But Crank, this fucker, he sent me to the hospital with sixty stitches in my head. I was seven and riding my dad’s champion cutting horse for the first time. There I was, on the horse and riding comfortably when my dad gets off his to open the gate so we could get the horses to the back pens. That’s when Crank decided he didn’t want to go and took off back down our driveway. I don’t know why, but in that moment, I forgot everything I knew about horses and started screaming bloody murder for my dad. “Pull back on the reins!” he kept yelling at me, but I’d lost the reins in my freak out. Crank cut sharp at the corner of the barn, and I went flying into that fresh gravel. Right on my head.
Then, as if I needed more trauma with horses, Morgan and me took a couple out on a trail ride when I was probably, I don’t know, fourteen. He was eighteen. Long story short, we got lost after six hours on the horses and decided to take a break. I thought he was watching the horses, he thought I was, and they decided since they weren’t tied up and hated our guts for a six-hour ride through the desert, they’d take off. And if you ever chase a horse, guess what, they run from you. I was in good shape, as was Morgan, but not enough to catch those horses. I got close enough to pull Dexter’s tail, the one I’d been riding, but that only made him take off even faster.
An hour later, we’d made it into the city limits of Amarillo and had to stop and ask if anyone had seen two horses. We found this older Chinese couple, clearly not from Texas, standing on the sidewalk like they’d seen a ghost. Panting and barely able to catch my breath, I asked, “You seen two horses by chance?”
The man blinked slowly. They didn’t speak English. We eventually found them in the middle at the hardware store, sampling the grass selection in the outdoor garden area.
Oh, and then there was the time one projectile shit on me. I’ll leave those details out because, believe it or not, I have a weak stomach.
Needless to say, I don’t get on them unless I absolutely have to.
Hopping in the side by side, I take it out to the back fields. I pass by the bunk house where the cowboys stay. My dad has about fifteen guys working this ranch, along with my brother and me. We do everything from raising mares and livestock to breeding. It’s been a fully operational ranch for over a hundred years, and when you’re here, it feels like you’re in the middle of nowhere.
It’s because you are. Texas makes everyone feel like that. And the fucking wind doesn’t help.
Rubbing water from my eyes, I nod to Preston, one of the ranch hands. He does the same, thankfully forgetting our interaction the last time I saw him. Tipping his hat, I notice he’s sporting a black eye from our disagreement the other night. I couldn’t tell you what it was about. Probably a poker game.
Believe it or not, I don’t start a lot of fights, despite my reputation for doing so. Finishing them? That’s another story. I was brought up with the understanding that you don’t start fights. But if someone takes a swing at you, fair game.
I do know Preston threw the first punch… after some instigating on my part.
What does all that have to do with anything?
The Grady boys have three traits.
Prideful. Aggressive. Hardworking.
And that explains Morgan Grady. What doesn’t describe him?
A cheater. That’s not him, which makes me question what happened last night, despite me wanting to stay out of his drama.
I find him where Lara Lynn said he’d be. Back field repairing a fence that got knocked over. Like I said, the wind never stops here, and fixing fences happens a lot. If it’s not the wind, it’s a bull, a steer, or anything else that decides it doesn’t want to be contained here.
Like wives. Sometimes I can be a real vindictive shit.
Shutting off the engine to the side by side, I step out. Morgan looks up from underneath his black cowboy hat, a look of disappointment and annoyance plastered to his face. I look up to Morgan. Always have. He’s taught me everything I know about ranching and has my back, even when I’m wrong.
Standing in front of him, I shove my hands in the pockets of my jacket, turning away from the wind. There’s a cow staring at me, more than likely responsible for this part of the fence being down. “Don’t involve me in your drama.”
Morgan stands straighter, tipping his head toward me, and drops the barbwire he has in his hand at his feet. “What are you talking about?”
“You know.” I raise an eyebrow, watching the cow try to eat Morgan’s pant leg. “Your shit with Lil.”
Pushing on the cow’s head, he tries to move it away from him, but it’s been my experience that cows never listen. They do whatever the fuck they want. To prove my point, look at it. It’s licking the side of his face.
Morgan frowns at the cow. “Knock it off.” He blows out a heavy breath, frowning, and wipes his sleeve over his cheek. Shifting his weight, he removes his gloves, shaking his head. “Fuck. I can’t even explain it.”
“Hopefully you have a better answer for your wife.”
He sighs, staring out at the field, dark brown eyes that hold regret scanning the land we’ve called home our entire lives. “I don’t though.”
“Do you not want to be with Carly?”
“It’s not like that. I love Carly, and I didn’t want to hurt her. I just… I can’t resist Lil. I never have been able to. Last night was… I don’t even know. Fucking tequila.”
I laugh. “It’s always made you crazy.”
“You’re telling me.”
His senior year in high school, he got shitfaced on tequila and went streaking on the football field during the homecoming game. Graduation, he drove his truck through the side of our barn, and when he turned twenty-one, finally able to legally drink it, he did and decided riding a bull buck naked would be a good idea. He can’t father children. That’s how that played out.
Moral of this story? Morgan shouldn’t drink tequila.
Straightening his posture, he kicks his boot against the fence post he repaired. “I feel like shit.”
Reaching up, I adjust my beanie cap on my head over my ears. “Are you going to tell her?”
“She’s going to find out.”
“If she hasn’t already.”
He sniffs, rubbing his hand over his running nose and then the side of his face. He chews on his bottom lip and then regards me once more. “She asked me for a divorce the other day.”
“Carly did?”
He nods.
“So that’s why you drank tequila?”
Another nod. “Still… I shouldn’t have with Lillian.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” It makes more sense now though. Morgan loves Carly. “Was Carly serious, or was this a ‘you’re always working and I’m lonely’ plea?”
He considers my question, as if he’s trying to recall the conversation in his head. “No. It’s real. She told me two weeks ago she wanted a divorce. This morning there were divorce papers on the counter for me to sign.”
“Whoa.” My conversation with Tara flashes in my head.
“Sign the papers, Barron. Stop sending them back.”
“Honey, I want you out of my life just as badly at this point, but until you give me what I want, you’re staying married to me.”