Page 2 of Ride the Sky

My heart’s racing as I take a seat behind the wheel. I flex my fingers. The tattoos on my right knuckles—R O P E—ripple.

The second I put the Chevy in gear, my lungs stop hurting. The dark disappears.

I glance at my face in the rearview mirror.

Breathe. Pull your shit together. Pull it, rope it, bury it deep.

When I was eight, my mother left. I locked myself in the closet, because I didn’t want to face the truth. For an entire week, I slept there. Ate plates of food Dakota left for me. On day eight, my dad crouched down. I could smell the whiskey on his breath even through the closed door. He cleared his throat and said, “Cowgirls don’t cry, Fallon. They just get tougher.”

That was the last time he ever got drunk in front of me. Or spoke about my mother.

So, yeah, cowgirls don’t cry. But they sure as hell are ready to get the fuck out of Dodge.

In twenty-nine years, I’ve never run away from anything. Today, I change that to change me.

I was born to roam. My veins are highways, my heart’s a map, and fences will not keep me in.

My gaze shifts. I put the Chevy in reverse and back out of the driveway.

When the headlights of the truck cut through the windy road ahead of me and illuminate the sign readingWelcome to Resurrection, I slow on the gas.

Main Street.

I flip on my blinker and pull over onto the side of the road. Two a.m. in our small town, the streets are dark. Too early to be nosy. Although, word will travel fast once I’m gone. The quicker I’m out of town, the better.

Reaching over, I pull an envelope from the glove box then exit my truck.

As I walk swiftly up to the red bricked building, my heart thumps in my chest. I look down at the letter burning a hole in my hand. My heart.

For Dakota.

After a second of hesitation, I drop it in the mail slot and try to ignore the anxiety building in my gut. Without a doubt, Koty will be upset. I can see her and that bossy, broody cowboy of hers rounding up his brothers to look for me. The thought of my older sister refocuses me on the task at hand. Why I’m doing this. For her.

It’s better this way. They don’t have to worry about me anymore. They have lives, families, careers, and I…

I just have anger.

I can handle it myself. I don’t need anyone’s help. Or their pity. I don’t need to be a burden. Or to hurt anyone else.

Back in the driver’s seat, I sit taller. The road turns thin as I hit Country Road 255 and approach Runaway Ranch.

Everyone runs to Runaway Ranch. But not me.

Still, I slow on the brakes and turn, passing beneath the great metal sign. At the gate, I key in the personal code I’ve been given.

The gate swings open.

I creep the truck down the dirt road, hoping I don’t sound the alarms to alert the cowboy cavalry.

I pass the lodge, the barn, the garage, until I’m edging through dense forest. My heart races when I spy the silvery glint of an old Airstream. Letting my truck idle, I exit and climb the rickety steps to face the door.

Around me, the wind howls. I lift my hand.

An almost-knock.

A goodbye to the blue-eyed devil inside sleeping the sleep of a beautiful idiot.

I rest my hand on the door. The icy kiss of metal bites into my palm.

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