Page 54 of We Redeemed the Rain

Tag didn’t respond. Just nodded at Piper and turned back to the fence.

He slung his arms back over the top rung, appearing nonchalant. But he waspissed.It radiated off him in waves. He muttered, “That egotistical mother?—”

He stopped abruptly, glanced at me. We held a beat of eye contact, a storm brewing behind his gray irises.

He looked away. “Sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’ll get a call about that.”

“Think so?”

“Know so.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugged. “They use those spurs to compensate for confidence. Once I take ‘em, their game’s thrown.” He nodded toward the chute. “Watch.”

The chute door clanged open. JoJo went berserk and threw Jones into the dirt at 5.8 seconds. He stormed out of the arena and raised two middle fingers our direction. No reaction whatsoever from Tag.

“Told you.”

“Can you get in trouble for that? Or lose contracts?”

He shrugged. “I’ve had a few contractors say they’d drop me from the stock rosters, but they never do.”

“Why not?”

“They want my horses.”

“So they put up with you to have them.”

He nodded once. “Yep.”

The rest of the evening went by without a hitch. When the last Meadowbrook bronc—a red mare—was loaded into the chute, I asked, “What’s her name?”

He looked away. A touch of red traveled up his neck as he answered, “Uh, it’s”—he pretended to be distracted, gaze darting to the stands—“it’s American Pie.”

The air left my lungs. American Pie? My brain immediately tried to infuse the name with significance, assuming he named his horse after the moment we met. Which was silly. It was probably just his favorite song…even though it was kind of a weird song.

I glanced over at him, but he refused to look at me. His eyes still restlessly roamed over the stands, but the touch of red on his neck gave him away.

Butterflies roared through my belly. I didn’t know how to even process his reaction and what it might mean.

Stifling a smile, I simply said, “I like that name.”

American Pie and her cowboy scored a ninety-two. Highest score of the night. As I cheered and bounced up and down on the fence, my eyes blurred with tears and my throat got tight. He was smiling as he led American Pie back to the corrals.

I was so damn proud of him.

SIXTEEN

Dear Strings,

You’re right. I do ignore your questions about my family.

As much as I love words, here is where they fail me. I’ve written pages and pages into my journal about my family and everything that’s happened in my past. Maybe I just lack the skill to accurately narrate, but when I reread what I’ve written, every line sounds hollow. Like a shell with nothing inside.

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