Page 83 of Eight Second Hearts

“Yeah, but you’re not supposed to scare her,pendejo,” Ram grunts. “We agreed to ease her into it.”

I chuckle. “Not a single one of you eased me into this,” I chastise. “It’s been full throttle since the beginning.”

Ram’s eyes crinkle. “Well, maybe we’re not so good at being gentle.”

I lean my elbows on the table and smile at them. “I’ll think about it, but,” I say, pointing at them with the spoon, “I’ll stay for now.”

Their answering smiles are what help me realize just how good of a decision I’ve made, and it makes something in my chest unfurl. “So,” I start, changing the subject. “If you weren’t doing what you do now, what career would you chase?”

“I’d probably be a daredevil in a circus somewhere,” Beau admits with a shrug. “I’m always hunting adrenaline. If I didn’t get it from the rodeo, I’d find it somewhere else.”

I glance at Ram. “How about you? What would you do if bronc riding wasn’t your thing?”

He squints his eyes and looks up. “You know, I’ve never really thought about it, because I’ve always just been in the rodeo circuit. But maybe. . . I’d have my own ranch. Raise a couple of horses. Have a couple of goats. Simple life stuff.”

I can see him in that life, but also, it feels not like him at all. Which makes me think that Ramiro Mondragon was alwaysmeant to ride broncs, to force his way into the Rodeo Hall of Fame.

“What about you, Indie?” Beau asks. “What would you do?”

“I’m a writer through and through,” I reply honestly. “If not newspapers, then maybe screenplays. Even something more boring like copywriting would be fine. I just need to put pen to paper.”

“You sure got enough of them,” Tripp says, grinning at me. “I seen how large your collection has gotten. I swear you’ve already stolen every pen in this house.”

I flush. “It’s a problem, I know. I just. . . really like pens.”

“We’ve noticed,” Ram says, laughing. “I think you stole a pen from every single person on the circuit. Evey time I heard someone complaining about missing their pen, I’d laugh and know it was you.”

I shrug. “It’s a habit. What can I say?” Smiling, I tilt my head toward Tripp. “How about you, cowboy? What would you do if you didn’t ride bulls?”

It’s a loaded question, because I’m not sure Tripp has ever considered what life would be like if he didn’t follow the rodeos. He was raised to be where he is, was never given a choice, so I’m not sure if he’s ever thought about it. So it surprises me when he looks out the glass doors and sighs.

“I’d cook,” he murmurs. “All the time.”

I straighten. “Like a chef?”

He nods. “Somethin’ like that. Maybe open my own restaurant in town. That would be real nice, I think.”

My heart melts. Tripp Savage, the chef, so far from the legacy he’d been forced into that it makes me desperate to see him living his real dream. “You should tell your dad that,” I whisper.

He glances at me. “He don’t even know who I am most days, scribbler.”

“Why not tell him on a good day, when he knows you?” I push.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs, looking back down.

I reach over and take his hand. When he glances back up at me, I say, “it does to you.” His eyes grow shiny, but no tears fall. “You’ve given enough of yourself to the legacy, don’t you think?” I ask. “If you wanna open a restaurant, well, I think you’ve fucking earned that, Tripp Savage.”

His breath shutters out. “Maybe,” he whispers. “Maybe you’re right.”

But I can see the unease in his eyes, the trauma, the fear.

“A restaurant would be pretty cool,” Beau says gently. “The best chili in town. People’d come from all over to get a taste.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Ram says, before taking another bite. “Best damn chili in all of Wyoming.”

And their support is what softens Tripp’s shoulders fully. His eyes meet mine and this time, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Maybe you’re right,” he says, a little more sure. “That would be the dream.”

Chapter 47

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