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What on earth is wrong with me? Am I broken?
I keep walking, shifting my eyes to the dirt in front of me.
“Hey, Rosie. Is Dolly with you?” Sterling asks.
I shake my head. “Nope. Couldn’t find her.”
My boots finally reach the porch of the stone house. I steal a glance up at Duke’s downcast face, quickly shifting my eyes over to Sterling.
“I don’t know where she is. I’m getting worried,” I say.
Sterling nods, looking down at his phone. Cash walks out on the porch to join us. Of all the brothers, he’s the patient, calm one.
“I’m calling Holden,” Sterling says.
My throat feels tight, but I cross my arms over my stomach in an attempt to feign indifference at the mention of his name. He’s always the brother they call, the one who fixes things and makes it better, usually through violence. Sterling raises his phone up to his ear, a scowl on his face.
“Whose truck is that?” Duke asks.
I turn to see what he’s referring to, still avoiding eye contact with him. The truck in question is a single-cab red Dodge, and the sight immediately makes my tongue feel dry.
“That’s my uncle Cain’s truck …” My voice trails off.
Duke and Sterling both step off the porch, walking directly toward the vehicle. Cash and I trail behind them. My stomach is in knots.
What is my uncle doing here?
“Holden,” I hear Sterling say into the phone, “Dolly is missing.”
2
HOLDEN
PRESENT DAY
Ireach down to grip the strap wrapped around the bull’s chest, squeezing my legs tightly around its back. My thighs are stronger than ever after the last three and a half years of continuous weight lifting, but that kind of strength is different from this. This is work strength. This muscle is all from memory. It’s from years of growing up on a Texas ranch and jumping on bulls with nothing but a fucked-up idea of fun and a bet to stay on for eight seconds to avoid a shitty consequence.
I guess that’s not any different from what we’re doing here, only I’ll win a lot more if I can stay on this one.
“You ready, Redford?” a cowboy to my left asks me.
I nod, forcing myself to exhale as they open up the chute. The crowd and the bull go wild in unison. It’s been over three years since they’ve seen me in this arena, but I guess a few of them remember.
The Riders is an underground bull riding organization run by old, bored, crippled cowboys with a lot of money and not much else to do. Our family ranch supplies the animals for a hefty fee, but we boys come to ride every so often just for the high.
My grip strength doesn’t fail me as I hold on for dear life, my body repeatedly being thrown into the air like a rag doll as the animal tries to throw me off with every ounce of strength in its two-thousand-pound body.
I wish I felt afraid of it. I wish something in this life scared me, but all I feel is excitement and adrenaline. The idea of death has never caused me any fear.
That’s probably why I killed a man.
Finally, the buzzer sounds in my ears. My raised hand shoots back to join the other one on the leather strap, gripping tightly. A rider comes up beside me to release the flank strap. I grip the back of his saddle, sliding off easily and landing on my feet. Sometimes, that shit works out; other times, it’s a fucking nightmare.
“Good to have you back, Redford,” the man on the horse calls to me.
I wave a hand up at him as I climb over the steel fence.
I glance over my shoulder, watching my back for potential assailants. Getting jumped regularly in prison made me paranoid because it was the only way to survive.
