Chapter Two. Case

I'm no longer drunk by the time I wake up, but I almost wish I were when I descend the long, lushly carpeted staircase, walk past the great room, and enter into a too-gleaming kitchen. That's where I encounter Kerry's sigh. I'm used to failing my dad. Expect it, even.

But Kerry's pursed lips and compulsive swiping of the spotless granite countertop say, "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed," loud and clear. I've been called a lot of things—entitled, arrogant, cocky, thick-skulled, to name just a few—but I'm not rude.

"Forgive me, Kerry," I beg our housekeeper right away, stilling her assault on the counter and loudly pecking a contrite kiss to her soft cheek. "I was an asshole."

She pretends to tsk my cussing but doesn't disagree. Instead, she shuffles over to the Nespresso and passes me a coffee, black. Confused, I accept it. "Thank you?"

"Drink up," she says in a gruff tone I've always thought sounded like water rushing over boulders. Raspy after decades of smoking in her youth, but smooth and soothing all the same. "You're gonna need it. You were expected in the stables fifteen minutes ago."

I suck a blistering sip between my lips and grimace. Coffee drinking starts early on a ranch, but I've never gotten into drinking it black. My dad, obviously, drinks his coffee black enough to put hair on your chest, and so did his dad before him. I come from a long line of hairy-chested men. It's not only our names and accrued wealth we pass down in this family. We also inherit a mindless adherence to toxic masculinity. I'm pretty sure it's in the will.

My mom died of an aneurysm when I was a baby, and I have zero memories of her. I suspect my dad loved her as much as he's capable of loving anyone or anything outside of our ranch, but he's never liked to talk about her. Kerry raised me, and any shred of goodness I might possess is because of her and Walker.

Top of the list of Kerry's Life Lessons is Don't be a little asshole. It's a short list, and I like to think I'm accomplishing at least that much in my eighteen, nearly nineteen years, but yesterday would prove otherwise. I have a lot of ground to make up today.

"Better refill me, then," I say.

Kerry pulls out a sleek silver thermos, topping it off with the remainder of the pot, and trades me the still-steaming cup in my hand.

"Thanks. And, uh," I clear my throat awkwardly, "thank you for clearing out my, um, friends last night. I hope they didn't give you any trouble?"

Kerry shakes her head, her pinned, rust-shaded curls bobbing near her ears. She's picked up her rag and is back to aggressively polishing the granite once more. "No trouble at all, but that's cuz I didn't clear 'em all out. There're a few stragglers in the guest room."

My stomach sinks. "Stragglers?"

She tucks a smirk into her cheek, but it sneaks out her eyes. "They insisted they were too intoxicated to get home."

I look to the ceiling with an annoyed grunt. "Uber makes it out here just fine."

Kerry lifts a shoulder, undeterred. "Better hurry them along before your dad shows up looking for you."

My stomach squirms guiltily. I grab a banana from the stocked fruit bowl on the island before reconsidering and grabbing two more, making my way back up the stairs toward the guest wing. Without knocking, I swing open the door and flip on the bright lights.

"Rise and shine, interlopers!"

In the guest bed, Pax Richardson and his girlfriend, Madi Wallen, are a tangle of (thankfully clothed) limbs and sour booze breath.

"Fucking A, Michaels," Pax groans. "Turn off the light."

"I can't. You aren't supposed to be here, and I'm due in the stables."

Pax pries himself from Madi's grasp and rolls to his side, planting his bare feet on the floor. He's wearing his swim trunks, which is puzzling, since our pool is winterized, but I decide not to get into that now.

I chuck the banana at his head, and he doesn't bother ducking—just picks it up and peels it deftly, cracking the stem with a flick and taking a bite of the flesh.

Leaning against an armoire that was probably new before the Alamo, I ask, "Why're you here? Kerry kicked everyone out."

Pax smooths his overgrown sandy hair and swallows a mouthful of banana. "You kicked everyone out, actually. Aggressively, I might add."

"Okay, I kicked Brynn and whatsherface out. And I wasn't aggressive about it. I was firm."

Madi mutters from a sea of down, and I raise my brows at Pax.

"Darcy," he translates.

"Who?"

Pax shakes his head. "Man, you're a dick."

"We prefer the term rodeo fuckboy," Madi says, opening her eyes blearily.

I scratch at the back of my neck, feeling uncomfortably hot. "Darcy and Brynn. Right. I remember now. Darcy's the tall one. In my defense," I say, swallowing a surge of bile that's only partially from my hangover, "I told them I only do one-night stands. Before anything happened. I was very clear. No repeats, no feelings. It's not my fault if they got to thinking they're different."

Pax pushes out a breath, exasperated, and gropes around for his shirt. I find it on the floor and hand it to him.

"I won't apologize for it," I force out, defiant.

Madi scowls, scrambling out of the bed. "You're disgusting, Case."

The guilt rises again, but I shrug. There are probably healthier ways of escaping grief, but until last night, sex at least didn't have major consequences.

"Look, Madi, think what you want, but you're hungover from my beer and waking up in my house. You're giving me a headache, and I have work to do. Kindly collect your things and leave."

She glares at me and begins to pull on her jeans.

Pax clears his throat. "Look, I know I'm not Walker. No one could replace that guy. He was literally the best human to have ever existed. But I've known you since we were in diapers and watched you do a lot of stupid, reckless shit on the backs of fifteen-hundred-pound beasts for fun. Hook up with whoever you want…" His girlfriend growls, and he shoots her a look. "Easy. I'm not the one fucking around, and truthfully, they're old enough to make their own choices." He turns back to me. "I was… concerned when you ran out of here after shit hit the fan with the girls. It was like you had a death wish. You were running off half-cocked, saying something about a corn silo and some list Walker made for you."

My eyes slide shut, and I sink to the bed. "You called the police."

Of course he did. Of course it wasn't Walker. Walker's dead. He's not your fucking guardian angel, Case.

Pax butts into my self-flagellation. "You didn't get charged for anything, did you?"

"Nah. I think I pled ‘angst.' I figure it's a onetime get-out-of-jail-free kind of thing. Plus your parents love me too much to charge."

"Christ, you really went to my house?" He whistles low. "Lucky guess on my part."

"Yeah. Closest farm for miles. I might've been feeling reckless, but I didn't feel like traveling far."

Pax squints one eye, considering. "He meant grain bin, didn't he?"

I nod.

He chuckles. "For a rodeo kid, Walker didn't know shit about livestock."

That makes me snort. I used to say Walker was the most citified rider on the circuit. He broke in his boots at my ranch. "No kidding. I probably should have thought of that before I climbed up the thing."

Pax nods slowly, clearly not knowing what to say. Eventually, he settles on, "We'll get out of your hair."

I pass him the thermos and soften my voice. "Thanks for caring, man. And for calling the cops. I was kind of stuck up there."

He clears his throat, and I try not to think about how things were never this stilted with Walker. I'm relieved when Pax twists open the lid and inhales deeply. "Mm-hmm. Kerry's coffee." He takes a sip and grins as if we weren't just tiptoeing around death and misery and my dumbass late-night mistakes. Like he's already shaken it all off.

I bite back a sigh. Must be nice.

"Now get out of my house before my dad comes back and finds you two and I'm stuck mucking stalls until I'm thirty."

By the time I refill my coffee (adding a generous pour of the special oat milk Kerry hides in the back of the fridge for me, toxic masculinity be damned) and steal four pieces of bacon from the stove top, I miss my dad doing his morning rounds by a good forty-five minutes. I didn't plan it that way, but I ain't mad about it.

It's been years since I've gone down to the stables this early. Even during my heaviest rodeo training periods, I'm more likely to be in the arena late and nowhere near the actual livestock. Mucking stalls is one of the few punishments Junior has in his arsenal. Essentially, go clean up horse shit and think about what you've done. It probably has something to do with how he and my uncle were raised to work hard and get their hands dirty, and because they did that so well, I haven't had to follow in their footsteps.

Well, joke's on him. I was fixing to come down here regardless. Not to shovel horse shit and think about my life choices, but that's as good an excuse as any.

I'm comfortable on horseback and this is a working ranch, but it's different from how it used to be. Cowboys ride four-wheelers, and our horses are mostly relegated to adventure trail rides. Wealthy weekender tourists come in from Dallas and Austin and want the real "ranch experience," so they get a lesson in roping sawhorses, climbing the rocky trail at sunset, and overpriced Swiss chocolate s'mores paired with even more overpriced Hill Country wines. Every now and again, I'll get asked to jump on a mechanical bull when an avid rodeo fan comes to stay, but I've made myself pretty scarce in the year since Walker fell sick.

This ranch has been in our family for generations, but my dad and his brother, my uncle John, were the ones who brought it into the twenty-first century and made it the tourism empire it is today. As Uncle John likes to say, "Cattle come and cattle go, but ‘Home, Home on the Range' will last forever." And, look, I appreciate that everything I have—which is a substantial amount—is because of this place.

It doesn't mean I want to spend the rest of my life working for Case Jr.

The sun is a late-winter watercolor version of itself, still low in the sky. I relish in the crunch of the grass under my work boots as I cross the yard toward the stables, and inhale a deep, cleansing breath of crisp March air. It's tinged with the aroma of manure and leather polish. This isn't all bad. Honestly, I should do this more often. Not the chores or whatever, but it wouldn't hurt to get up with the sun and maybe get some training in. My sometimes-coach Brody wouldn't know what to do if I pitched a switch to early-morning workouts. Might be worth it just to watch his expression while he seesawed between shock and dubiousness.

I stroll down the paved center aisle of the stables, greeting the horses as I pass, regretting I'm empty-handed. Next time, I need to remember to ask Kerry to slice apples or carrots for me to share.

"Hello, beautiful," I murmur, approaching an imperious Apaloosa mare. I glimpse at the chalkboard name placard. "You new around here? Queen Mab? Haven't seen you before." I hold out a hand toward her nose in offering. She shakes her head, shifting backward and letting out a snuffling snort—obviously unimpressed with my lack of gifts.

A clear, melodic drawl behind me warns, "I wouldn't if I were you. Mab'll bite off your fingers and then kick ya for not saying thank-you quick enough."

I spin to face the owner of the voice. It belongs to a pretty, dark-haired girl about my age wearing dusty jeans, work boots, and a too-big barn jacket. She looks familiar, but I'm struggling to place how.

"I ain't afraid."

The girl rolls her dark brown eyes. Her lashes are thick and inky, and I must be tireder than I'd thought because I lose myself tracking their flutter. She interrupts my preoccupation and flashes a bright smile. "I bet not." Her front teeth have the smallest gap between them that braces could've probably fixed. I'm glad they didn't. "Still," she muses, tapping her chin with a gloved finger, "it's hard to hold on for eight seconds when you can't grip the rope cuz you've lost your fingers to a cranky mare."

My shoulders straighten. A rodeo fangirl, then. Cue swagger.

I shift my weight, casually, crossing one boot over the other. "I can hold on for far longer than eight seconds, when needed."

She winces and holds up a hand. "Oof. Let me just stop you right there. When needed? Ew. I'm Winnie and—"

Unperturbed, I hold my hand out. "Case Michaels."

She glares at my outstretched limb as if she'd like to bite it off as much as the horse does. I tuck it in my pocket as she narrows her eyes.

"I'm Winnie," she repeats more slowly. "And I'm supposed to be putting you to work this morning since you turned up"—she checks the worn plastic watch on her wrist—"nearly an hour late."

"You're putting me to work?"

"I know." She makes a face. "I don't love it either, but boss's orders. So, there's the rake"—she gestures to the wall—"and the wheelbarrow"—I bite back a groan—"and the piles and piles of horse shit." For fuck's sake, I'm not an idiot. This is my ranch. "I suggest you leave Mab alone. I'll be back to exercise her in a few, and you can sneak into her stall then."

I open my mouth, and she whips around, her sleek ponytail swinging in my face, her maddening hand dismissing me. "Don't care, Case Michaels. It was annoying to meet you. Have a nice life."