Page 24 of Lost Trust

Dad throws an arm around Axle’s shoulders. “I want to hear every damn detail.”

I can’t help smiling.

This is Dad’s favorite part. His sons coming home with rodeo buckles, busted bodies, and stories to tell. He gets to live a little vicariously through us, like every ride is his ride and every win belongs to all of us.

Mom, meanwhile, is still fussing over me. “Tell me the truth. Does it hurt bad?”

“No.” I pause. “A little.”

“I’ll get you something for the pain.”

“Mom.”

She glances at the sling, then back at me. “Fine. But once everyone leaves, we’re putting ice on it.”

She shakes her head, already muttering under her breath as she turns toward the house. “You boys are going to put me in an early grave.”

I nod toward Axle. “Why am I getting all the grief when he’s the one with the busted face?”

Axle immediately points at me. “You’re the one with a scar running down your ugly mug.”

My hand goes instinctively to my forehead.

The scar runs from my hairline, down across my forehead, and through my right eyebrow—a souvenir from a wreck in Prescott last year. It’s old enough now that I barely notice it, even when my fingers find the raised line of it.

Cabe comes up beside me and slings an arm over my shoulders. “You’re still a pretty son of a bitch,” he says. “Even with a scar running down your face.”

I look at him. “You have to say that because you have the same damn face, asshole.”

Cabe grins.

He’s the youngest of us, but people have been confusing us for twins our entire lives. Same dark hair. Same eyes. Same crooked grin. Same damn face.

He squeezes my shoulder. “Whatever. I’m way prettier than you.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Around us, everyone is talking at once. Micah pops open a cooler and tosses beers to Axle and me. Horses shift and snort along the fence, their tack jingling softly in the night. Dad’s recapping Axle’s rides from the weekend, breaking down every one, offering his analysis of what went right, what went wrong, and what Axle could’ve done better.

I lean against the railing, beer in hand, and let the familiar noise wash over me.

The road is thrilling; it gets in your blood.

But nothing beats coming home to this.

Then Charli’s phone chimes.

She pulls it from her back pocket and glances at the screen. “It’s Bryce.”

She accepts the video call. Bryce’s face fills the screen, and he’s already in bed at the hotel, propped against the pillows with the covers pulled up to his waist.

I snort. “Look at that. I reckon old men need their rest.”

Bryce’s eyes narrow. “I’m only thirty. That’s four years older than you, asshole.”

“And you still need your beauty sleep.”

He flips me off. “I’ve got a four a.m. wake-up call. Early flight.”