Page 166 of Ride the Sky

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Wyatt’s voice, at my back, has my knees going weak.

“Wy.” I turn to him. Voice shaking, I say, “It was him. The day of the gas leak. The boots.”

Storms swirl in Wyatt’s eyes. Pushing me behind him, he takes a step closer to Cole, growls, “You want to tell me what the fuck you were doin’ in Fallon’s house?”

“Wasn’t in her house.” Weston stares him down. “And if you shut the fuck up and listen to me, I’ll tell you why I’m here.” His dark eyes move to me. “Somewhere we can go?” he grunts. “Talk.”

My gaze moves to The Huckleberry. “Coffee?”

“Something stronger,” Weston says with a bitter chuckle. “You’re gonna need it.”

Whiskey bottle in his hands, Nowhere’s floorboards shaking, Weston stomps his way back to the booth. A mountain of a man, he reminds me of a Belgian Warmblood barreling his way across the range.

He sinks into the booth then pours each of us a shot. Sets the bottle of Weston Whiskey down.

We all shoot back our shots as one.

“Well?” Weston asks, expression smug. He means the whiskey.Hiswhiskey.

I cross my arms. “It’s fine.” Best I ever had, to be truthful, but he’ll live without hearing it.

Unamused, he looks at Wyatt. “You got your hands full.”

Wyatt doesn’t smile. Pissed off and murderous, he’s never looked hotter.

Weston refills our glasses.

In another world, I’d be throwing the drink in his face.

He’s been my nemesis for the last two years. I’ve dreamed of beating him. Wiping that arrogant smirk off his face. I also admire him. He’s the wonder of the bull riding world, only competing in a handful of rodeos and winning them all.

I shoot back my shot, breathe out, lean in. “Okay, asshole. I wish I could say the small talk’s been swell, but get to the point. Why are we here?”

Wyatt glares at Weston. “Tell me why you’re followin’ Fallon.”

“Not following her.” Cole sits back, rubs his jaw, and sizes up Wyatt. To me, he says, “I was in the neighborhood that day.”

Wyatt’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Pretty fucking convenient.”

“It is pretty fucking convenient I happened to be there,” he shoots back. “Saved her ass, and judging by the look on your face, I saved yours as well.”

“You barely saved my ass,” I cut in before Wyatt can say anything. “I was halfway out that window.”

“Listen,” Weston growls, shutting us both up. “I went to your house that day, but I wasn’t in it.” He snorts. “Hell, I was surprised as fuck to find you crawling out of your basement window. When you passed out, I called for an ambulance, disappeared.” He takes his shot. “What I came to tell you then is what I need to tell you now.” He leans in, resting his corded forearms on the sticky table. “It’s about Pappy.”

I stiffen. “What about Pappy?”

Pity creases Weston’s rugged face. “He’s responsible for your accident.” His words are a bullet tearing into me. Blunt. Hard.

I sit there, frozen, feeling Wyatt’s worried gaze on me, when Weston says lowly, “I told you not to ride.”

Understanding dawns. “You’ve been sending me the articles.”

A nod. Another shot of whiskey poured.

All his bluster, his arrogance was to scare me away.

“Goddamn, man,” Wyatt chastises. “Could have been a little lest cryptic with those fuckin’ messages.”

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