Page 8 of Ride or Die

With another tip of his hat, his gaze does one final assessment of me, raking over me slowly from my head to mytoes before meeting my eyes, and with a curt smile, he turns and walks away.

I watch as he swaggers a little arrogantly through the parking lot to a big black shiny truck with what looks like the image of a snake emblazoned across the side of it. And it isn’t until I know he’s gone, the loud rumbling of the engine fading off down the street, that I turn to the plastic bag and open it, pulling out the receipt and reading the messy scrawl written on the back:

Cole 806 555-5643

CHAPTER 3

COLE

The gateway sign greets me as I turn off Country Road:Rattlesnake Ranch. The truck jostles over the cattle guard and I continue down the winding, dirt drive, past endless fields that stretch as far as the eye can see, to the specs of jagged mountains that dot the horizon, blurred by the dusty haze of the hot, dry afternoon.

I’ve been working here at the ranch since I was sixteen years old, when Mama Joy and Phil took me in. I grew up with their son Dallas, my oldest and thereforebestfriend. And when Dallas let slip (accidentally on purpose because that’s just the kind of loudmouth he is) that I was living alone a few months after the death of my mama, eating nothing but whatever scraps I could get my hands on, Mama Joy showed up at my trailer door one night. She made me pack my bags and she brought me straight here, which is where I’ve been ever since.

At first, I was staying in the main house with the Shaws, going to school, working my keep on the ranch. Then, after high school, Dallas went off to college to play hockey—he’s now the star goalie for the New York Thunder, about as far away from the panhandle as a person can get. I stayed here, eventually moving into the bunkhouse with the rest of the cowboys. I’ve spentnearly every day of my life for the past ten years busting my ass on the ranch, and my weekends riding the meanest fuckin’ beasts they can force into a chute, in the hope that one day I might finally make it onto the team, the pro tour. Fort Worth. That’s the dream, at least. Ride or die. Fuck it. Ain’t got nothin’ else to live for.

Equal distance from Amarillo and Lubbock, Summer is a small dot in the vast nothingness of the Texas panhandle, surrounded by canyons and plainlands, and the darkest of nights. People have a tendency to go missing around here, and while some deserve it—their bodies never found, never missed—there’re others who don’t; innocent victims. As I look out over the unforgiving vista, my mind flashes back to those blue eyes that peered up at me back at the Stop and Shop, so full of fear and a contradicting fierceness I ain’t ever seen before.

Fuck, I hope she calls me. Maybe I should’ve done more, been more persistent. But I could see how frightened she was. Hiding behind a façade of bravado that didn’t fool me one bit.

When I found her in the parking lot, stuffing her things into the back of that beat-up maroon SUV with West Virginia license plates, my stomach twisted because I knew something was wrong. The moment I looked into that little boy’s eyes, the little boy doing all he could to try and protect his mama, I knew I needed to help. I didn’t know how, or even why—it’s not my fight—I just knew. Because I’ve been that little boy before, only I never had anyone step in to help. Not until it was too damn late, at least.

“Where you been, brother?”

I pause once I hop out of my truck, looking up to find Wyatt, one of the other ranch hands, leaning back against the side of the bunk house, smoking a cigarette in the shade.

“Lubbock,” I tell him, because that’s all anyone needs to know right now.

Despite being one of my closest friends, I’m not ready to tell Wyatt, or anyone else, about the appointment at the hospital. I made a promise and I kept it. But I sure as shit ain’t ready for anyone to know exactly what the outcome of that appointment was. CTE. Well, not right now, but inevitable if I keep riding. The weight of that realization sits like lead in my chest.

Removing my hat, I run my fingers through my hair, looking around. “Where is everyone?”

“Brady’s driving back from Amarillo,” Wyatt says with a sniff. “Webber’s down at the pens with Boss and Doc. Drifters are out in the west pasture, diggin’ the ditch. I’m here. You’re here.” He waves his smoking cigarette in my direction.

We’ll start working the calves soon; vaxxing, branding, castrating, getting them ready for turnout. It’s one of the busiest times of the year on a cattle ranch. I hate missing out on it, but it’s considered to be too dangerous for me. It’s almost laughable. Too dangerous? I jump on the back of a pissed off full-grown bull a couple times a week, yet a hundred-pound calf that can barely walk is too dangerous? Rattlesnake Ranch is one of my major sponsors and they, nor my agent, want me doing something dumb like breaking an arm roping a calf when I need to be on the back of a bull on a Friday night. It sucks, but at least I get to watch the rest of the guys make fools of themselves chasing a calf around the pen when it gets out of its rope.

“They need help down the pens?”

“Nah. Just about done.” Wyatt butts his smoke out on the sole of his scuffed boot, and I walk into the bunkhouse with him trailing behind me.

“You comin’ to The Saddlery tonight?” he asks.

“Nope.” I shake my head, removing my hat and my T-shirt. “Dinner.”

Wyatt lets out a low wolf whistle and I roll my eyes, spearing him with a droll look. “With Bailey.”

He has the decency to look contrite, nodding once. “How’s she doin’?”

I shrug a shoulder and grab my towel. “I think she’s doin’ okay.”

“You tell her I said hey.”

With a nod, I slap Wyatt on his back and continue through to the bathroom, desperate for a shower to wash away the day, and the lingering dread that my professional bull riding career might be over before it’s even truly begun.

The sun’s starting to sink toward the horizon, the heat of the day dimming as the light fades. I pull up outside Bailey’s salon, Blondie’s—an ironic business name for someone who is very much not a blonde. Flipping my ball cap backwards I hop out of my truck, and as if she’s been waiting for me, I see the sign on the door flip from open to closed. Seconds later, the door swings open and a vision in a pink T-shirt displaying Dolly Parton’s face, Daisy Dukes, and cowboy boots steps out, her beaming smile hitting me deep in my chest.

“About damn time,” she exclaims, her smile turning wry. “I was moments away from raidin’ the goddamn Skittles jar.”

I sniff a laugh, pulling her in for a one-armed hug. “Sorry, Bailey Bay. One of the calves got loose so it was like an episode ofThe Benny Hill Showback at the ranch while four grown-ass men tried to catch the damn thing.”