Page 119 of Dirty Cowboy

The vibration of an approaching train trembles through the beams beneath us. I whirl around to see Huntz stalking onto the bridge, his eyes locked on us with a predator’s focus.

Adrenaline spikes through me. “Get ready to drop!”

Misty hesitates, but I don’t give her a choice. I grip the rusted steel and lower myself beneath the bridge, clinging to the cold beams. My arms shake, the cuts on my fingers burning as I struggle to hold on. Below us, the river churns like an endless black void ready to swallow us whole.

The train thunders closer.

It’s gonna hit him. It’s gonna hit him.

But it doesn’t.

Huntz moves, lowering himself to our level, gripping the underside of the bridge like he was born in the shadows.

“I can’t swim,” Misty cries.

“Don’t look down. Just hang on!”

The train barrels over us, its vibrations rattling the beams, the deafening roar drowning out Misty’s sobs. My arms burn, my body screaming for relief, but I hold on.

And then Huntz shifts, his face twisting with rage.

A gun glints in his hand. A shot cracks through the chaos, and fire erupts in my stomach.

The pain is instant, sharp and searing, ripping through me. My fingers falter, my vision tunneling.

No. Not like this.

I remember my brother’s wife, Allie being shot. How she fought through the pain and how she survived.

Maybe I can, too. Maybe?—

But my body betrays me and my grip slips.

“Emma!” Misty’s scream shreds the air.

The world blurs as I plummet, wind rushing past me in a dizzying blend of sound and motion. Cold water slams into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. The river wraps around me, pulling me under. The world above fades, replaced by darkness, silence, nothingness.

And then—nothing at all.

The sky is heavy, thick gray clouds rolling in like the weight pressing against my chest. Wind tugs at my suit jacket, carrying the damp scent of earth and the faintest trace of Suzy’s leather from the spare keys in my pocket. The air hums with an eerie stillness, like the land itself is mourning with us. Grandpa always said the land reflected the hearts of the people who tended it, and today, it grieves with me.

I grip the urn in my hands, my fingers curling tightly around the cold cylinder. His ashes feel too light, too insubstantial—like they can’t possibly hold the weight of the man he was. He was more than this. More than a handful of dust and memories.

We buried everything that meant something to him in the box beneath the willow tree over the hill, where the horses seek shade during the day—photos, his favorite hat, even Suzy’s spare keys.

Now we gather around that same tree—Grandpa’s favorite spot on the ranch, the place he always said felt closest to heaven. The chairs are mismatched, borrowed from the house and the barn, and the scent of wildflowers mixes with fresh-turned soil. The preacher’s voice carries on the wind as he speaks over the urn in my hands.

But Emma isn’t here.

I swallow hard, ignoring the raw ache in my throat. She should be standing beside me, her hand wrapped in mine. Instead, she’s miles away, recovering in New York, surrounded by people who’ll make sure I’ll never see her again.

I know, I deserve it. Fuck. I deserve worse.

Her brothers made it clear. I’m not welcome. I’m not worthy. And maybe, they’re right. I can still hear Julian’s voice, cold and full of fury, telling me I kept her from her dying father, that I used her for my own gain. He’s wrong. They wanted to keep her away from New York; I just needed her help to save the ranch. But I agreed to their deception because it served my needs.

I want to believe that what we had was real. That everything between us was more than a deal made in desperation. But does it even matter now?

The preacher’s voice drifts in and out, his words blending with the low rustle of wind through the trees. I barely hear him. All I can focus on is the hollow pit in my chest, the echo of Grandpa’s laughter in my head, and the way he used to look at me like I was someone he could be proud of.

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