Page 8 of Rough
“Help me, would you, Wilder?” Trina calls, holding her hands out, wiggling her fingers. I can feel Clyde eyeing me as I drag my feet to the side of Remy’s horse. Grabbing her waist, I ignore theway her fingers dig into my shoulders as she lets her weight fall against me to slip from the back of the horse. Her minty breath pants against my face, and I look up at the sky as I hold her until she finds her feet, then quickly release her, stepping away.
Her phone is already out, filming Clyde as he drops to the ground, slipping his gloves off to shove them in his back pocket. His Stetson is so low over his face I can barely see his nose. He’s never felt comfortable being filmed, which has only made our followers go crazy for him. Clyde Rowe is an anomaly to everyone who watches us. Since we’ve been found, not once has he been recorded speaking and the rumors have gone wild. I don’t think there’s even a photo with his entire face, but he’s definitely a favorite.
“Well, if you’re going to go hauling wood around, I’ll stick with you for the afternoon. You think you can do it with your shirt off, Wilder?” Trina asks once she’s done with the quick video of Clyde.
I come up short and stare at her in surprise. “You’re stickin’ around this afternoon, too?”
Another bout of guilt hits me when she looks hurt by my question. “I mean, I don’t have to. I just figured since I had permission from Joe to follow you today, I’d take advantage of the opportunity. But I don’t want to get in your way, Wild.”
I cringe when she calls me that. I don’t mind her calling me Wilder, but something about Wild feels more intimate. It’s ridiculous because she’s been with us for so long, and when she first showed up, I won’t deny that she starred in a few jerk sessions in my shower. She’s hot as fuck, but there’s something about her calling me by my childhood nickname that rubs me the wrong way.
Remy holds my gaze for a moment, telling me silently to stop being a prick. Shrugging like I don’t mind either way, I say, “Youcan stick with me for a bit if you’d like. I’m going to load up the truck and go fix everything we marked.”
Her smile is huge as she grins up at me, eyes peeking through her lowered lashes. “Perfect. I’ll get some shots of the other two until you’re ready.” Placing her hand on my arm, she squeezes weakly before spinning on her heel to follow the others as they take our horses back to the barn.
I slip my phone from my pocket and text Joe to let him know I’ll do the repairs on the fencing, then scroll through my contacts to find Betsy. Opening up her contact, I go to our text messages to read through the last few exchanges we had.
My eyes close when I see the date. Thirteen months. It’s beenthirteenmonths since the last time I’ve sent her a text. I try to convince myself that I’ve called her since then, but memories of that happening are impossible to bring up.
Typing out a quick text, I read through what I’ve written.
Hey Bets. How you been? I did a ride this morning and got to thinking that it’s been a while and wanted to say hey.
My brows bunch together as my finger hovers over the send button. It feels impersonal. Off. Texting Betsy shouldn’t feel awkward or forced, so I quickly delete the message, then turn off my phone and tuck it back into my pocket.
I’ll figure out what I want to say and message her later. What’s a few hours?
Chapter Three
Betsy
“Murph, hold it up higher for me, would ya?” I’m straddling Frank’s back leg, trying to get his foot under the light so I can see what’s got him limping. Murphy hikes the hoof higher than necessary, causing Frank to shift to keep his balance.
Scowling at him when I lose my footing, I grit out, “Don’t be an ass. I just need to be able to see what I’m doin’.” Inspecting around the horseshoe, it’s obvious that he has an abscess. “Shoot,” I mutter, tilting my head to get a better look. “I think he’s got an infection. I’m gonna have to call Bart, then get Doc out here to give him some antibiotics. Must have caught somethin’ in his foot on our last ride.”
Bart is my farrier, and Doc, Steve Williams, is always quick to come out here when I need him. With a sigh, I step over Frank’s leg as Murphy lets his foot go. Frank isn’t putting any weight on that foot. He’s keeping his leg up so just the tip is touching the ground.
Running my hand down his neck, I ignore the way his scars feel under my fingertips and reassure him. “I’ll get you fixed right up, buddy.” My hand continues to stroke his fur as myphone starts ringing. Murphy is wiping his hands on his pants just as I answer, noting that it’s Renee.
“Hey, momma. What’s up?”
Her voice hiccups on the other line, and I’m brought to attention, finding Murphy’s eyes immediately. “Sweet girl. I need you to come over. Don—” She cuts off, her voice hitching as she attempts to control her tears. “Donny’s back in the hospital, and I—we need you here. We don’t have much time.”
“What?” I cry, then swallow hard and try again. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
“It’s time, honey. Donny wants you here because he wants to make sure everything is in order, and we don’t know how long he’ll be awake. Please, come to the hospital now.”
I can feel the blood draining from my face as Murphy steps closer, concern etched in his features. He leans closer to listen as I fortify myself. “Alright. I got Murph here. We’ll be up as soon as we can. Are you—” I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting off the tears. “Did you call Rem?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “He’s coming home. But I don’t know if he’ll be here in time.”
Nodding my head even though she can’t see me, I find Murphy’s eyes. “We’re coming right now. Tell him not to be a bastard and go before we get there, alright?”
Her watery laugh rings through the phone when she says, “I’ll tell him. Love you, baby girl.”
“Love you too,” I whisper. Saying a quick goodbye, Murphy and I don’t say a word as we lock Frank’s stall door and run for our trucks. The hospital is on the other side of town, so it’s a good twenty minutes before we’re parking in the lot and running into the hospital. Renee texted me the room number while we were traveling, so thankfully we don’t have to waste any time with the people at the reception desk.
I stand silently with Murphy as we both watch the numbers crawl slowly up to floor three, awful music playing softly in the otherwise complete silence we’ve found ourselves in. As soon as the ding alerts us that we’ve arrived, we shove our way into the hallway and run to the end, watching the room numbers as we fly past them.
