Page 61 of Drifter’s Heart

My stomach folds over onto itself as Sally gathers the leather reins in her hands, holds on, and manages not to tumble into the dust cloud billowing up behind her.

“Pull up!” I screech as Poisoned Thorn—who the hell named this thing?—loops around one end of the oval-shaped stadium and comes back for the return lap, ending up panting next to us, and collapses into the dust.

Sally stares up at me, the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face, as I catalog her for cuts, bruises, and breaks. My heart slams into my chest at a thousand miles a minute, my blood pressure skyrocketing just like the damn cow/bull thing heaving for breath below me.

“Off!” I flip a finger at her—a good one—and turn to glare at my brother. “No helmet?”

“It’s not supposed to go that fast?” Cord mutters weakly. He’s still laughing, half-tottering to one side as he reaches a hand down to Sally in the pit, who reaches up onto her tiptoes to high-five him. Their fingertips barely brush. Cordell groans, unable to reach back to rub his spine as he straightens. Or tries to straighten, but can’t.

I help lower all near six and a half feet of him into a metal bench seat in the front row set up for tomorrow night’s show, running my fingers along his muscles. “Dammit, I know nothing. West did all this,” I mutter, finding a tight muscle group and working to release it.

Cord draws in a sharp breath. “Okay, stop,” he manages.

I drop my hands. “I’ll call Lanie.” She oversaw most of his treatment after the last round of operations, though West was still there to bolster her when she struggled.

“Don’t you dare,” Cord threatens as he gets his ass sorted. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine,” I sass him right back. “At least let me put some of that Tiger stuff on you that West used to use…” I hunt about in the kit that Cord carries with him at all times and dig it out. “Here.” I press the small jar into his hands and unscrew the lid. The scent of herbs slams me, but I ignore it. I’m not much into holistic medicine, but this stuff works for Cord, so I’m here for it.

“How did you know about this?” Cord stares straight ahead, unflinching.

This is his pain face. I know it well. “There’s a color-coded jar in every bathroom in the homestead. And one in the kitchen. Sally tried to put it on her toast once last year. West just stopped her from eating it.”

“Ugh. That’s not goo⁠—”

“Not safe,” I corrected him. “It’s my fault for not going through the house and checking that everything wasn’t higher up and away from her.”

“And mine.” Cord winces as I rub my fingers in circles over the area I hope is the worst and best for healing. And cross everything so that my ministrations work.

“You were in a brace, recovering. It wasn’t you.”

“It was, Winnie,” he says gently. “I had her for weekends when you were working. I need to be more aware if I’m going to be part of your family in a more active capacity.”

I swallow hard. “I mean, she loves you.”

“Even if you don’t.”

“Can I punch you? Because I wanna.” I shake my head, recapping the jar and sliding about to where he can see me without twisting and damaging what I aim to fix. “Of course I love you. Especially when you’re being a big oaf. Our family is screwed up, Cord. Yes, even after all the interventions and bringing Mom and Dad back.”

Cord links his fingers together. “They only stayed here once.”

I lean gently against his side, trying to ensure I don’t hurt him. “Yeah. They stayed once and then didn’t come back, so it’s probably just us for a bit. But for the next big holiday, let’s fly them up again and try it again. And again, until we wear them down. Or maybe we can do a road trip. What in the hell is the worst that can happen if we leave Coyote to its own devices for a bit? Isn’t Billy as strong as West at looking after the place?”

I hate saying that, hate taking away what West did for him for years. Tears prick my eyes at what feels like the ultimate betrayal.

Cord stares forward to where Billy strides across the arena to talk to West. Dustan stands beside him in a set of aqua-glitter chaps over his jeans. The three of them look perfect together. Someone should draw the scenario out or make a postcard of it. Picture-perfect, only of course it’s anything but.

West folds his arms, listening to whatever Billy says, nodding a few times. One hand rises as he points out wherever he doesn’t like while Billy nods and listens. Dustan toes dust bunnies in the dirt, blowing up a small tornado around them as he’s ignored. If the kid isn’t neurodivergent, assessed unofficially from my time spent with him in the truck on our drive up here, I’ll be shocked. I know it’s a short trip, but he’s energetic, pings with ideas, and flounders without stimulus.

I glance across at my brother. Not unlike someone else I know.

“Billy’s more than capable. Stronger than West in the job, even.” Cord swallows. “But West is doing what he does best. He’s out there, training and motivating.” My brother bites back whatever’s in his head that wants to come out his mouth.

I stare at him in wonder. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.”

He twisted to look at me without wincing. “Do what?”

“Not say something on your mind.”