Page 33 of Ride or Die

“I like to take my time,” I shoot back, squinting through the unrelenting glare of the sun as I thread barbed wire through the staple. “Build anticipation.” I flash my trademark smirk. “Edge her a little.”

Wyatt barks out a laugh, swinging his hammer in an easy rhythm. “Fence ain’t the only thing he’s slow with,” he jibes. “Heard you fumbled Cassidy Baker. Twice, now.”

“Keep yappin’,” I mutter, not wanting to get into that, that’s for damn sure. “See if I don’t leave your section of fence lookin’ like it was put up by a drunk armadillo.”

One of the drifters—Levi, I think—lets out a low whistle. “Damn, y’all always like this? Bickering like a bunch of old bingo ladies?”

“Worse,” Brady says quickly. “You caught us on a good day.”

We’re spread out along a busted stretch of fence in the east pasture—storm rolled in yesterday and hit hard, causing three posts to snap, wire sagging low enough that a couple of coyotes got through and snatched up a calf last night.

I set my boot against the base of the new post and grab the dig bar, driving it down into the hard-packed earth to widen the hole. The metal rings, dull and heavy with each hit, and red dust clouds up, sticking to the sweat on my skin.

“Deeper,” Wyatt calls without looking up. “You don’t set it right, it’ll be leanin’ again by next week.”

“I know how to set a damn fence post,” I bite back, driving the bar down another few inches.

“Just checkin’,” he says. “You seem… distracted.”

There it is.

I pause just long enough to shove the bar in and twist it, loosening the dirt. “Ain’t distracted just… hot as fuck.” Half a lie.

“We’re all hot. It’s a hundred-and-three goddamn degrees out here.” Brady snorts. “Ain’t all tryin’ to wrestle the same damn hole for the last ten minutes, though.”

Levi chuckles under his breath which only pisses me off. Traveling fucking cowboy ain’t got no right to be laughing, he don’t know me.

Tamping down my anger as best as I can, I ignore them, crouching to scoop out the loose dirt with my gloved hands. It’s dry near the top, but a little cooler underneath. Still not enough. I lift the post, settle it into place, then step back to eyeball it.

Crooked.

“Damn it.”

I yank it back out, knock some dirt loose, and set it again.

Still crooked.

“Need a hand?” Levi offers.

“I got it,” I say, sharper than I mean to.

He lifts his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright.”

I exhale slow and steady through my nose, forcing my grip to loosen on the wood. Adjusting it a touch, I set it and step back again. Not perfect but it’ll do.

I grab the tamping bar and start driving dirt back in around the base, each hit solid and controlled. This is the kind of work that usually keeps my mind off shit I shouldn’t be thinking about. Simple. Physical. No room for anything else. Except today it ain’t working because my damn head’s somewhere else entirely.

It’s Thursday. I ain’t heard from Clara since our exchange on the porch on Saturday night. Five days. Five days of looking at my phone like I might see something that ain’t there if I stare at it long enough.

Five days and nothing. Hell, as far I know she and the kids could be long gone by now.

I told her too much. That’s the problem. Told her about my mama… my old man. How I know—firsthand—what she’s going through. Maybe I scared her off. Maybe?—

“Easy, brother,” Brady says with a laugh.

I drive the bar harder.

“You’re packin’ dirt, not killin’ nobody.”