, to comprehend that, but I'm pretty familiar with the concept. It's not as though I don't want the sponsorship or I don't think I could win. I do, and I would.

It's that I don't have any faith it will work out for me. Faith, hope, belief, whatever, it's all the same hurtful bullshit wrapped up in pretty sentiments. I lost all of that somewhere around Garrett's first birthday when neither my mom nor my dad made an appearance, and we kids ate a box cake made by a nine-year-old.

I can do anything except depend on someone else.

Mab's the same. Fuck if she's ever going to ask for permission again. She belongs to no one. I'm convinced she only works for me because like attracts like. Two neglected and tired souls, living for the moment.

And this moment is a good one, preceded by weeks of equally new and different, good moments. Four almost-adults sitting on a covered wraparound porch watching a rumbling storm roll in over the plains. I've never done anything like this before, and being casually a part of something so mundane makes me feel off-balance, but not in an unwelcome way. Here I am. Sitting with other people who aren't related to me, watching weather. "Shooting the shit," as Pax likes to say.

"D'you see that one, Michaels?" Pax asks, referencing the lightning strike none of us could miss.

Case grunts his response and Pax continues, his tone definitely up to something. "Looked like it nearly took out the grain bin—excuse me, silo—out at my place."

I stiffen, but Case just shakes his head, the dimple closest to me popping in and out of view.

"Reckon it's about… what? Thirty feet in the air?"

"Reckon that's the grain bin," Case says, honey-thick Texas accent in place. "The silo's a good seventy-five, hundred feet."

"Right, right. I always mix those up. Easy to do."

Maria finally cuts in, exasperated. "Okay. What're we missing?"

Case raises a brow at me, and I press my lips together. I know the rumors, of course, but if he's willing to share the facts firsthand, I won't stop him.

He lets out a long-suffering sigh, but I don't think he's really mad. This feels like a schtick between him and Pax. "Well, Maria," he drawls, "you see, a long time ago, when I was a child…"

"March," I pipe in, amused. "Barely two months ago. Tell the story right, Michaels."

"When I was much younger and more irresponsible than I am now," Case presses on, "and truthfully, fucking sad and also drunk, I found this list—"

Ooh. A list.I focus my attention, intrigued.

"—from my dead best friend, Walker Gibson."

"Ah. I knew Walker. From rodeo," Maria says. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Case's expression tightens ever so slightly, but he shakes it off and continues, "Right. Thank you. So as I was saying, Walker, the meddling fucker, made this list before he died. I don't know when," he rushes to answer the question before I ask. "Sometime, and when he was dying, he gave it to me. He said they were all these things he'd wanted to do but didn't get the chance, and maybe I could do the list without him."

Even the storm seems to go quiet around us, and the only sound is the low, sloping cadence of Case's voice. The air is at once static and expectant. "Oh god," I whisper.

Case turns to me, his eyes meeting mine. "Yeah.

"Anyway," he carries on, a little louder, a little gruffer, the electrified space between moments lost. "This list runs the gamut. There's your typical Go on a road trip and Sing karaoke kinds of tasks, and then there's far stupider shit like Jump off a corn silo."

My voice strangles. "Jump off?"

"A fucking corn silo," Pax says. "Damned city boy."

"He meant grain bin," Case explains.

"Apparently," Maria says mildly.

"But of course, I didn't realize until I was already at the top. And I was stuck, because it was fucking high and I'd been drinking."

"So the fire department came and got you down," I finish for him.

"Pretty much."

I lean back in the painted wooden rocker and imagine Walker as I knew him. "In the spirit of fairness, he didn't mean to almost kill you."

"Not with that one," Pax says darkly.

I stiffen, halting my rocking. "What does that mean? What else is on the list?"

Case rolls his head to the side and raises a single dark brow. "I'll tell you, but first I need you to know it's already done, and also remember I wasn't hurt."

"Case!" I smack his arm, and he grins sheepishly.

"Conquer a bull outside the arena. Which, as you know, worked out fine in the end. Though, admittedly, I was sweating that one for months. Wasn't exactly sure how I was supposed to conquer Charles. Turns out I needed the proper motivation."

I surge to my feet. "Are you kidding me? Case! What were you thinking?"

He remains sitting and shrugs. "In all sincerity, Win, I was looking to feel something, and fuck if it didn't work. But also, I wasn't thinking. For the first time in my life, I didn't think something through, I just acted—and thank Jesus I did, or maybe things would have ended a little differently. So let's drop it."

It's as if we're the only two on the porch. I'm alarmed at how shaken I feel at the memory of Case in front of that bull.

He gets to his feet and reaches for my shoulders, so I am forced to look him in his eyes. "It was reckless. One hundred percent Walker and not at all me. It's not my list; I didn't write it. I wouldn't do something like that normally, and I'll never be repeating it, because it scared the shit out of me. But I did it and it's done, and it worked out for the best, and neither Garrett nor I died in the process."

"Where's the list?"

His brows draw together. "What?"

"Do you have it still? Is it inside? Go get the list," I demand. "I wanna see it."

His arms drop, and he exhales. After a beat, he seems to notice the curious stares of our friends and makes a decision. "Okay, follow me."

I've never been inside the big house before. From the outside, I knew it was luxe. Tiered landscaping with plenty of fancy lighting and pretty furniture. There's an in-ground pool and one of those outside kitchen patios. Some nights in the winter, when it gets dark early and I work late, I see it all lit up, softly glowing, and it is like something out of a romance movie.

But none of that prepared me for the inside of Case's home. The foyer (because he has a whole-ass foyer) is paved in soothing sandstone and white marble. The ceilings pitch to a high point with open skylights and are accentuated with enormous wooden beams. There's a massive stone fireplace with a cowhide spread before it, bookended by giant squashy leather couches. In fact, everything is big and imposing and clean. We pass the kitchen, where Kerry is stirring something that smells delicious on the stove. She's small, but she looks miniscule in the sprawling space. My entire trailer would fit in here. Garrett's and my room is the size of his pantry, easily.

Case grabs my hand, interrupting my gawking, and tugs me up the stairs. "Just grabbing something, Kerry!" he yells over his shoulder.

He walks through the landing to where it splits in opposite directions, then turns right. I follow, catching a glimpse of a photo of a beautiful woman I don't recognize holding a baby, standing next to a young version of Case's dad. This must be his mom. I have no idea what happened to Case's mom except that Mr. Michaels is a widower.

"Is that your mom?"

Case stops at the door he was about to open and walks back. "Oh yeah. That's Mom. With me and my dad. She died a few months after. That picture, right there"—he points, tracing the lines of her lovely smile—"sums up about all I know about her."

"Oh no. I'm so sorry."

He looks genuinely unbothered. "It's okay. She died of an aneurysm in her sleep. Kerry's been taking care of me ever since."

I focus my attention on the old photo, not meeting his eyes. "My mom left us after Garrett was born. I was nine, so I remember some stuff about her, but I think I've blocked most of it out. But Garrett and Jesse? They have zero memories."

"You haven't seen her since?"

"Nope," I say, popping the p. "She left to get cigarettes after coming home from the hospital and presumably never looked back. I don't know if it was the baby blues or what."

He grimaces. "I'm sorry, too, then. That's awful."

"Good riddance," I say and mean it. I turn to him. "So. The list?"

"Right." He leads me into his bedroom and immediately heads for a large desk situated in front of his window. I try not to look like I'm memorizing the details of his room. The unmade and rumpled California king. The pile of familiar clothes in front of a walk-in closet. The collection of gold rodeo buckles and trophies lining his dresser. A framed photo of him and Walker.

Case holds a paper in front of him, but when I grab for it, he swipes it away. "Before you read it, there's something I need to tell you."

"Okay."

"You need to remember Walker made this list. Without me knowing."

"Right."

He crosses his arms over his chest, pulling the short sleeves of his T-shirt distractingly tight across his shoulders and biceps. "And for a long time, I assumed it was for him, like he said. Stuff he'd never gotten to do. A bucket list, you know?" I nod. He continues. "But then Pax told me you knew Walker."

I blink, confused. "Oh. Yeah. Kinda. I mean, we were friends. He would talk to me here at the ranch while I worked sometimes. And if he saw me sitting alone at school lunch, he'd keep me company. I liked him a lot. He was a good guy."

Case nods. "The best. He was the best guy. So, remember that when you see this, okay?" He hands me the folded piece of notebook paper.

I pull it open and read through the list. Case is right. There's a lot of the typical bucket list stuff. Also plenty of things Case has already crossed off, including, I note with a snicker, Jump into a pool naked (at a party). Well, that makes sense. Still stupid, but makes sense. I skim my eyes over the remaining items until I get hung up on the last.

Befriend Winnie Sutton.My breath catches in my throat, and hot tears surge to the corners of my eyes. "Gah."

"Yeah."

"He wanted you to be my friend."

"Correction: he wanted us to be friends. There's an important difference. He was already your friend. He put that on there for me. He knew you and liked you, I know that. I can't tell you how many times you do something or put me in my place, and I think, Walker would love this shit."

I stare at the list, blinking but not seeing.

"Winnie? Say something, please."

"I've always wanted to learn French."

"Huh?"

"It says here, Learn a language other than English. Spanish would be more practical, especially in Texas, but I don't care. I like how French sounds. It's sexy. Want to learn it with me?"

"Winnie…," he says warningly.

"Look. It's fine. Do I feel extra pathetic your dead best friend basically assigned you the task of being my friend? Sure. It's pretty mortifying. But I know he meant well, and he likely never counted on you being so honest and showing me the list… so."

"It was for me," he cuts in quickly. "All of this stuff is for me. To survive losing him. After the bull, I kinda figured it all out. He was trying to give me directions. A contingency plan or whatever. I like plans. And maps and lists. Formulas, equations. He knew that about me and knew I was going to need a friend who could put me in my place. Please don't be embarrassed. I'm glad he did it, and I'm glad we're friends."

I take a deep breath, releasing it slowly. "Okay."

"Okay."

"So, French?"

A single dimple pops. "Oui."

I pass the list back to him. "No more stupid, reckless stuff?"

He tosses the paper on the desk behind him. "You mean more reckless than facing down a bull? It's all gravy from here."