Page 90 of We Drank the Dawn

There weren’t many times in my life I could remember walking with a pep in my step, but tonight I bounced into the corral to fill water buckets. Everything, and I meant everything, went off without a hitch. True, there wasn’t much I could screw up, just bringing the sheep and all, but it still felt good. I knew Tag would be busy until well past midnight with way more important things, but I shot him a text anyway, telling him everything went perfect.

I told myself to stop checking my phone for his text back, because it would probably be a while, but it didn’t stop me from tapping my phone screen every few minutes. As I gave the sheep their hay and tucked them in for the night, a few contractors stopped me to chit chat about Meadowbrook’s broncs. Tag had made a name for himself on the amateur circuit—everyone respected him.

A couple older gentlemen speculated about when Tag would be pro. It took all the self-control I could muster not to break the news. I figured some of these old timers had been watching Tag’s horses for years. I’d only run rodeos with Tag a few times, so all the faces were brand new to me. If I could go back and do it all different, I would’ve started working for Tag long ago. My years of wandering got me exactly where you’d expect years of wandering to take you—nowhere.

As I got into the truck, my phone finally buzzed.

Tag

My heart plummeted into my stomach. A thumbs up? That’s it? I read back over my text wondering if something I’d said warranted such a basic response.

Me

Everything with the sheep went great. No problems or injuries. The kids had fun. The sheep are in the corrals for the night and Mike wanted me to tell you thanks for filling in last minute. On my way to the campsite now.

I turned the key in the ignition, surprised at the way irritation coursed through my veins. This was my first-ever solo mission, and I got a thumbs up? Taking a tight swallow, I shook my head at myself, knowing my need for Tag’s reassurance was juvenile and probably unhealthy, but I couldn’t hush my desire for it.

Because I’d chased a high my entire adult life, I had very little by way of accomplishment to show for my thirty-one years on earth. In some ways, my months since rehab felt like the first adult days of my life. I had returned to more responsibility, a stable job, health insurance, and I even paid my taxes like a good upstanding citizen now.

But, despite the leaps and bounds I’d made, my chest felt hollow with hunger for a list of things no amount of adulting could help me find. I blinked down at the phone screen then tossed it into the passenger seat, determined to put Tag’s response out of my mind.

Arriving at the campsite, I scanned the area for Peter, only to find him sitting in a folding chair beside our tent with a six pack of Voodoo Ranger growing warm by his feet.

I hissed a cuss word before I exited the truck, quickly noting the empty bottle by his feet. Looked like he was just starting his second, and that knowledge pissed me off. The fact I’d walked away from the bar sober on Saturday night was a miracle. And I wasn't sure I’d get so lucky a second time. Fifteen minutes ago, I would’ve believed myself strong enough to ward off the temptation, but now, not so much.

Setting my jaw, I slammed the truck door and made my way toward him. “Where the hell’d you get those?”

Peter didn’t bother to turn my direction. “Bob. Site fourteen.”

I looked two sites down to see an older gentleman with a massive pot belly. Unable to keep the bite out of my tone, I snapped. “Well, I certainly hope you two got nice and cozy.”

Peter lifted his head, frowning in confusion at my comment.

“Because the moment you get sick, you’ll be sleeping in his tent. I don’t do puke.”

“I’m not going to puke.” When he lifted the beer to his lips, the scent of malt and hops hit me like a dense fog. His throat worked with a long swig of the stuff and my insides turned to mush. Saliva pooled in my cheeks and I hated how badly I wanted it.

“Why are you drinking anyway? I know that isn’t your norm.”

He smiled, but the action was void of happiness. “Because I can’t think of one reason not to.” He palmed the bottle and looked up at me again. And even though he wasn’t looking in my face, the anguish in his eyes wrote an entire story. He was absolutely miserable. “Sarah left, and I’m here, stuck at a rodeo with you. And I had to phone my brother because I can’t set up a tent anymore.” He shrugged and took another swig.

I dropped onto the bench of the picnic table. “Listen, man. I’ve been down this road. Drinking because you’re unhappy will get you addicted really fast.”

“You think I don’t know that? I’m not an idiot.”

“Well, you’re acting like one.”

“I’m not sure why it’s any of your damn business.”

I lifted my ball cap off my head and rubbed the matted roots of my hair. “Just trying to warn you. You’ve got a wife to get back to and you don’t want to take an alcohol problem to Colorado.”

He shook his head, slouching back in the chair. “She doesn’t want me home.”

“Sure she does. I bet she’s missing you right now.”

Peter aggressively rolled his eyes as he corrected me. “Nope. She’s not. She said she was going to pack up my stuff and drop it off at my parents’ house⁠—”

“Oh.”