Page 26 of Wild Horses

People say Tuesday and I have our father’s eyes, but I don’t see it. Our eyes resemble golden whiskey, a warm brown; his are nothing but hard, frozen amber. Unyielding. Unchanging.

“This was a mistake.” I say it as much for myself as him.

“No, the only mistake was you siding with Tuesday and then running away from the consequences of your actions. As if the two of you matter to one another.” He keeps going, his face twisted in a hateful sneer. “You can make me out to be the bad guy all you want, but you stood by me for years while your sister was pushed aside. Do you think she’ll ever forgive you? Really?”

I sit in stunned silence as he continues his tirade. “Look atyou; you’re a disgrace. A mess. Throwing years of schooling and connections away and for what? You’re no one’s hero.”

He leans back, radiating superiority. Shame roils in my stomach, churning alongside the bourbon. I don’t have a counterpoint because he’s right.

My phone quietly hums in my pocket. Grateful for any excuse to look away from my father’s cold, wolfish face, I pull it out.

Tuesday

Love you too, War. We miss you. Good luck tonight.

Attached is a picture of Tuesday, Bond, and their friends smiling and flashing thumbs-up signs.

Without saying another word, I rise from the booth, take off my watch, and lay it and a couple of twenties on the table.

“Wh-what do you think you’re doing?” My father sputters, red dots coloring his cheeks.

“Whatever I want. Maybe I’ll catch a rodeo.” And with that, I walk out of the bar.

CHAPTER NINE

laramie

Lubbock, Texas

March

The High Plains Stampede isn’t the most glamorous return to the glory of racing. Houston or Ft. Worth would have been much bigger splashes, but Dr. Panter and I agreed early on that March was my best chance of being back in riding form.

Given the way things have gone so far, though, I kind of wish I’d listened to her at my last appointment when she suggested I give it another week or two. Sighing, I rotate my sore shoulder while I pace in front of X’s stall. My practice runs today—and in the weeks leading up to today—have been… well, abysmal might be too kind a word.

This morning’s first run-through started with a bad approach to the first barrel. I was too wide, and we never got our momentum back. The second run was more of the same. It’s been everything from my body position to poor timing with the reins, and it all screams rookie riding in her first show, not a veteran returning from a small break. I’ve mademore mistakes in the past few hours than I have since my debut.

I can’t get my mind right, no matter how many breathing exercises I do or how much I berate myself.

Even Xpresso is frustrated with me. As if sensing my thoughts, she pops her head over the stall door, her pinned-back ears flickering.

Opening the latch, I step into her space. “I know, girl. I’m trying. I swear.” Resting my forehead against the warm curve of her neck, I let her steady breathing ground me. She doesn’t judge me when I wrap an arm around her withers and cling tighter. “I fucked up, X.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I never should have left him.”

It’s not the first time I’ve shared my secrets and shames with her. This one, in particular, has been a constant over the last twelve weeks. From the second I slipped out of that warm bed at The Rusty Spur, leaving War behind, I’ve regretted it.

When I slunk through the front door that morning, I ran to my dad and cried in his arms. Something I hadn’t done in years. He, of course, thought I was injured. How did I explain Iwashurt, but it was all my own doing?

I still can’t explain it to myself. One night with him, and I was crying? My heart was aching? I missed him? It was ridiculous.Sonot me. And yet, there I was, sobbing on my dad’s shoulder, wishing I could go back to the motel and make it right.

The words my father said to me still ring in my ears. “Mimi, if life has taught me anything, it’s that connections come when you least expect them, but if you find one, you don’t let it go. You chase it and hope you can keep it.”

So I did. I put on my big girl pants and cowgirled up. I wiped my tears away and sped back to The Rusty Spur, ready to apologize and explain why I left. Ask him if we could go outagain. Tell him how much I wanted to get to know him, to find out if this spark between us could grow into a fire. But he was gone, the bed cold, and the clothes I’d bought him for our date left behind.

The following week, I asked Dr. Panter about him, my regret growing when she admitted he hadn’t returned to her office. I not-so-delicately tried to get his phone number or address from our shared doctor, but she rightfully declined my request.

Did I maybe go a little to the dark side and stalk his socials, looking for any clues I could find about where he might live? Yes. Am I proud of it? No. But only because it didn’t yield any results. I found out where his condo was, but when the sweet doorman informed meMr. Phillipshad sold his penthouse, I knew it was time to let it go.

I’m not so vain that I think he sold his home because of me—or at least not just because of me. But it makes me wonder how much I didn’t know about him and what else was happening in his life. It also adds to the guilt I carry.

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