Page 115 of Ride or Die

“You’reall I’ve got,” Clara interrupts me, and I shut my damn mouth. “But the difference is, Cole—” Her voice cracks, face crumpling with emotion. “You’re also all I want.”

I close my eyes on another sigh, and wetness hits my cheek. Swiping at the tear, I sniff hard, swallowing my emotion while racking my brain with how to get back to what we were less than five fucking minutes ago. But before I can say anything, Clara moves my arm from around her waist. And while I don’t want to let her go, I do.

“I’m going to bed.” She stands, and I look up at her, catching her gaze.

“I love you, Clara,” I gruff, my voice thick with emotion.

She nods. “I know. I love you, too.”

I want her to kiss me. To make it all feel like everythin’ is okay, even if only for tonight. But she doesn’t. She touches my face, traces the curve of my cheekbone with her thumb and then walks around me and inside the house.

And I want to go after her, but I don’t because I know right now, she doesn’t want me to. And I made a promise to her that I would never do anything she doesn’t want me to do. But now that she’s asking me not to do the only thing I’ve ever been good at, the only thing I’ve ever fuckin’ known, I don’t know if that’s a promise I can keep anymore.

CHAPTER 44

COLE

The feed truck rattles, throwing up dust that hangs in the dry air. I stand in the bed, pitching piles of hay over the side, while a sea of black cattle crowds the fence line, bawling and shoving for prime position.

Normally this kind of work clears my head, but today it ain’t doing a damn thing as I sling another bale down and watch the cows surge toward it.

My mind isn’t here today. It’s with Clara where it’s been every minute of every hour for the last few days.

Since the night on the porch, we haven’t spoken much more than a few amicable words to one another. I’m still at the farrier’s cabin with her and the kids, but I’ve been spending more time working longer than I should, doing shit that don’t need doing, practicing more than I ever have, staying away as much as I can. Clara and I are like ships in the night. It’s my fault. I said the wrong fuckin’ thing. But it was instinct. The second she told me I need to quit, I was immediately on the defense because although I get it, I’m a stubborn son of a bitch. But she doesn’t understand. No one does. Bull riding is the only thing I’ve ever been good at, the only thing I’ve even known. The thought of losing it? Hell, I’d almost rather be dead. Without itI’ve got nothing; I’m nothing. And I fucking hate that no one else can see that.

“Cole!”

Wyatt’s voice snaps me back to the present and I look over to see him standing by the fence, eyebrows raised. “This ain’t a damn buffet. Cows ain’t gonna help ’emselves.”

Brady laughs from the driver’s seat.

“Our boy’s in love, Wyatt,” Brady shouts through the open back window. “Cut him some slack.”

“Shut your pie hole,” I mutter but that only makes him laugh even harder.

I grab another bale, heaving it over the side.

Wyatt smirks. “Seriously though. You’ve been somewhere else all mornin’. You good, brother?”

He’s not wrong. I’ve been completely checked out. Not just this morning, all week. I take my hat off and wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Just… got a lot on my mind.”

The truth is, despite everything else, I can’t shake the feeling that’s been bugging me ever since Clara told me she thought she saw Cain at the festival. She tried to play it off and I let her, but the truth is, maybe she did see him. He could’ve been there. Watching her, the kids, me.

I feel like something’s coming and whatever it is, it ain’t bound to be good. It’s like balancing on the sharp end of a knife blade. One wrong move and you’re fuckin’ done.

My phone starts to vibrate in my pocket and I tug it out, the screen lighting up with an ID that sends a shiver surging through me. Cruz. He doesn’t call unless he has to, and every muscle in my body tightens.

“What is it?” Wyatt asks, noticing immediately.

I don’t acknowledge him, instead swiping to accept the call. “Yeah?”

The line crackles because cell service out in the pastures is sketchy at best.

“Where you at?” Cruz practically grunts.

“Fuckin’ work.” I scoff. “Where the hell you think I am?”

“You need to get to the slaughterhouse,” is all he says.