Page 59 of Eight Second Hearts

Beau, though? Beau’s signature smile is on his face, but it feels fake, like it’s there only to keep from showing his anger. I can see that anger in the way he clenches his hands into fists before he tucks them away into the pockets of his coat. He’s dressed more conservatively today rather than the loud style that I know, but his pink heart-shaped sunglasses are still on his head. He never goes anywhere without them.

We stop in front of the door and Tripp takes a deep breath. He looks over at me, his eyes swirling with emotion. Unlike the other two, he doesn’t hide his anger. It’s there in his eyes for all to see. “Steel yourself,” he tells me. “Don’t let anything he says effect you.” He looks back at the door. “He’s looking for a reaction. Don’t give it to him.”

And then he knocks on the door three times, his knuckles hitting the wood. There’s a doorbell button beside the door, but he purposely chooses not to use it, preferring the grating noise of his hand on the door to what is probably charming bells. Nothing happens for a few long seconds, and I think that maybe no one heard it at first. Tripp doesn’t knock again. He just waits.

I start counting. One. . . two. . . three. . . four. At ten, we finally hear someone’s steps approach, and the door unlocks from the inside before it’s opened. I’d expected a man since Tripp had warned me about one. Instead, I’m faced with a woman.

Her hair is blonde and perfectly styled on top of her head and perfectly bleached. Her make up is as perfect as her hair, done just so, and I realize she’s a carbon copy of many of the women I’d encountered on the rodeo circuit, down to the bedazzled dangly earrings and the shade of lipstick. Hell, she even wears a turquoise necklace around her neck.

Her eyes widen when she sees us standing on the porch, fear flickering in her eyes. “Tripp,” she says. “You’re home.”

Tripp levels his gaze on her and I can feel his animosity despite it not being directed at me. “I am.” He gestures to the house. “Aren’t you goin’ to invite us in?”

She hesitates before opening the door wider. “It’s not a good day today?—”

“It rarely is,” Tripp says, cutting her off. “Still need to talk to him.”

Tripp leads the way inside, the three of us following him. The woman, who I assume is Darla, stares at me openly, clearly confused who I am, but I don’t say anything. As far as I’m concerned, in this house, I’m nothing more than an ornament. I’m trying my best to remain invisible here.

“He’s in the living room having breakfast,” Darla murmurs.

Tripp nods and changes direction, leading us into a large room. The walls are all wood paneled and shined within an inch of their life. It’s a very masculine room, the chandelier overhead even made from deer antlers hanging over the couch. The large stone fireplace goes floor to ceiling, a huge taxidermy bull bust mounted there that looks a little worse for wear when you look closer at it. A TV hanging on the wall is playing the morning weather a little too loudly. The weatherman talks about a coming storm and how preparations are underway in the Green River Basin. Beneath the chandelier is a worn leather couch and a matching leather armchair. In the large armchair sits a man with his back turned to us as he leans forward over a table tray and watches the weather. He uses a plastic spork for his eggs, his breakfast on a paper plate, and his drink of choice in a foam cup. I notice because it seems out of place in the ornate and extravagant room. Even the man himself is dressed up like a ranch tycoon, a ten-gallon cowboy hat on the couch beside him while he wears his best cowboy suit.

“Fred,” Darla says, and I frown at her use of his first name and not “Dad.” Tripp seems to notice her intentional decision as well, but doesn’t say anything. “Tripp is home.”

The man turns in his armchair, blue eyes I recognize glancing over at the four of us standing at the end of the couch. I try my best to hide behind Ram, hoping that he doesn’t see me, because there’s one huge difference between Tripp’s eyes and this man’s.

Tripp’s eyes have never looked so cruel.

He harumphs as he looks at Tripp. “Typical,” he says, his lips curling up. “Always returning home without a win under your belt. Didn’t I tell you last time not to come back unless you’re making headlines?”

I frown, confused. Tripp has more titles than most bull riders. Hell, he’d already been inducted into the Rodeo Hall of Fame last year. What the hell does this man mean he doesn’t have any wins?

“Yeah, you told me,” Tripp says. “But I had to come back to handle some business.”

His eyes grow colder. “The legacy of this ranch doesn’t belong in this house. You belong on tour.” His eyes move from Tripp over to Beau and Ram who stand behind him. “And you dare bring that fuckin’ clown and spic in my house? I done told you they ain’t allowed in my house!”

Ram doesn’t tense at the derogatory word, but I do. I can’t help it. The word is spit out with so much venom that it shocks me. Most people I’ve been around keep their racism subtle, something they don’t necessarily announce to the world. But I should have known better just from the style of the house.

Those antebellum pillars scream “a bigot lives here.”

“They’ll be wherever I want them to be,” Tripp replies coldly, harshly. “I own the house now. Not you.” But his dad doesn’t even seem to hear his words, his eyes flicking as I tense and take a step back.

I realize the mistake I make in tensing when those cruel blue eyes focus on me instead, and absolute hatred fills them.

“And now you come bringin’ one of those Nese in here?” He shoves the table tray over. “You’re twenty years old and still a fucking disappointment, Tripp.”

Despite the absolute racist vitriol he spits, I freeze in confusion. Tripp Savage is thirty-two years old. He hasn’t been twenty in a long time. That’s too many years to make a simple mistake. I glance at Tripp where he stands off to the side to find him already looking at me, watching for the pieces to click into place. When they do, my eyes widen.

Oh, god.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Savage,” I say, my hands starting to shake. Normally, I wouldn’t respond to someone like him with any sort of kindness but?—

“Did I ask you to speak, girl?” the old man snarls. “Unless you’re here to wipe my ass or fry up some rice, you have no business in my house.”

Okay. Never mind. No matter what ailments he has, he doesn’t deserve kindness.

I bare my teeth at him in a fake smile. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, too,” I grit out. “Asshole,” I grunt under my breath.

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