“Hey, Taryn,” my father called from the door to the house, waving me toward him. April and Kenny had rented out the exquisite Casa Blanca for the reception, though most everything was set up in the gardens. “He’s almost up.”
A sick feeling rolled through my stomach; I hated watching Mason ride bulls. He was good at it, really good, but it was still so scary when it could all go so wrong, so fast. And under the draped lanterns casting a soft glow over the procession waiting to congratulate the bride and groom, it was too easy to imagine the wedding Bonnie Landry never had: reading a eulogy over Beau Blackwell’s coffin instead, his body in the tux he was supposed to marry her in that very same day.
Shuddering off the memory of how her voice shook as she read the vows she’d never hear him say back to her, I hurried over to my father as best I could in my high heels, letting him lead me inside and past the other guests. Tables were overflowing with lilies and orchids and a million gifts, and the four-tiered wedding cake was being rolled out, which meant I was going to miss seeing April and Kenny get to cut it.
Thanks a lot, Mason.
“This way, sugar.” He pushed open a door to a study rich with leather furniture, endless volumes of books on the walls, antique tables with ornate lamps, and a crowd of men in sport coats and cowboy hats gathered around a flat-screen. Where the 30th Annual Cornucopia Exhibition was playing. “Hey, he go yet?”
“Nah, not yet.” My uncle Roy looked over his shoulder, lifting his beer bottle my way. “Hey, Turnip Pants.”
“Rascal.” I went to stand off to the side as he laughed, my father retaking his seat next to his brother and slapping his hands on the leather armrests like he was exhausted.
My uncle winked at me. “When are we gonna be having your wedding?”
I coughed out a scoff, though my heart was fluttering away. Mostly at the prospect that very soon, Billy and I would come home to the same place, no matter where we were coming from. “Don’t even start with me. Aren’t you on number four? I’ll be sure to keep praying for you, by the way.”
He harrumphed and waved off the king of Southern insults, and I turned to the screen, trying to listen over the cowboy chatter in the room to the things the announcers were saying about the bull being loaded into the chute. And looking super freaking pissed off about it, too. The silver-speckled animal rammed the gate with its shoulder again, kicking at the wall behind it.
“Whoa!” the announcer yelled. “Smashbox has gotta know what’s going on, the way he’s spoiling for a fight.”
“Oh, no doubt about it, Jake,” the second announcer said. “He could probably smell Mason King the second they unloaded him off the trailer. These two have a long history of swapping ends, and Smashbox just loves to let Mason think he’s got ’em before he takes him down at the whistle and just wrecks him. I tell you what, this is gonna be one of the biggest rides of the night.”
Goose bumps struck out across my skin as the bull kept kicking and trying to buck in the chute, and I didn’t know how the guys did this, brave as they were.
The cameras split so one stayed on Smashbox, the other panning to the wall where Mason was ready to go: bright blue shirt, black safety vest, full-face helmet, glove taped to his arm, and a rope in his hand. But my brow furrowed when Billy stepped in front of him, knocking his brother up the side of his helmet. The hell was that?
“What’s taking your guy so long to get going?” my uncle quipped.
“It’s his little brother,” my father corrected. “Billy doesn’t ride no more.”
Damn right he didn’t. Thank God. I’d like to actually enjoy my wedding night and have a marriage after. Complete with all the frustrating, hair-pulling, wonderful eternally-ever-after crap that comes with it.
“Not sure what the holdup is,” the announcer said, the camera still on Billy leaning over Mason and pointing in his face like he was ripping his younger brother a new one. “Smashbox is going crazy in his chute the longer—hey, looks like we got something happening here…”
Billy waved toward some guy, jogging over to meet him. After a quick word and a clap to his shoulder, he jogged back to Mason. Then they ran off together down a hallway out of the arena, my uncle and father both looking at me. “What the hell’s going on?”
I sputtered their way, as confused as they were. “How am I supposed to know?”
“Okay, folks, we just got the word, and it sounds like Mason’s rope is fraying, so they gotta go grab another for him. They’re gonna go ahead and pull Smashbox and let our next—whoa, you see that!”
“That bull is not happy about being delayed, either.” The second announcer chuckled. “You know, I think Mason King may be in a lot bigger trouble than just a fraying rope!”
Everyone in the room laughed, but…I knew Mason. I’d gone with the guys to rodeos. And not only would Mason never walk into an arena with a fraying rope, but Billy wouldn’t have let it make it out of the bag.
What the hell was going on?
The announcers turned their attention to the new bull and the new rider, and so did the rest of the men in the room. They cheered and winced and debated the guy’s technique and the meanness of the bull. I checked around to see how long the guys had been gone, finding a large grandfather clock behind me.
It reminded me so much of the one in Billy’s living room. He’d spent all afternoon with his hands in the guts of it once, using funny little tools he asked for by name like I was supposed to know which one was what. But I figured it out eventually, and he got it to keep time again.
I liked helping him work on stuff like that around the house. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix, seemed like, and it was just another reason in the long list of whys: why I’d felt safe in his capable hands since before our first slow dance and long before I knew just how clever his fingers truly were. The chance to build a home, a forever with him that was uniquely, messily, privately ours… I couldn’t wait.
“Hey, here we go,” the announcer said.
I turned to the TV, Mason jogging out of the tunnel: blue shirt, black safety vest, rope in his gloved hand, and the full-face helmet the rules now insisted on. But something wasn’t right; Billy wasn’t with him. “Looks like Mason’s on his way out and—oh, man, Smashbox is not happy to see him at all, is he?”
“No, he is not.”
The bull kept ramming and kicking at the gate, the fans roaring their excitement as the announcers recounted all Mason’s biggest bull rides. Mason waved at the crowd as he approached the chute, and my eye twitched. Not a wave at the wrist. A blink of his hand. Like he was Lane Frost reincarnate.
My father looked over at me, smiled and winked, then turned to the screen like the world was still spinning. But it had stopped.
The bull rider climbed the gate and swung a leg over, waiting for a safe moment to mount the bull, and the camera was looking right down on his shoulders. Stretching the seams of the shirt, because it was too small for him. Not by a lot but a little.
“Daddy, I need your phone,” I rushed out, my pulse through the roof and my hand shaking as I waited for the plastic to hit my palm.
“Huh? Taryn, Mason’s about to—”
“Give me your phone!” My eyes darted to the TV as time ticked steadily away. When I looked back, my father flared his eyes like I was off my rocker. But he dug his phone out of his pocket, handing it to me.
“All right, he’s mounting up,” the announcer said. “Man, it’s taking all of that gate crew to keep Mason steady so he can get that flank strap—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the second announcer hollered. “He may not even make it out of the chute, the way Smash is tossing him in there. They need to get him loose!”
I dialed Mason’s phone number from heart, my eyes glued to the TV and praying any second I’d hear the Star Trek theme song trickle through the speakers. The cowboy on the bull tugged and l
aid the flank strap over his palm as it rang on my end, other men’s hands pressing on his shoulders and his chest, trying to keep him steady as Smashbox kept ramming.
“Hello?” Mason slurred.
The cowboy on the TV tugged harder on the flank strap.
The phone slipped from my stony hand, landing with a sharp crack on the wood floor and the screen shattering into a mountain of tiny pieces. Right along with my whole world, our future, our dreams…everything.
“Looks like he’s ready,” the announcer said. “Smashbox is ready to blow!”
The camera cut close to the chute. Time slowed as it focused on every heavy breath he was taking, pulling them in faster and faster. Head down, right hand on the gate and his left squeezing the flank strap for dear life.
Then Billy’s voice boomed through the TV: “All right, boys! Let’s do this!”
The gate swung open, and I spun around, my whole world in my heart and my heart on a bull. My eyes locked on the clock, the swinging pendulum counting the seconds I knew he was alive and still coming home to me.
Eight. I only had to make it to eight.
One.
“Damn, look at him spurring him!” my uncle yelled behind me.
Two.
“Elbow down, elbow down!” my father cheered.
Three.
“Hang on, hang on, he’s got it! Don’t let go!”
Four.
“Look at that bull bucking him! That boy is fearless!”
Five.
“Don’t have an act or a goal.”
Six.
“I was just wondering if you’d let me hang around you a bit…”
Seven.
“…see if I can get you to like me some.”
Eight.
“Good thing I’m not a bull rider no more…”
An air horn blared, the longest breath I’d held in my life ready to barrel its way out of my chest. But it didn’t get there.
“Hot damn!” the men in the room shouted. “He—oh!”
The room behind me gasped like they’d all taken a boot to the gut, and it shot a fire-hot rod straight through my spine, the ground disintegrating beneath my feet. Visions of a farmhouse in the middle of a clearing melted and washed away, blurring into flashes of the future being steadily erased, one after the other.
The clock kept ticking.
“Hell!” they swelled again. “Someone get him out of there!”
A sob ripped from my heart and crashed from my lips, all the best parts of me tearing jaggedly in two. I spun toward the screen but I couldn’t see, too many tears in my eyes and too many men before me, tall and broad and wincing and yelling as they crowded closer to the screen. Why wasn’t I up there with them? In front, where I should have been?
My father looked back at me, his face falling as he rushed to my side. “Sugar, hey, the bullfighters know what they’re doing. Mason’s gonna be all right.”
I couldn’t do more than shake my head, tears streaming down my cheeks and my voice lost to my broken heart. Too far away to save him and too goddamn late. “Daddy…”
“Go-go-go-go-go!” my uncle yelled. Then he laughed with relief along with the rest of the men, breaking their huddle around the television set. “Jesus Christ, that was close.”
I nearly crumpled to the floor, my father tightening his grip on me to keep me upright.
He was alive.
My uncle looked over, then winked like that made all this better. “He’s okay, Turnip Pants. The pickup riders got him out. Boyfriend’s brother is gonna be A-OK.”
“Damn bull tried to take a taste of him first though, didn’t he?” someone else said.
They all snickered.
My father kept staring at me, his hands secure on my shoulders and not even noticing his phone, broken on the floor. I was too broken in front of him. “What, sugar? What is it?”
There was no way to lie, no way to hide from the truth. Even with as horrible as it was and all that it would mean. But there was no way to go back to before.
I couldn’t go back. “Daddy, that wasn’t Mason.”
* * *
My mama hadn’t stopped petting my hair as I sat at our kitchen table, my face in my hands, horribly hungover, and everything good in me destroyed.
“You can do this, baby. Be strong,” she said. “Don’t forget what you deserve. And it isn’t a man who risks your whole future to serve his ego.”
I looked up at her, my heart already gathering the words I’d need to defend him. Which wasn’t fair when I was so wrecked by what he’d done. I was still trying to figure out whether I might actually hate him. But it didn’t feel like I hated him; it felt like I still loved him. But he’d also scared me to death, and I was furious about that, too.
My father squirmed from where he was leaning against the counter. “Now, come on, Valerie. Don’t talk about the boy like that.”
“He is not a boy,” she snapped. “He is a grown man, and he lied to your daughter. For once and for all, whose side are you on?”
My father huffed but didn’t say anything else. It was only another few minutes until Billy’s diesel growled up my driveway, slowing and sputtering the way of the grand old oak tree and then cutting off.
My mama pressed another kiss to my head, and I swiped frantically at my eyes, looking up at her and wishing she could do this for me or tell me I didn’t have to or anything that would make this better. She shook her head, cupping my cheeks. “There’s nothing you can do about it now, baby. We won’t be far.” She pulled back and straightened, glaring at my father, who looked as heartbroken as I was. “Rob.”
The porch steps creaked under Billy’s weight, the quick one-two-one-two of his boots hitting the old wooden planks, but the twos didn’t sound right. Like he’d barely landed.
“I like Billy, okay?” My father pushed off the counter, striding toward me and glancing at my mama on his way past. “Not that you ever gave him a fair chance.” He leaned down and hugged me, the thud of Billy’s steps crossing up to the door sending my pulse racing faster with every beat. “I love you, sugar. You do what’s in your heart, and you’ll make the right choice. You always have.”
Fresh tears rushed into my eyes as he pressed a kiss to my temple, then let me go so he could get the door. My mama followed after him, looking back at me with a stern conviction I wished I had. But it all felt so wrong.
Billy had done some bad things, but he’d done so many good things, too. He loved me for who I was, in spite of my flaws, and he saw me. Really saw me. No one had ever made me laugh as much as he did. Had forgiven me for losing my temper and saying things I regretted. But for better or worse, I’d also drawn a line in the sand when we first met, and he’d absolutely crossed it.
My mama was right: if I didn’t stand up for myself, my beliefs, and react firmly to him testing my boundaries, he’d never stop. He’d keep pushing past them until they were nothing but words I’d once said and he’d clearly forgotten.
I wouldn’t risk forgetting how dangerous it was for him to ride those bulls, even if just for eight seconds. Beau Blackwell had only ridden for four when he’d snapped his neck. Those four seconds undid the rest of Bonnie’s life, and I couldn’t handle Billy risking my future that way. I wouldn’t do it to him. And I deserved better.
“Hey, Billy,” my father said, opening the door.
My mother’s voice cut across the squeak in the hinges. “Rob.”
“Sir.” Billy tipped up his hat, nodding toward my mama. “Ma’am.”
Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she huffed at him so hard, he actually leaned back a little. Billy looked again to my father, the color fading from his face.
“We, um, we’re just heading out. Taryn’s inside. Waiting.” He grabbed his hat from the hook by the door, glancing at me as he put it
on.
I wiped at my face again, folding my hands on the table and sitting up straight.
I could do this.
It was the right thing, the only thing, to do.
My father put his arm around my mama, Billy stepping aside and holding open the door as they went out first. He looked at me, and I looked down, my eyes closing and unable to endure seeing him before me when I was trying to face the fact that he’d never be in my house again. Never climb through my window or smile the whole way though breakfast with his hand on my knee under the table, despite my mama scowling at him more with every bite.
I’d never cook for him again. We’d never sit at the table in the house we weren’t gonna buy now. The one he didn’t know about.
The hole that he had left gaping and raw in my future… I couldn’t bear to look at him. But I still heard his steps cross inside and the door close gently behind him. I heard every small first step when he was probably surveying how bad the situation really was. I knew when he figured it out, because it wasn’t long before his voice was beside me.
“Hi, honey.” He brushed a soft kiss to my temple, his cologne flooding my senses. The chair across from me nudged, and I opened my eyes to find his hat hooked on it, Billy wiping a hand over his hair as he stared at the table. “Taryn,” he said quietly, “honey, you gotta understand—”
“No, I don’t.”
Billy met my gaze, and I held it as I stood up. I gathered the long, layered cardigan I had over my tank top and leggings, wrapping it more snugly around me. I was freezing, whether from being hungover from trying to drink away my broken heart the night before or maybe because half of me had been lost somewhere in North Carolina, and I wasn’t getting it back. Ever.
I kept my voice steady, my eyes dry. “It’s done. You need to leave.”
“Taryn.” His voice was low, controlled. I didn’t let the tremor of fear in it affect me. He did this, not me. “I messed up, I know I did, but—”
“You crossed the line, Billy.”
His eyes dropped to the floor, his breath coming hard and his neck getting red. “No. It isn’t that simple.”
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