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"Ummmm..." Tripp scratches the back of his neck. "Gidge, you are one scary lady. Can we have a moment to discuss this? 'Cause while I don't give a shit about him, I'm unsure about using our horses for something like that."

Gidge blows a raspberry. "Booooo. Okay, talk amongst yourselves, but hurry before I get an even better idea."

The four of us step aside. Gidge stays behind, humming something tuneless, flipping the utility knife end over end. Acid's still got the machete resting easy on his shoulder like it belongs there. Peter's in the chair, slumped so far forward I can't tell if he's breathing anymore.

Tripp speaks first, keeping his voice low. "Look, the idea ain't bad in theory. But my mare, River, she's never hurt anything in her life. She's a rodeo horse. I can't put that on her."

Clint nods, running a hand through his hair. “Same. Captain’s as gentle as a puppy. If I asked him to pull a man apart, he’d be ruined. We show these horses off at events. People know them, know us.”

Briggs crosses his arms. “I love Bruce. He’s not a weapon or a killer. If we do this with them, that’s what they become. I don’t think I want that on my conscience. They didn’t ask for this.”

I can see the genuine discomfort in their faces, not for Peter, but for the animals.

“Then we tell her no,” I say slowly.

“What about the tractor?” Tripp suggests. “The old John Deere in the shed. It’s got the hydraulic winch on the front. They can chain him up to the winch and a tree or something. Same result, no horses involved.”

Briggs’ eyes light up. “That… could work. We’ve used the winch to pull out stumps. It can pull anything if you go slow enough.”

Clint scratches his chin. “Won’t be as dramatic as horses galloping, but it’ll get the job done.”

Tripp shrugs. “I’m in. I’d rather sleep tonight knowing my horse isn’t a murderer.”

I turn back to the group. “We got a plan.”

Gidge is perched on an overturned bucket now, chin in her hand, looking bored. She perks up when I speak.

“Well? Tell me, is it a go, or do I need to start sketching out something with a wood chipper and garden hose?”

“We’re using the tractor,” I say. “It has a winch on the front. Same pull, no risk to us or our horses.”

Gidge’s face falls for half a second, then lights up like a Christmas tree. “Oh, that’s even better. You can go slow, hear every joint let go. I like it.”

She hops off the bucket and claps her hands together. “Alright, Peter! Change of plans. You’re gonna meet a John Deere instead of a Quarter Horse. How’s that for an upgrade?”

Peter looks up at her, eyes glassy, mouth hanging open. A string of drool runs down his chin, but he doesn’t say anything.

Gidge wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, we broke him already. Alright, let’s get this show on the road. I call dibs on driving.”

Chapter

Fifty-Six

Clint

I'm walking with Briggs toward the barn, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the yard. Behind us, I can hear Gidge's boots crunching on gravel as she jogs to catch up.

"Wait up," she calls out. "I'm coming with. I wanna learn how to drive this thing."

Briggs looks at me, and raises an eyebrow. I shrug.

"Fine by me," I say.

The John Deere sits in the corner, covered in dust, tires half-flat from sitting idle so long. Briggs grabs a can of starter fluid from the shelf and gives the tractor a once-over.

"It's been a minute since I fired her up," he mutters. "But she's reliable."

He walks Gidge through the basics: clutch, brake, throttle, how to work the winch lever. She's nodding along, eyes bright, asking questions. Briggs answers her patiently, showing her how to release the tension on the cable, how to reel it in slow.