Page 106 of Lost Trust

I glance down at my plate, considering it.

Marina. At The Soused Cow. Cutting loose and enjoying herself. Sounds like a damn good night.

“All right,” I say. “I’ll ask her.”

Cabe grins. “Good. The more, the merrier.”

My truck rumbles to a stop in front of Marina’s cabin. I park by her steps, and before I turn off the engine, the front door swings open, and Marina steps onto the porch.

Then Ryder comes barreling out around her legs like he was shot out of a cannon. “Royce!”

I grin as I climb out. “Hey, little man.”

Ryder tears across the porch and down the steps, but I’m already heading around to the bed of the truck. I reach over the tailgate and grab the surprise I picked up for him.

The second Ryder sees it, he stops dead, and his eyes go huge. “No way!”

I haul the big, inflatable bull out of the truck. It’s nearly as wide as I am. With a round black rubber body, it has a goofy-looking bull’s head on top, small curved horns, a tan snout, and a cream-colored strap running over its back like a miniature bucking bull.

“It’s a bull!” Ryder shouts.

“I figured you needed something to practice on.”

His mouth drops open when I set the inflatable bull on the porch, and he doesn’t wait for an invitation. He launches himself onto it. The bull immediately rolls sideways beneath him, and Ryder goes flying, landing on his backside with a startled grunt. For half a second, he looks at the thing, offended. Then he starts giggling.

Marina reaches for him. “You okay?”

“I’m okay!” He scrambles back to his feet. “I’m gonna do it again.”

I bite back a laugh. “That’s the spirit.”

He climbs back on, this time gripping the strap with both hands. The bull wobbles beneath him, and he squeals with delight.

“Grab the rope underhanded. And raise your other arm in the air when you’re ready,” I say.

His tongue sticks out in concentration as he does as I said.

“That’s it, little man. Just sit tight. Get your balance.”

I’m still calling instructions from the ground when I hear the screen door creak.

Marina’s mother, Ginger, appears in the doorway, holding a steaming cup of coffee.

Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy twist, and she’s wearing one of those patchwork quilt dresses that drops all the way to her feet. Bell sleeves hang loosely around her arms, and a vintage Western chain belt circles her waist.

She takes one sip of her coffee and looks at the bull. Then at Marina. Then at me.

“Huh.” That’s all she says.

Ryder is still bouncing on the inflatable bull when something else catches my attention.

“Wait.” I turn and head back toward my truck.

Marina watches me curiously. “What are you doing?”

“Forgot something.” I reach into the cab and pull out the hat.

It’s an old straw Stetson River Run, the crown softened from years of wear, the brim broken in in just the right places. It’s seen more miles and rodeos than I can remember. The straw has that faded, lived-in color.