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"I'm fine."

"You're always fine."

I lower the bottle, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." But his mouth pulls at the corner and he goes back to Captain.

My hand finds my hip, fingers pressing into the bone through my shirt, and I watch the three of them work. They move around each other without speaking, each knowing what the others need before they ask. Tripp hands Clint a brush that wasn't requested. Briggs unties Bruce and starts walking him in a slow circle. Clint checks Captain's hooves, one after another, methodical and unhurried.

I've never seen anything like it. The way they fit together, seamless and unthinking, like they've done it so many times that the movements are carved into their bodies.

"You're staring again," Tripp points out, not looking up from where he's coiling a rope.

"I'm not."

"You are."

I open my mouth to argue, but a voice cuts through from behind me, high-pitched in a way that makes my shoulders pull tight before I even turn.

"Tripp Beasley, you son of a bitch."

I turn. A woman is walking toward us, blonde hair curled and bouncing with each step, wearing boots that have never seen real dirt, and a smile that shows too many teeth. She's got a rodeo queen sash slung over one shoulder and her eyes are locked on Tripp like the rest of us don't exist.

"Crystal," he says, and his voice changes. Not much, just enough that I notice. "Didn't know you were here."

"Didn't know if you were worth coming to see until I saw your name on the board." She stops close to him, her hand finding his arm and squeezing just above the elbow. Her fingers linger there, red nails bright against his sleeve. "That was a hell of a ride, cowboy."

"Thanks."

She laughs and leans in, saying something too low for me to catch. Tripp's head tilts toward her, that same easy grin pulling at his mouth, and my hand tightens around Captain's reins until the leather bites into my palm.

I look away, focusing on the horse's ears, on the way they swivel toward a sound I can't hear. My jaw locks, teeth pressing together hard enough that my temples ache.

I don't care.

I don't know her, don't know their history, don't have any claim to whatever this is. I'm a guest. A temporary inconvenience, shipped here because my brother didn't know what else to do with me.

My chest burns anyway.

"Clint," another voice calls, and I don't have to look to know it's the same song, different verse. "You avoiding me?"

I do look then. This one is a brunette, taller than the blonde, curves poured into jeans that look painted on, and a tank top that shows more than it covers. She's got her hand on Clint's shoulder, her thumb brushing back and forth like she's staking a claim, and he's not pulling away.

"Hey, Marissa," he greets her, not sounding surprised. "Didn't see you."

"Liar." She swats his chest, her palm flattening there for a second too long. "You did well. I watched. You owe me a drink for making me sit through all those other losers."

"I don't owe you anything."

"Sure you do." She leans in, her lips near his ear, and says something that makes him laugh.

My nails dig into my palm. I force my hand open, stretching my fingers wide, and stare at the dirt under Captain's hooves like it contains the secrets of the universe.

Briggs is the only one not surrounded, but I catch a redhead watching him, twirling a piece of hair around her finger, waiting for her opening. He doesn't seem to notice, or pretends not to, his focus on the buckskin's legs as he continues the cooling walk.

"Autumn."

I look up. Tripp's watching me, Crystal still attached to his arm like a barnacle, her smile faltering slightly as she follows his gaze.