Chapter Twenty. Case

The night after the train trestle, I watch a Rangers game with my dad for the first time since I got my driver's license. We don't typically do that kind of father-son bonding. He's always working late, and to be honest, we don't have a whole lot in common. I have to imagine I'm a lot like my mom, though he's never said. I know he loved my mom, so much he can't bring himself to talk about her even, eighteen years after the fact, and I've always told myself he has to love me that much, too. Like deep down inside. Or maybe that's not something men talk about with their sons. Walker's dad was super affectionate with the both of us, but that could be because his kid was sick. Maybe this is typical if no one's actively dying.

I've never given it much thought. Not until recently, after being exposed to Winnie's dad. The thing is, my dad and I don't see eye to eye on much, but he has always seen me and taken care of me. He's always been a dad.

The bar is admittedly low, but still.

We eat our roasted chicken in the media room with a screen so enormous, it makes the players look life-size. My dad doesn't ask about my day and I don't ask about his, but we sit in the same room without fighting, and he doesn't force any bullshit life advice about "sucking it up," so I count that a win. He does ask about Winnie, with a twinkle in his eye I've only seen one other time—the last time she came up between us. He still likes to give me shit, and somehow that feels so normal, I don't even mind.

I realized something last night, sprawled on the ground, my heart pounding out of my body and my life flashing before my eyes. I told myself I didn't want to live by Walker's list anymore, but I also don't want to live by my dad's expectations. I don't want to care about failing to meet his manly standards. I don't care if he thinks my grief is a failing. Or that I should drink coffee black and drown myself in the good whiskey when I'm feeling too much. I don't even care if he calls me a murse. So what. I'm alive, you know? And as long as I'm breathing, I'm going to live the way I want.

After the game is over and my dad goes to bed, I set out through my dark house, to the back porch. There's something I need to take care of.

I walk over to the firepit and turn on the propane, igniting the flame and lighting up the night. The rest of the ranch is a heavy blanket of navy and pinprick stars, impossible to make out beyond the reach of the flickering blue fire.

I stand in front of the flames, feeling the heat press against my legs, and reach for the folded paper I've tucked away in my pocket.

The list.

Ghost Walker stands across from me. I know he's not real, but he's so vivid at this moment, in the firelight, he could be. He sighs, tucking his hands into his pockets. He gives me a nod. The kind of nod he might've given me from across the arena after a rough ride. The kind that says, "Sometimes shit just doesn't go your way."

"Let me start by saying, I still miss the fuck out of you."

I suck in a deep breath, releasing it past trembling lips, willing myself to keep it together. "And that list was mostly a fucking disaster. I could have died at least three times. I'm not sure what the lesson was supposed to be." I laugh, shaking my head. "Actually. That's not right. I do know what the lesson was supposed to be. It's to not put so much stock in ideas that came from a dying almost-eighteen-year-old, even if he's the best friend you ever had."

Ghost Walker smirks, and I stand there watching him a long time. Memorizing the way he looks: young, healthy, full of shit. For the rest of my life, this is the way I want to see him, not sickly thin, gasping for breath. When I go to college, get married, start a career, have kids, whatever happens, this is who I want to see.

"I should let you go," I say, swallowing thickly. "I need to let you go."

I hold the worn piece of paper covered in his handwriting over the flame, letting it catch, watching the embers chase through the crossed-off tasks one by one, turning them to ash. A soft breeze spurs the flame faster, and a heartbeat later, it's gone.

And so is Walker.

I apply to nursing school a week later without telling anyone except Kerry and Pax. Kerry for obvious reasons, and Pax because I've been compulsively checking my phone ever since hitting Submit on the application and he thought I was texting Winnie.

He'd started giving me even more grief about my friendship with Winnie than usual, so I caved in a backward attempt at self-preservation, which, I'll admit, did not have the desired effect. Now, every time he's in the vicinity when my phone vibrates, he's instantly alert and ready to give a smirk (Winnie) or curiously raised brows (college).

I used to think Walker was the most obvious human on the planet. I was wrong.

But it's not so bad. Better than waiting for the application results alone, and anyway, Pax isn't completely off base about Winnie. I can fully admit to having a massive crush on her, even as she's becoming one of my best friends. She's fun, cute, and talented. Smart as fuck and tough. I admire her. She holds it together in a way I'm not sure I could. The other weekend, I fully expected to find her sobbing in her car in the parking lot of the VFW. Instead, she was dry-eyed and chucking rocks at her dad's tailgate. I've no doubt she was devastated. I could hear it in her voice on the phone, and Camilla said she cried herself to sleep on the ride back from Fort Worth. But by the time I saw her, she'd put herself back together again.

Do I wish she didn't have to?

Well, sure.

But just because I wish life would go easier on the Sutton kids doesn't invalidate how impressive they are for handling it as it is.

And anyway, Winnie doesn't want me to make things easier. She's been abundantly clear on that front. My new tactic is to go along for the bumpy ride.

WINNIE

Qu'est-ce que l'ouragan a dit au cocotier?

I glance up from my phone at the arena, where Winnie is currently on one of her backup stallions, Risky Business. How on earth did she manage to text? I watch her, puzzled, until she catches my gaze and smirks before dropping into a perfect canter, leading her steed closer and closer to the barrels.

"Yo! Case!"

I drop my gaze, giving my attention to where Pax is spotting Brody as he's bench-pressing.

"Sorry, what?"

Brody grunts with effort, and Pax gestures at him. "Switch places with me. I can't spot Brody. I can barely spot you."

I swap positions as my phone buzzes again. My fingers twitch to check my phone, but I train my focus on Brody lifting beneath me. My phone vibrates again. Pax snorts.

I narrow my eyes at him. "What did the hurricane say to the coconut tree?"

"Is that what you're doing all day? Knock-knock jokes?"

"They're not knock-knock jokes. Did I say, ‘Knock-knock'? But yeah, in French."

"Hold on to your nuts," Brody says. He comes to a sitting position, and I pass him the towel.

"Huh?" I say.

He scrubs his face and neck. No matter how many fans we bring out here, it's still hot as blazes. I also hand him his water bottle. "The joke," he says. "The hurricane tells the coconut tree to hold on to its nuts."

I blink. "Genius. Please hold."

CASE

Trop facile.

CASE

Accrochez-vous à vos noix.

WINNIE

…

WINNIE

Cheater! Brody told you.

I groan out loud and can hear the echo of laughter in the arena. Over the half wall, I can see Maria doing a little dance.

"Your girlfriend gave me away."

Pax looks entirely unbothered by this news. "Well, you did cheat."

Brody gets up from the bench, and we trade places. I lie down while he removes some weight from each side. Not a lot, and not nearly as much as we remove for Pax, but enough so I don't kill myself.

I reach up and remove the bar, completing my sets. We go through the routine one more time with Pax and then move on to squats. Once again, Brody starts us off.

He stands beneath the bar, hauling it to his shoulders and stepping clear from the supports. Then he executes a perfect squat.

Bastard.

"Hey," I say, "been meaning to ask you. I was at St. James last week to visit someone, and there was this nurse… or maybe she was a tech? Young, cute, with curly hair? She asked about you by name."

His face turns red, and I can't tell if it's the exertion or something else.

"You were on the seventh floor?" he asks, his brows drawing together as he stops at the top.

"Yeah. Remember that kid Ryder? Cancer patient? His mom called. He's back in after a bone marrow transplant. She asked if I could come and see him."

Brody nods. "Little guy?"

"Middle schooler."

"Shit." Brody starts squatting again. He finishes his reps and places the bar with a clank of metal. "I don't know how you can stand going back. I hate that place. I don't ever want to see it again."

I move to redistribute the weight. "Well, it's not like I was there to sit in Walker's old room and reminisce. I was visiting someone."

"Yeah, another sick kid. No thanks. I've had enough to last a lifetime."

I line myself up underneath and meet Pax's eyes. He's watching me in silence, and I can't tell what he's thinking.

"Yeah. I guess I get that," is all I say.

"That's why we're here, right? Get qualified and get the hell out of the panhandle. Put it all behind us."

"Sure." I do my reps, letting the conversation tumble around in my brain. I've been preoccupied lately, but it's occurring to me Brody's gone from my coach to a sort of equal partner in this training. It used to be "you and Walker," and then it was "you," and now its "we're" and "us." When did that change?

Pax does his squats, and then we move to the medicine balls for balance training while I'm still puzzling over Brody's words.

Later that afternoon, Winnie invites me on a trail ride. "On the condition we stick to English," she requests.

"Je suppose," I say with feigned reluctance, though, if I'm honest, her half-Texan, half-French accent is so awful, it's cute. She definitely feels more comfortable with French texting, but that's because she can cheat with Google Translate (and I can pretend not to notice). (I can also pretend to not freak out about the fact Winnie is inviting me on a trail ride after turning me down every other time I've asked.)

Brody had to get to work at his day job, and Pax and Maria took off for "date night," which apparently consists of dinner followed by parking in some open field. Not that I have room to talk. I wasn't exactly treating girls to fancy picnic dinners a few months ago. But that was kind of the point, wasn't it? And anyway, I've stopped that. I haven't so much as hugged a girl since the corn silo, unless you count the times I've held Winnie, which…

Well, she doesn't count that, so I'd better not.

We saddle up Moses and Mab and take off for the farthest reaches of the ranch. I've come a long way in my riding in the last few months. Winnie and Maria would never let me live it down if I didn't earn a horse like Moses. And Winnie practically lives on horseback. If I want to spend time with her, be her friend, learn what makes her tick, I need to be more comfortable on horseback, too. Logic, right?

I've always been good at logical reasoning.

I look around, taking in the golden plains spreading before us, miles and miles in every direction. The sun is still plenty high in the sky, being summer and all, which buys us time to explore.

"I forget sometimes how much I like it out here—how lucky I am."

"It's pretty unreal," she admits, settling back into her saddle and taking a deep breath. I mirror her. Most days, the air is so warm that every time you stop moving, you start to sweat, but out here in the open grass, the breeze is constant and comfortable. I lift my cap and spin it backward, letting the wind cool me.

"Do you think this is what heaven looks like?" I ask.

She considers carefully, no doubt knowing what I'm really asking. Mab dances in place, probably scenting the creek up ahead, but Winnie doesn't acknowledge her. "I think for Texans, it must."

"You're probably right. Though I wouldn't be shocked if Walker's not waiting in some arena chute right now, ready for the ride of his afterlife."

She smiles fondly. "Always just qualifying by the skin of his teeth to keep things interesting."

"But for me, this would do," I say.

"Horseback and all?" she teases.

"It's growing on me." There's something different in her expression. Easier, maybe. Her eyes flicker down to my mouth and back up. My hands are full of reins, so I dip to my shoulder to swipe at my lips. I ate a CLIF Bar after my workout. I probably have chocolate on my face. Winnie flushes and turns her attention back to the copse of trees in the distance. She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back, soaking up the sun and making my chest ache.

I clear my throat. "What about yours? Is this enough, or maybe you'd prefer something with a clover course and a trio of barrels?"

I'm baiting her, I know, but she seems so relaxed it's worth the risk.

"Maybe," she says, not bothering to open her eyes. "Or maybe I agree with you. This is pretty ultimate right here."

I don't say anything. I can't think of anything to say that wouldn't put an abrupt end to this safe bubble we're in.

Instead, I click my tongue, urging Moses on to where he and Mab have been yearning to go since we stopped. Winnie's right on my heels. We bring the horses to rest in the shade and tie them close enough to the water's edge so they can drink all they want.

"Maria and Camilla want me to do North Texas Open next Friday night. Late entry, but it's small-time enough it's not a big deal."

I school my features, keeping them casual-but-reasonably-excited. "Really? And what do you want?"

The corner of her mouth quirks in a way that tells me she sees through my effort but appreciates it, anyway.

"Thank you for asking," she says, amused. "You're the only one who does, you know?"

"I'm trying."

"I can tell." She turns to lean against a tree trunk, facing me, and sighs. "I want to do it. Which probably makes me a glutton for punishment, but I want to see how Mab and I'll fare in the arena when it's for real. Even if it's a local competition, Maria will be there on Duchess."

I rest against a trunk opposite her. "And since Maria is the reigning national high school champ, this is a good way to test it out."

"Right. I mean, I've ridden against her in practice. And Mab and I always do well, but Mab's never competed. She's a rescue, after all. She's got, um, some baggage. So for all we know, she could get out there in the loud crowds and totally choke."

Or you could, I think. Not that I, personally, think Winnie will choke. There's no way. But I can see the excuse for what it is.

"I don't know it this means anything," I say, "but North Texas Open is set to be my first rodeo, post Walker. Well, technically my second, but you know what I mean. So maybe we can do it together?"

"You and Mab?" she jokes.

"Right. Of course. Me and Mab. You can be our support cowboy."

Winnie rolls her eyes theatrically. "Ugh. Fine. If I have to do everything."

"You really do."

She presses her lips together a moment, her eyes doing that easy thing again. That's twice in less than an hour. Not that I'm keeping track.

"You'll watch me race?" Her tone is vulnerable; all pretense dropped.

"I'll be there the entire time, if you want. Will you watch me ride?"

She exhales, her shoulders drooping in relief. "The entire time, if you want."

"Unflinching, Sutton." I hold up a fist.

She taps it with her own. "Unflinching."