Page 13 of Wild & Worthy

He nods slowly. He doesn't know how it is. He thinks he does—he thinks it's the version I've given him, the soft version, the one where it's manageable and I've got it handled. He doesn't know about the bill that comes due at the end of summer for another year of care. He also somehow hasn’t found out I sold her house, and I plan on keeping it that way.

He doesn't know my doctor cleared me to ride six weeks ago, and the circuit's insurance underwriters still won't touch me, which means the one plan I had for covering the next year of her care is going nowhere.

He doesn't know any of it.

And I'm not telling him.

Eli's got enough on his plate already. He's got a ranch he's rebuilding from the ground up and a woman he loves to think about. He doesn't need my problems on top of it.

"Tell her I said hi." Eli puts a hand on my shoulder. "Drive safe, bud," he says, and heads back toward the bar.

I watch him go. Then I walk to my truck, unlock it, and climb in.

The payout from hauling the colt will cover gas to Billings, and a few weeks on the road. Eli is giving me the same salary I was getting at the ranch for accompanying Addie on this trip, so that’s a small win. After that, I've got what's in my wallet, what I can make helping work the circuit venues between Addie's events, and eight weeks to figure out the rest.

I put the truck in reverse, double-checking Eli is gone. But I don’t go far. Just around the side of the building, past the dumpsters, where the lot dead-ends against a chain-link fence. The lights from the road don't reach out here, which is perfect. I back in and kill the engine.

The Rusty Spur's back lot isn't glamorous. It smells like old grease and whatever Randy's been throwing out this week. But it's secluded, it's quiet, and nobody drives back here.

I recline the seat and reach behind me to pull out my blanket and pillow from where I've hidden them under the back bench seat. It only takes me about thirty seconds to get situated. I've dialed the system down by now. After months of sleeping in your truck, it starts to feel a bit less awkward. Maybe I should have gone home with Tracy tonight; at least then I’d have woken up in a bed.

As the truck engine cools, I sit back and look out the windshield towards the night sky.

Nana’s long-term care bill is due in September. There is no more house. And the plan I'd been running on — get cleared, get back on the circuit, make the kind of money that actually moves the needle — has a problem now. I'm cleared. My shoulder is fine, my head is fine, my doctor signed every piece of paper they put in front of him. But the circuit's insurance underwriters don't care what my doctor says. So I'm here hauling colts, working ranch jobs, and back to square one to figure out a plan.

I pull the blanket up and close my eyes. I don’t have to figure it all out tonight. Once I’m on the road with the circuit, I’ll connect with some of the rodeo guys and maybe get some work. Tonight, I am exhausted and want nothing more than a good night's sleep.

The rest of it can wait until morning.

Chapter five

Addie

Dusty comes off the trailer like he’s been personally wronged by the entire state of Montana.

He backs down the ramp one slow, dramatic hoof at a time, head cranked high, nostrils working overtime like he’s sniffing for a trap. He hits the bottom and just—stops. He plants his feet and stares at the Billings fairgrounds like he’s a food critic deciding if they meet his Michelin-star standards.

"Move," I tell him.

He doesn't budge. I give the lead rope a sharp tug. He takes one step, then locks his gaze onto a trash can twenty feet away as if it’s a direct threat to his safety.

"It’s a trash can, Dusty. Be a normal horse for once."

His ears pin forward. He’s very concerned about the trash can.

"You have seen a thousand trash cans. You live near trash cans. They aren’t going to eat you. Let’s go."

A kid on a bicycle cuts across the lot, and Dusty throws his head up and does a full sideways scramble that nearly yanks the rope out of my hand.

"Oh, my God." I dig my heels in and haul him back, my boots sliding in the dirt. "You’re supposed to be a professional. Act like it."

He sneezes directly into my hair. Great.

I get him tied to the trailer and go back to wrestle the truck into place, which is when I discover that the guy in the spot ahead of me has parked his massive living-quarter trailer at a forty-five-degree angle—like he built this fairground himself and the rest of us are just lucky to be breathing his air.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I say out loud to no one.

I climb into the truck, pop it into gear, and ease it back. I watch the mirror instead of the window because the camper on the truck bed eats the whole rear view. Of course, I misjudge the angle and end up with my rear end angled the wrong way.