Page 25 of Wild Horses

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Again, the bouncing dots taunt me.

Tuesday, please, don’t hate me.

I don’t hate you, War. Just be careful.

I suck in a ragged breath and type words I’ve only said to her a handful of times.

I will. Love you.

I tuck my phone away when she doesn’t reply. No sense in adding to my already strained nerves. This evening has all the makings of a gigantic clusterfuck. I should have told her about this before I left Trail Creek.

When I got into town about an hour ago, I drove to the bar where we agreed to meet. I picked one I knew he’d hate. It reminds me of Stir-ups—a ramshackle building with blue-collar clientele. Several TVs behind the bar play clips from a rodeo. The woman on a horse running at a dead sprint around metal barrels snags my attention.

When the bartender sets a second bourbon in front of me, I incline my head toward the screen. “Hey, is that live?”

“Yeah, it’s night one of the High Plains Stampede.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask for more information, but then a throat clears behind me.

Turning on the barstool, I come face to face with my father for the first time since early December. He’s aged in the time apart. Three months looks like ten years. He has bags under his eyes, and his pristine hair is far more salt than pepper. His suit is wrinkled, and his tie is loose around his neck. But there’s not a part of me that feels sorry for him. Maybe that makes me a bad son, but my loyalty to Tuesday outweighs any regret I have about the state of myrelationshipwith my father.

I catch him studying me in much the same way. I’m sure my appearance is as much of a shock to him. My rumpled, practical clothing, my unkempt hair and beard. The extra pounds I’ve put on.

“Son.”

“Father.”

After that warm greeting, our stare-off continues. Neither of us speaks, waiting for the other to move first. Like predators watching prey.

He breaks first.War, one.“Shall we find somewhere to talk?” He eyes the bar with disdain.

Grunting in reply, I drain my glass and signal the bartender for two more. Once I have the drinks, I lead Warren Phillips to a small booth.

“So, you wanted to meet. Why?” I ask as I shove a bourbon toward him.

“Straight to the point. I can respect that.” He takes a long draw of the cheap alcohol, grimacing as he swallows. “Your tastes have certainly changed; no longer a top-shelf man?”

Without looking away, I say, “A lot of things have changed, and it gets the job done. Now, why did you want to meet?”

My father levels a calculating gaze on me. I can see when he decides not to bullshit me. “Come home. People are talking, and it’s been bad for business. Shareholders are balking that you aren’t there, and many of the clients you brought in don’t want to work with your replacement.”

I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. “No.”

“What do you mean, no? I’ve been more than patient with you. This ridiculous tantrum you’re throwing. Grow up; you’re a thirty-two-year-old man, for god’s sake.”

“I’m thirty-three.” Is it petulant to call him out for getting my goddamn age wrong? “It’s not a tantrum. It’s me doingwhatIwant for the first time. I’m sorry you can’t respect or understand that. But, no, I won’t be coming back.”

“Think of your mother. You ran off without a word. For all we knew, something terrible could have happened to you.”

“Given that I’ve been in contact with HR to take care of my off-boarding and final paycheck, I’m certain you were aware of where I’ve been.”

My father snarls out his answer. “Yes, with Tuesday in that hellhole of a town. How could you turn your back on the company? On our family? You’ve taken everything I’ve provided for you and tossed it in my face. You and your sister.”

I grit my teeth and force my knuckles to release their death grip on my glass. “Don’t talk about Tuesday. You don’t deserve her name on your lips. And the littlehellhole,as you call it, has been a fucking sanctuary compared to what I left behind.” My temper flares, and my voice rises. “I thought I made it clear in December that I was done. And again, now, when I said no. But in case it wasn’t, I’m done with Phillips Construction. Done with you. Done with this pitiful excuse for a family.”

“You think you’re so goddamn smart, don’t you?”

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