Page 4 of Ghosted Cowboy
"Need help with that?"
I glanced toward the porch where Dad sat in the rocker Mom had moved out here after his heart attack. The oxygen tank beside him hissed softly—a sound I still wasn't used to hearing. Grady Hollis had always been the strongest man I knew. Bigger than life, tougher than boot leather, the kind of father who could fix anything and never showed weakness.
Now he looked small in that rocker. Diminished.
"I've got it." I yanked the post free and tossed it aside. "Whole section needs replacing. This fence line hasn't been maintained in at least two years."
"Been doing what I could." Dad's voice carried an edge of defensiveness. "Can't do much from a hospital bed."
I drove the new post harder than I needed to, the impact rattling up my arms. "I know, Dad. I'm not—" I stopped, gentled my tone. "I'm just saying I'm here now. I'll get it done."
Three days since I'd arrived in Midnight Springs. Three days of seeing everything I should've noticed sooner—the peeling paint on the barn, the fence lines held together with baling wire and hope, the stack of medical bills on Mom's desk that made my stomach turn. The ranch that had been in our family for four generations was barely holding on.
And I'd been gone. Chasing eight-second glory on bulls that wanted to kill me, sending money home but never enough, telling myself they were fine.
They weren't fine.
"Your mother's been after me to talk to you about selling." Dad's words came quiet, almost lost in the afternoon sounds—horses nickering in the pasture, the distant thrum of oil derricks, cicadas starting their evening song. "Says we could move into town, get a small place. Use the money to pay off the medical bills."
I hammered the post until it stood straight and solid. "We're not selling."
"Son—"
"We're not." I moved to the next section, measuring the gap. "I've got savings from the circuit. Tournament winnings. It's enough to catch up on what's owed and start making improvements. Horse boarding rates alone could—"
"Ransom." Dad's tone stopped me. Not angry, just tired. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. But you've got your own life. The rodeo circuit. You can't just—"
"I'm staying." The words came out harder than I meant them to. I straightened, met his eyes. "For good this time, Dad."
His shoulders dropped an inch. The lines around his mouth softened. "Your mother will be glad to hear it."
"She already knows." Mom's voice came from behind me. I turned to find her walking across the yard, still in her church clothes—floral dress, sensible shoes, her graying hair pinnedback. Marjorie Hollis had never been one to sit idle, even during the worst of Dad's recovery. "A mother knows these things."
She stopped beside me, laid one hand on my arm. Her touch was gentle, but her eyes were sharp. "You've got that look. The one you get when you've made up your mind about something."
"The staying look or the stubborn look?" I asked.
"Both." She smiled. "And speaking of staying—I volunteered you for something."
I knew that tone. "Mom—"
"The Annual Midnight Haunts Festival theater production. Vivian Crawford—she's the director, goes to our church—was absolutely desperate. They needed someone for the ghost cowboy role." She said it bright and cheerful, like she'd just told me she'd signed me up for a church potluck, not community theater.
I stared at her. "You volunteered me to be in a play?"
"A murder mystery production, actually. Vivian said it's Halloween-themed, so I'm sure it'll be fun." She was enjoying this too much. "She was thrilled when I mentioned you. Said you'd be perfect."
"I've never acted a day in my life."
"Oh, it's not much actual acting. You mostly just stand around looking menacing and dead. She said something about ghost makeup and a lot of lurking." Mom patted my arm. "Besides, it'll be good for you. Help you get back into the swing of things around town."
Get back into the swing of things. That was code for something, but I didn't know what. "When do I need to be there?"
"Tonight. Seven o'clock at the old opera house." She glanced at her watch. "Which means you should probably clean up. You smell like fence posts and horse sweat."
From the porch, Dad chuckled—the first real laugh I'd heard from him since I'd arrived. "She's got you there, son."
I started to argue, but Mom had that look—the one that meant the decision was already made and I'd just have to deal with it.
