Chapter Seven. Winnie

Two days later, I'm still annoyed with Case Benton and the stupid, ignorant words that came out of his stupid, attractive mouth hole.

(Outside my POS-hand-me-down sedan and his gleaming, top-of-the-line SUV. If ever there was an apt metaphor for the difference between us, that would be it.)

So while I know I have every right to be as frustrated as I am with Jesse, I can't help but think at least some of my ire is because of the dickwad who called me a "middle-aged mom."

Seriously. A mom?

Let's be clear, he isn't necessarily wrong. I feel old. Way older than nineteen. It's as though I went from age nine to grown after my mom left us. It's like one of those online quizzes. My real age, according to the level of trauma and bullshit I've survived, has got to be at least seventy by now. Seventy-five after my dumbass little brother decided to sneak out after dinner and not answer my texts.

I should throw his drool-stained pillow on the stoop and lock the door until morning. Or maybe call our dad and tattle on him for having a girlfriend. Or, like, I don't know, wait till he falls asleep, put his fingers in a cup of hot water till he wets himself, and then put the video on Instagram.

If I had an Instagram, that is.

And if he were home.

Instead, I'm sitting up, pacing the kitchen. I gave up trying to read the smutty werewolf romance novel Camilla lent me. Our Netflix subscription stopped three months ago when my dad forgot to leave enough money in our account to cover the withdrawal. I could renew it now or I could look online for a pair of shoes for Garrett. I pick up my phone and sit down at the table, scrolling Facebook Marketplace for a bit, unsuccessfully.

Damn.

I'm about to close out when I see a beautiful pair of women's cowboy boots for sale. Gently used but in excellent condition. I groan to myself. Gorgeous dark brown leather inlaid with turquoise.

I would wear the hell out of those.

They're only a hundred dollars, but that's already a hundred dollars more than I have to spend on anything for myself. Garrett needs shoes. I don't. Maybe I can pick up a couple of extra rides and stow away a little extra cash for myself. Of course, these boots will be gone, but there might be more.

Yeah, right. I bookmark the seller and open YouTube instead, looking through clips of barrel racing. I find a batch uploaded from the National Finals Rodeo three months prior. I already know the results, but don't mind watching the ten-day series again. I lean back in my chair with a creak and pull my heels up to the seat, resting my phone against my knee. I run my jagged thumbnail back and forth on my bottom lip, soaking up every detail I can from the tiny images on the screen. All the riders have their own style of doing things. Some press their bodies forward in the straightaway. Some use their reins as a sort of replacement crop to spur their horses on. Some give the barrels a wider berth, losing seconds but saving points.

I catalog the differences, committing them to memory and visualizing how to implement them into my own training with Queen Mab. If we can't both race, at least one of us should. Eventually, I close out the app with a sigh just as the front door finally opens to reveal my younger brother trying—and failing—to be stealthy.

"SHIT, FUCK, WIN!"

"Shh." I hold a finger up to my lips. "Garrett is sleeping, dummy."

"What the hell are you doing sitting in the dark?"

"You know the light keeps her awake. I was online shopping."

He's not fooled. He walks over to the stove top and flips on the small light. "Yeah, right. You're definitely waiting up."

"I shouldn't need to. It's nearly midnight and you have school in the morning. You should've been home hours ago."

He shakes his head. "I don't have curfew. And anyway, why do you care? You're not my mom."

I press my fingers to my temples, massaging away the intruding headache. The same one I get every time we argue. I'm gonna start calling it Jesse. "You're right, I'm not. I'm the oldest. I'm the one who works full time, pays all the bills, buys all the groceries, picks Garrett up from school, buys your clothes, cooks your meals, makes sure you get to your doctors' appointments and to the dentist, and apparently is the one who waits up and worries over you because you never come home or, worse, you sneak out as if I can't fucking tell!" By the end, I'm whisper-shouting. My composure is nearing a breaking point. I take a deep breath. The last thing I need is Garrett awake and getting involved.

"You're absolutely correct, though. I'm not your mom. I didn't ask for any of this, but it turns out no one else is gonna do it, so if I don't, I'll be abandoning you. And that is exactly like our mom."

Jesse's nostrils flare, and his lips press together. I know he wants to yell back, but there's nothing he can say. Because he knows—he fucking knows—I'm right.

So instead, I walk over to the stove light and switch it off. My eyes adjust to the dark and I can still see his outline illuminated, so I step closer, placing my hand on his shoulder, noticing not for the first time, how tall and broad he's getting.

"I love you, kid. Okay? You know I do. Please go to bed."

The next day is Friday, my favorite day of the week. Not because it's the start of the weekend but because after finishing mucking out all the stalls and leading my usual morning trail ride, I get to spend my afternoon drilling Mab on the classic clover barrel-racing formation.

It's real hard to remember all the garbage life chucks at you when you're clinging to a thousand pounds of pure freedom by the skin of your knees.

I walk Mab through the formation, leading her close to the barrels but not enough to touch. Not that she'd dare. Turns out, her weird quirk with transitions makes her perfect for avoiding barrels. She hates the idea of rubbing against the strange texture, and I'm not about to teach her otherwise. Because of this, I'm not planning to give her a wide berth when we're running the barrels. I suspect she'll avoid them at any cost. It's a risk, but it'll shave off time, and in a sport where every tenth of a second counts, it's a risk worth taking.

We repeat the steps until the loops become second nature and I can feel Mab getting antsy underneath me. She's impatient to run, and I don't blame her. "Easy, girl. There's a method to my madness."

I nudge her into a trot, and she shakes her head back and forth a few times within the reins to show her annoyance. She follows my cues perfectly, anyway.

Just because I'm doing it, doesn't mean I have to like itis written all over her twitching fetters.

"I know," I soothe under my breath. We trot the formation until I feel my focus drifting and spot Camilla leaning against the arena sideboards. We canter over, and my boss shakes her head, grinning ear to ear.

"You ladies look like a match made in heaven out there."

I press forward in my borrowed saddle and give Mab a scratch in the soft space behind her ears she favors. "Mab's in a mood because I won't let her run willy-nilly. You ready for us?"

Camilla pulls out her well-loved stopwatch. "Whenever you are."

This is when things always get really interesting.

I kick Mab off with a "Yah!" and she shoots out of the entrance like a bullet train, even though the ranch arena doesn't have a whole lot of alleyway to get up to speed the same way a larger venue might. We go zero to sixty here, and we like it that way, hitting the first loop so quickly, my butt barely touches the saddle. We lean together into the curve, and I hold her reins tightly in my right hand as much for balance as to keep her in line. She darts off to the second barrel, my kicking keeping me in time and in the saddle, which is more important than pushing her to go faster. She doesn't need the reminder. This is her favorite part. My inside knee brushes the barrel, but my inside hand is already there when it wobbles, darting out to set it right. Then we're off to the next. This time, I place Mab a little farther out, and she follows my direction without question. We clear the barrel easily.

And then it's the moment we let go. Inside of my brain, everything gets really still. Silent. Crystal clear. Empty. Nothing but fly. Fly, fly, fly.

Mab's hooves barely graze the sand; my rear barely grazes the saddle. My hat flies off my head, and my hair streams wildly behind me, breath catching in my throat.

We rocket past Camilla, and I tug the reins, slowing Mab to a trot and then a walk, both of us panting, adrenaline zipping through my bloodstream.

Camilla is jotting down our time in a little notebook she carries around to track our progress. I don't bother to stop and check our split. I already know it's the fastest Mab and I have ever done. She's gonna make someone one hell of a rodeo horse someday, but today, she's all mine.

"Don't think I didn't see that wobble, Winifred." Camilla's voice is singsong.

"Then I bet you saw those unbelievable reflexes when I fixed it, Ca-mil-la," I shoot back.

As I line us up at the start, I lean forward, whispering in Mab's ear.

"Again."

Case finds me brushing Mab and cooling her down after our workout. I'm trapped between a thousand pounds of exhausted horseflesh and a literal wall, but I'm also pretty wrung out and maybe even feeling a little high off my stellar afternoon. So I don't immediately lash out, even if the barest glimpse of his handsome features annoys me.

He clears his throat. "You looked amazing out there."

I bristle, focusing all my attention on Mab's hindquarters. "Thanks. I didn't know you were watching."

"No worries." He shrugs, and I look up at him, incredulous, repeating my words in my head, trying to understand where he got the apology from. "You were a little busy. Do you have any idea how fast you two were going?"

I blink. "Camilla times us, so yeah."

"Are you aware, then, your practice numbers are right up there with the competition? Like, actual NFR leaderboard times? In a practice arena with zero coaching." Apparently, Case Michaels is a bit of a barrel-racing nerd. Which would be interesting to note if it weren't him and also if this conversation weren't completely irrelevant.

I brush in long vertical pulls, soothing Mab's muscles and cooling her coat. "Camilla is all the coach we need. Mab's learning plenty, and she's a natural."

I look up to see his answering grin is a mile wide, and his eyes are like, legit sparkling. Oh god. "She's not the only one. What are you doing working in this place cleaning horse manure and leading tourists on rides? You could be on tour winning buckles at every stop."

I don't even know where to start with this idiot. I really don't.

I walk over to a bucket and drop the brush in, letting it clang nice and loud. I slap my hands against my pant legs to get the dust off them and shake them out. Then, I pour oats into Mab's feed bin outside her stall before walking her in and sliding the gate closed behind her. Once I get her settled, I turn to Case, still working to organize my response. In all honesty, I know he means well. He's wrong. On multiple levels. But I'm not so far gone in my own problems I can't see his pep talk for what it is: a compliment. However, one can't live off compliments and good feelings.

I release a slow breath. "First of all, Mab's not my horse. She's Camilla's. I don't own a horse of my own. So trail rides and exercising the boarders is all the riding time I get. I'm happy to do it. Some of the boarders are visited by their owners once every couple of months." I jab my thumb at my chest. "I'm the one who gets to be with them day in and day out, and I feel very lucky.

"Secondly, as I'm sure you know, entering rodeos costs entry fees, and a trailer to transport the horse. And a truck to transport the trailer to transport the horse. I can't even afford a saddle to put on my hypothetical horse.

"So while traveling the country winning belt buckles sounds really dreamy"—there's an ache in my chest at the truth of this—"it's not in the cards for me. It might be for Queen Mab, though. And that is why I work her so hard." I inhale through my nose, swallowing against the encroaching tightness in my throat. "Someday, a barrel racer is gonna show up here and fall in love with her, and I want her to be ready for her chance."

Case's eyes are stormy. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, making it stand on end, which, just so we're clear, is not attractive in the slightest. "But you are a barrel racer, Winnie. That's what I am trying to say. You're better than anyone I've seen, and I've seen plenty."

I bite back a frustrated scream and shake my head, my patience running thin. Compliment or no, this needs to be nipped in the bud. "I'm not being stubborn or obtuse here, Michaels. I know my worth, and just because you call someone something doesn't make it so."

"I'm not sure you're hearing me—"

That's it. I'm gonna punch him. And then I'll punch my little brother and then come back and punch Case one more time for good measure. What is with all these boys trying to mansplain my own life to me?

"I understand perfectly. I think you're the one getting too high off the fumes of your SUV and keto lunches. I'm perfectly aware of how fast Mab and I are. We're a great team here at the ranch, but this is where that ends, because rodeo isn't in my future. Not everyone can chase their dreams in the daytime." I swallow hard again, my indignation turning to dust and clogging my throat. "Some of us only live them out in our sleep." Just then, the alarm buzzes from my cell phone at my hip, and I sigh. Time to pick up Garrett. "I've got to go."

Case looks like he wants to argue, but wisely steps back.

His expression seems confused, and I wonder if it's because no one has turned him down before. Maybe he's used to everyone always being grateful for the attention. He seems so out of sorts I almost feel bad for all the truth-giving I've dumped on his expensive boots. I try to soften my demeanor a little as I pull my jacket off the hook by the door and slide it over my shoulders. "Listen, Michaels. I appreciate the nice things you said and even your enthusiasm. Misguided as you might be, it's nice to hear someone thinks I can be more than I am."

"I'm not wrong," he insists in a low voice.

"And I'm not either. Let's call it a draw. And if you see my little brother out this weekend, kick his ass for me, okay? I'm tired of pretending not to notice when he sneaks out."

Garrett is in full-blown tears when I pull up to her school a few minutes later.

"What happened?" I ask, immediately double-checking I'm not late on the car dashboard clock.

She hiccups. "Just drive, please."

I stare at her before glancing at the small group of kids standing in the pickup line, talking in a huddle and casting loaded glances at my little sister. Silently, I pull away from the curb and drive us out of the school parking lot. My sister sniffles but says nothing. Eventually, I pull off the road a few miles from home and park in a Dollar General lot.

"Out with it. What happened?"

Garrett shakes her head quickly, and I can tell she's holding her breath to keep the tears in. She finally releases a shaky exhale. "It's so stupid, I don't even want to talk about it."

"I had one of those days, too. How about you tell me yours and I'll tell you mine?"

She takes a minute to consider, but I'm patient. I know her curiosity will win out. It always does.

"Can I use a cuss?"

I press my lips together, working to keep my face serious. We have a deal in our house. Until age thirteen, only one cuss per year. It's reupped on your birthday.

"If you're sure it's worth it. You have four months to go."

"Oh, it's worth it," she mutters. "Callie fucking Foster told everyone I got my new shoes from a trash bin outside the Goodwill."

I suck in sharply. "Fuck," I echo.

Garrett nods. "I tried to tell everyone I got them brand-new, but Callie is like the president, and everyone listens to her about everything. So all day, everyone was making faces when they walked near me, pretending I stink like a dumpster."

Ugh. When will kids get a new line? I remember them doing the exact same thing to me when I was her age.

I lean forward and sniff. "Nope. Only the same old sweet-smelling Garrett."

She leans over and does the same to me with a wrinkled nose.

"Oh, ha ha," I say. "Yes, I am well aware I smell like a horse."

Garrett's lips curl in a half grin. "You smell like Winnie. I like it."

"I don't know if that's a good thing, but since I like you best of all, I'll accept it."

"I like you best of all, too."

"I'm sorry I couldn't afford different shoes."

Garrett sighs and looks down at her brand-new white knockoff Skechers. "The shoes are fine. I like them! I don't need different shoes. This is all very character building for my Pulitzer-winning memoirs one day."

"That's the spirit. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Callie fucking Foster."

Garrett giggles, looking happier. "What about your day? You said you'd tell me."

I groan. "Case fucking Michaels saw me barrel racing Queen Mab and has decided to appoint himself my life coach."

"You do ride like the wind," Garrett says, her tone proud. She might not care about horses, but she likes to watch me.

"I do," I say without modesty. "But rodeos are a money suck."

"Don't people win a lot of money in rodeos?"

"If they're good, sure. The leading barrel racers can make three hundred thousand a season in winnings. But they also have sponsorships and teams and, like, oh, I don't know, horses. Multiple horses, even."

"Ah," Garrett says. "Three hundred K, though. That's… a lot."

"A windfall like that would ruin your memoir."

"Not very character building at all," she admits brightly. "So why does the famous Case Michaels want to be your life coach?"

I exhale. "He thinks Mab and I could make it big. Which"—I shrug, again, not being modest—"he's not wrong. From the numbers, with practice, it's not a stretch. But the obstacles are enormous, and I have responsibilities. I live in the real world, not the rodeo world."

"It's nice he thinks it, though."

"It was," I agree. "Well. Mostly annoying, if I'm being honest, but sort of nice, too."

"Maybe he doesn't want to see you waste your dreams on Dad and Jesse and me."

My expression melts, and I pull her close and kiss the top of her head. "I'm not wasting my dreams on you, Garre. I'm pinning my hopes on you and your beautiful brain. It's an investment."

She quirks another smile and hugs me close. "Then maybe I'll keep trying to think of an idea to make both our dreams work."

I settle back in my seat and turn over the ignition and grin at the intense look of concentration suddenly painting my little sister's face. "If anyone can do it, it would be you. Now pass me my phone. I think today calls for Taylor Swift."

Garrett passes me the phone, and I scroll to "You Need to Calm Down," cranking it as loud as the speakers will go before heading the rest of the way home.