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Clint laughs, and even Briggs' mouth twitches before he catches himself. It's gone almost immediately, but I saw it.

The truck is packed before lunch, horses are loaded, and the gear’s gathered and in the bed of the truck. I climb into the backseat with a travel pillow and a bag of snacks, only to discover Clint and Tripp apparently have the same idea.

They just get in beside me, and Briggs looks at us in the rearview mirror. While he says nothing, the scowl on his face says plenty.

I ignore it since I'm tired of chasing whatever battle he's having with himself.

The drive passes in a blur of bad music, gas station snacks, and Tripp finding increasingly creative ways to annoy everybody.

The rodeo grounds are already busy when we pull in a few hours later. Trailers line every available space, horses shift inside portable stalls, and competitors move through the crowds carrying saddles and feed buckets. The familiar energy settles over everything almost immediately, that strange mix of excitement and nerves that seems to be at every rodeo.

The moment we park, everybody falls into their usual routine. Horses first, always.

I help unload gear while Clint and Tripp get the horses settled into their temporary stalls. The smell of hay, leather, and horses wraps around me while people drift through the aisles greeting each other, stopping to talk, compare draws, or check in on stock. Somewhere nearby, a horse nickers loudly enough to make a few people laugh. The whole place feels alive.

By the time the horses are fed, watered, and comfortable, everybody's dusty, tired, and more than ready to get checked in to the motel.

Which is exactly when the problem starts. The woman behind the front desk smiles politely as she types something into her computer.

"One room for Beasley."

"Perfect," Tripp says immediately.

"Actually." The word cuts through the lobby.

I don't know why every muscle in my body seems to notice at once, but they do.

The woman looks up, but Briggs doesn't look at me.

"Two rooms."

For a second, nobody says anything. The keyboard clicks softly as she updates the reservation. Briggs signs the paperwork without looking in my direction, and I focus on anything except the knot forming low in my stomach. I refuse to fall apart in the middle of a motel lobby over a room key.

By the time we make it to the stairs, I've managed to get my smile back where it belongs. Tripp bumps my shoulder lightly while Clint's hand settles briefly against the middle of my back, both gestures so casual nobody else would think twice about them. Somehow, that makes them worse and better at the same time.

Whatever Briggs is doing, whatever battle he's still fighting with himself, I can't fix it for him. I've spent weeks trying to understand what's happening in that head of his, and all it's gotten me is a headache.

So when we start up the stairs to the second floor, and Tripp immediately starts complaining about motel pillows while Clint argues that thread count absolutely matters, I let myself laugh anyway.

Because I still have them, and for now, that's enough.

Chapter

Thirty-Six

Briggs

Two rooms.

It’s reasonable, and smart. At least, that's what I told myself standing at the front desk while the woman behind the counter typed away at her computer.

The problem is, I saw Autumn's face. The tiny drop in her smile before she got it back under control. I’m sure she thought we all missed it… I didn’t. Judging by the looks my cousins shot me afterward, they didn’t miss it either.

The walk up here was miserable. Tripp spent the whole time talking about motel pillows, trying to distract Autumn from being uncomfortable. Clint joined in, because that's what Clint does. Meanwhile, I stood there staring at the floor like a jackass, as every excuse I'd been batting around in my head suddenly sounded a lot thinner.

Now, I'm sitting on the edge of a motel bed, wondering why I opened my mouth in the first place. The mattress creaks beneath me when I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees.

Because she's nineteen.