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One steaming Saturday afternoon, Tex McCormick wriggled under Buck Merrill’s chain-link fence. He would have used the gate like a normal fella, but see, here’s the thing: Tex McCormick had to go under the fence because he got banned from Merrill’s barns.

Well, not exactly banned—sure, Merrill gave him the boot, and told him not to come around again or he’d see the inside of a cop car, but, well, ol’ Buck probably already forgot about that. Shoot, Tex didn’t do anything wrong! (Besides trying to ride a rodeo horse without asking, which wasn’t even his fault—the not asking part—because if he’d asked, Merrill woulda said no.)

Only two weeks into summer, and every day Tex wasn’t at work, he’d made a beeline for the stables. Mason said if Tex spent anymore time around horses, he might just up and turn into one. Mason meant it as a dig, but Tex wished it were actually possible. Not that Mason would get it; he only liked horses a moderate amount. A respectable amount, just like everything else about him, clever and constrained. Mason didn’t get why Tex drove all the way to the city just to look at a horse, but Mason didn’t get a lot of things about Tex.

The sun scorched the back of his neck as he shimmied through another fence, over some hay bales, cut through a quiet barn and then out into the blazing heat of the eastern corral. He was no stranger to the mess of barns and paddocks. The rodeo grounds sprawled, way bigger than the one in Tex’s town (really just a glorified pen with bleachers), but he knew exactly which corners to duck around and what alleys to cut through to avoid ol’ Merrill, who owned half of the horses poking their heads through stall doors.

And there he was, nothing but a splintering fence post and a few yards of dirt between ‘em: the most gorgeous horse Tex ever had the honor of knowing. A buckskin beauty, black around his legs and face, and a flowing mane darker than Oklahoma at night. He kicked up his heels. Dust billowed towards the sun, like the cloud of exhaust from a drag race. One thousand pounds of pure quarter horse glistening with sweat and glory.

Tex clambered onto the fence. Glory hallelujah, what a sight! He whistled, sharp and shrill, and called out— “Negrito!”

His horse’s ears pricked.

Tex leaned back, grinning, as Negrito galloped toward him. That gunny-faced little girl, the one who stole Negrito from Tex, got bored of him after only twelve months. Her dad sold Negrito to the same rodeo Tex’s—no, Mason’s —Pop bought him from, all those years ago, when Tex was just a knee-high little kid with a snotty nose and horse fever. He still had a snotty nose and horse fever. Ain’t knee-high though, oh no—these days, he was almost taller than Mace.

(“You coulda made the basketball team,” Mason once said, “if you actually cared,” and Tex couldn’t make out if he meant it as praise or just another dig.)

Negrito didn’t slow when he reached Tex, but kept on racing along the curve of the fence. Tex stretched to run his fingers across Negrito’s heaving side as his horse made the pass. A true barrel racer, right down to his bones. That’s what Negrito did on Buck’s dime—he barrel raced, and won ribbons.

“Just a few more months,” he whispered aloud, a solemn vow with the sun as his witness. “You’re gonna be mine again.”

He didn’t make much, working for Mr. Kencaide. But he’d scraped his pennies for a few years. And with that rodeo purse he was gonna win soon, he’d surely have enough.

Last week, after nightfall, Tex had snuck in and tried to ride Negrito again, the way he’s seen ‘em do during rodeos, back straight and charging towards the barrels like they were the only enemy left standing. He hadn’t been on the back of this horse since Mace sold him, little over two years ago. Tex was seventeen, but he hadn’t forgotten the thrill. Open air whipping at his face. Horse underneath his hands. Just him and his buddy, stealing the wind.

Then Merrill caught him and kicked him out of the barns.

Tex snorted as he watched Negrito dig into the turf. Too bad for ol’ Merrill, ‘cause it took more than a little yelling to keep Tex away—

A heavy hand clamped around the back of his neck and yanked him off the fence.

Tex fell with a thud, skidding on his backside in the scraggly grass. Merrill’s tomato-red face scowled down at him. “I told you to scram!”

“Shoot,” Tex yelped, scrambling to his feet and backing away, “did ya? Aw man, I forgot—”

Tomato-red turned absolutely fire-engine. Merrill had a few inches on Tex (though not as tall as Mace, he thought smugly) and a fair bit of thickness, too. He cuffed Tex across the face, hard enough to rattle his teeth. Meaty hands grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him, limbs flailing, across the ground. Struggling only earned another blow to the head.

“Damn kid,” Merrill railed, dragging him towards the back of the barn, “do I gotta tan your hide just to keep you away from my animals?”

Mason always said Tex ain’t got a clue of his own mortality. But right then, Tex felt it awful strong—he was gonna die.

“Hey, lay off him!”

Someone ripped Merrill off Tex, rough enough they both stumbled. Tex tripped backwards and fell into another man’s shadow. He peered up at the newcomer, now shoving Merrill back and yelling in his face, and tried to get a look at the guy through the harsh sunlight.

“Mind your damn business, Curtis,” Buck growled.

“Quit beatin’ up kids and I might.” The newcomer gave Buck one final shove before turning back to Tex, a hand extended to help him up. “You okay, man?”

Tex stared up at the coolest cowboy he’d ever seen in his entire life.

The guy wasn’t big—a compact build, lean and slouching—but the grip that hauled Tex upright could best Mason in arm-wrestling any day. Sun-burnished hair bounced around his face in wheat-colored tufts. Just a hint of blond stubble on his chin, enough to look roguish but not scruffy. Tex gulped. He looked around for the cameras, only to be shocked when he couldn’t find one. Boy howdy, some movie star just wandered into the Tulsa rodeo, and there wasn’t even a movie crew to catch it!

He could’ve been plucked straight from the Westerns Tex watched on TV, a fourth Barclay brother from The Big Valley , if he weren’t leaning heavily on a cane. You didn’t see canes much in a Western show. Tex thought it made him look cooler.

“Your mouth is bleedin’,” the stranger said, taking a swipe at Tex’s chin with the back of his hand.

Tex gulped again and scrubbed at his lip with a grimy palm. The cowboy watched, soft-eyed, the way Tex’s mother used to when she thought he might cry, so Tex puffed out his chest and said, “Ol’ Buck’s granny could hit harder.”

Laughter, loud and boisterous. He grinned as he patted Tex on the shoulder. “Better scoot ‘fore he comes at ya with a shotgun.”

Merrill coughed pointedly. “You here for business, Curtis, or just to gossip?”

“You tell me.” With a final wink at Tex, he turned back to the stable manager, a hand hooked in his pocket like he hadn’t got a care in the world. “Where’s my horse?”

Forgotten, Tex trailed after them as they walked back to Negrito’s corral. Keeping within Merrill’s swinging range was taking his life in his hands, but he wasn’t ready to lose sight of the cowboy. Even his limp had a kind of swagger to it. Shoot, what a cool jacket, real leather and everything, all weatherbeaten! And were those— Tex squinted— blood stains?

He wasn’t given the chance to peer closer, because the cowboy entered the paddock and let out a whistle loud enough to pierce glass. From the other side of the corral, Negrito froze. 

For a moment no one moved, like pieces on a game board after the dice rolled. Just the July wind kicking up dust; a buckskin beauty with pricked ears; the cowboy, face chiseled against the blue sky, sharp lines and shining eyes, waiting, with a look that kindled something deep in the saddest parts of Tex’s heart.

Then, a whinny split the silence and Negrito charged toward them.

Tex shouted a warning—Negrito wasn’t the nicest to folk he didn’t know—but the cowboy only whooped, and a moment later had his arms around the horse’s tawny neck. Negrito nickered like a love-struck broodmare as the cowboy kissed the velvet expanse of his nose.

“Hey, Mickey,” he whispered, lips pressed like a lover to the horse’s face. “Knew I’d find ya again.”

Tex leaned against the fence. The scene didn’t sit right with him, this strange cowboy cozying up to Tex’s horse like some lost girlfriend, or the way Negrito hadn’t even sent a friendly wicker in Tex’s direction since the guy showed up. He’d be mad, if the cowboy wasn’t so damn cool. It was hard to be mad at a guy when you were desperately trying to catch his attention.

For a split second he thought, gotta tell Mason ‘bout this , only to remember for the thousandth time that state borders and a perpetually busy phone line separated Mason from him. 

(Mason probably wouldn’t care, anyway.)

Negrito huffed a breath in Tex’s face. The cowboy glanced up. “Careful, he bites,” he said, distracted, as if he’d known the horse his entire life. Maybe he had. But Tex was usually the one giving those warnings—Tex was usually the one with the horse nibbling lovingly at his hair.

“Getta move on, Curtis,” Buck snapped. “You buyin’ or not?”

“Oh, I’m buyin’.” He reached through the fence to open the gate, and a moment later sauntered out, horse hot on his heels. No lead rope. Negrito followed like a puppy, his head draped over the guy’s shoulder. “My brother will be around to settle payment.”

Buck grunted. They shook on it. Another moment and the cowboy was walking off, still with Negrito, towards a truck and trailer parked across the way.

Tex’s ears rang. He’d only just found Negrito again; now he watched the tail-end of his horse disappearing who knew where, with nothing but the thud of hoof beats to remember him by. Like a book he’d read a hundred times, always with the same ending.

He’d almost saved enough. The story was supposed to end different this time.

Panic rose in his throat and he leapt forward, only to be yanked back by the collar.

“Don’t make me tell ya again,” Buck snapped. “I don’t wanna see your face ‘round here no more.”

-

The thing is, Tex McCormick ain’t very good at listening.

Oh, he tried, alright. Sometimes. (Well, maybe not as often as he should.) See, when folks told him what to do, made it out to be some real big deal, his brain got a little fuzzy and he just couldn’t help himself.

So no one could blame him, really, when he ended up following a particular truck ‘n trailer out of the rodeo drive and onto the highway. Johnny Collins’ motorcycle hummed beneath his hands, all slick metal and motor oil. Almost as good as a horse. Wind in his face, raking through his hair. He kept his eyes fixed on the trailer ahead and Negrito’s face, just visible through the little window.

They left Tulsa behind, bumping off the highway and onto the gravel roads of Oklahoma countryside. Dust billowed around them in thick plumes. Tex slowed, letting distance grow between him and the truck—just enough to avoid suspicion, but still keep his eyes on the prize. Mason said Tex didn’t have a sneaky bone in his body, but ol’ Mace didn’t know what he was talking about; Tex could be smart, when he wanted.

Eventually, the truck jostled into a driveway. Tex roared on past, following the curve of the road until a grove of trees blocked him from view. He hid the motorcycle and hiked back on foot. The drive was long and tree-lined, with a sign that read J&D Ranch. A small clapboard house waited at the end. The truck parked out front, engine still hot. 

“Ranch” seemed a generous term for the place, really no more than a pasture and shed, the house barely any bigger. Weeds grew up through the porch steps—purple and blue cornflowers, wild as the critters making their bed up top in the buckling gutter. A passel of chickens pecked at the overgrown garden beds. Somewhere, goats bleated. Tex ducked into the tangle of bushes, trying not to rustle too much, as his heart thundered against his ribs.

Mason would have a thing or two to say, if he could see Tex right then. Stuff like “you’re an idiot,” and “what are you thinking,” and “you’re gonna get caught.” But Mason wasn’t there. So he didn’t get to have an opinion on Tex’s crap decisions. They’d snuck into the Collins’ house more times than Tex could count, him and Mason, so how was this different? Just because this guy was a stranger, and Tex had followed him home, and was hiding in his bushes, didn’t mean—

The front door opened and a huge guy stepped out. Not only tall, but built, too—muscles spilling out of the tight shirt he wore, thick and brawny. Early thirties at the youngest. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. He’d be handsome, if he weren’t so big; he had the look of a real mean guard dog, the kind you gotta keep back with chains and signs and stuff. 

If Buck Merrill packed a punch, Tex shuddered to think what this guy could do, and for the second time that day, found himself considering his own mortality. Maybe Mason had a point. Maybe he should try using his head every once in a while.

But then the truck door slammed, and the golden-haired cowboy flung himself from the driver’s seat and straight into the big man’s arms.

“I got him, Dar, I got him,” he yelled at top volume while jumping up and down, arms flung around the other guy’s neck and cane forgotten somewhere between the car and the porch. His leg suddenly went out from under him, buckled so fast Tex thought he’d tripped off the step, but he never paused between words even as the big guy grabbed him before he fell. Together like that, they reminded Tex of a fiery little mustang pony and a big ol’ draft horse, barrel-chested. The family resemblance was striking despite their differences.

The big guy ruffled the cowboy’s hair. “You're gonna hurt yourself.”

He didn’t look so scary anymore, holding tight to his little brother while listening to him yammer. Powerful, but gentle. Tenderness written atop the harsh lines of his face. Maybe that’s how Mason would look, if life had treated him kinder; Mason didn’t have time for gentleness, with work and school and money keeping his nose ever pressed to stoicism’s sandpaper grit. Tex bet he wasn’t capable of anything else, just stress gnawing away at him like a dog with a bone.

 But maybe, if Mason had a ranch, with chickens and goats and a horse—maybe Mason would remember how to look soft, too.

Tex crept away before he could see more.

-

Under Tex’s bed, in a jar labeled “horse money,” hundreds of dollars marked the passage of time. Tex counted it out, bill by bill, coin by coin. Saving this much had taken months. Skimping on dinner, picking up odd jobs when he could, even backing out of the county fair. (Johnny Collins paid his admission, so he didn’t really sacrifice much, but he would’ve. He would give up much more, if it meant getting his horse back.)

He swept the loose money back into the jar and screwed the lid on tight. The rodeo circuit would be in Tulsa next week. He was gonna win that cash prize. And with that money, he’d find a way to convince the cowboy to sell Negrito back to him. He would.

“Just a few more months,” Tex whispered, hiding the jar under his bed again. “I’m gonna get him back.”

-

Mason came home from college shiny as a silver spur, twice as sharp and spittin’ gold. Tex met him at the airport, where they clapped each other on the back and traded quips about the other’s bad looks.

“I thought horses got their forelocks trimmed,” Mason said, tugging at the hair falling in Tex’s eyes.

Tex guffawed. “I thought college boys were too cool for this ol’ town.”

“Who says I’m not?” Mason socked him in the shoulder. “C’mon man, let’s get these bags in the truck.”

Tex would’ve been happy with one of those big hugs he saw the other day, all heat and sweat and safety, but Mason wasn’t the cozying kind. Like everything else about him, Mason met out love like a surgeon’s knife: sharp, precise, and only when strictly necessary.

“I don’t suppose he turned up,” Mason said, as they clambered into the truck—Tex behind the wheel, Mason’s bags flung in the back.

Tex shook his head. Then, “He might yet.”

“Can’t believe you’d wanna see him, anyway.”

“Never said I did.”

They sped onto the highway, swallowed up by the summer sky. Mason cranked down the window to let the heat in. “One thing about Indiana,” he said, tipping his head back, “you don’t get a sky like this.”

“Glad to be home?”

Mason only grunted. He stayed silent the rest of the drive, so Tex filled up the quiet with all the recent news—how Jamie Collins had her eye on a college in Ohio, and Johnny Collins swore he wouldn’t go at all, and Cole Collins swore Johnny would. He rambled about his job at Mr. Kencaide’s quarter horse ranch, about his favorite horses, and how Mr. Kencaide had a new trainer coming in next week. (Tex didn’t mention Negrito—their first conversation shouldn’t end in a fight.)

Tex hadn’t seen his brother since Mason came home for Christmas. That’s an awful long time to live by yourself, no one to talk to but the pictures of his family left on the walls. The words spilled out like a cat hacking up a big ol’ fur ball. Mason listened and didn’t say much, no sarcastic jabs or news of his own, which would’ve freaked Tex out if he weren’t so glad to see him.

At long last they bumped into their driveway. Mason hauled his stuff out of the back, and Tex ran to unlock the front door. (He forgot to lock it in the first place, but made a big show of turning the key, so Mason wouldn’t know.)

“You didn’t tell me you got pigs for roommates,” Mason said sourly as he set his bags down in the living room.

“Hey, I cleaned!”

“There’s underwear hanging off the lamp.”

“…I got distracted.”

“Call the newspaper, we got a headline,” Mason snorted, stalking into the kitchen. “Tex McCormick Gets Distracted! Who woulda thought?” He turned on the tap, waited a couple minutes, and looked at Tex. “No water?”

“It broke.”

“Go figure.”

Tex raced after him as he made his way into the bedroom. Bed unmade, socks and jeans in the corner—they used to be strewn across the floor, but Tex shoved them into a pile before heading to the airport, just for Mason’s sake. But judging by the look on Mason’s face, his brother didn’t care about this gracious act of charity.

“Seriously, man, this place is a dump,” he said, and kicked off his shoes. “I forgot how gross you are.”

Tex grinned. “I forgot how mean you are.”

Mason snorted, the hint of a smile on his lips. He grabbed the picture frame off the bedside table and peered real close, like he ain’t never seen it before: Their mama, golden-haired and beautiful as a china doll, Pop with his whiskers and sparkling eyes, toddler Mason, and baby Tex.

“He really didn’t show at all?” Mason asked, quieter this time. “How long has it been?”

Tex shrugged. “Dunno.”

(It had been a year.)

Mason sat down on the bed, and then after a moment fell backward, hitting the quilt with a groan, eyes glued to the ceiling. Tex collapsed next to him. They lay shoulder to shoulder in their childhood room, on a bed that creaked with each breath. Summer hummed outside the window. The ceiling fan clicked with each turn.

“Were you lonely?” Mason asked.

“A little.”

Cicadas. Wind in the pasture, rustling the grass. Mason’s toe tapping against the floor.

“Are you glad to be home?” Tex asked.

Mason bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t respond.

-

On Sunday they chased the rodeo circuit into Tulsa, where Tex got kicked off a screamin' mad bronc. The world swelled in his ears as he waited on its back, a nonsense chant of cheering voices and sweating horse, hoof and heartbeat, the sound of his brother yelling his name. Horse underneath. A thousand pounds of power bridled, lightning, electric. The chute opened. The world narrowed down again, and only two things mattered:

Boy. Bronc.

Hold on tight, don’t let go.

Ten seconds felt like ten years when nothing stood between him and death but the kicking heels of a horse. Sky tilted, dust on his tongue. Eternity. Over before it even began. His shoulder hit first, then the rest of him, slammed into the dirt like a sack of grain. He rolled away from the stomping hoofs. Quick on his feet, up again with aching bones, darting out of the bronc’s path. 

Ten seconds. That’s all he needed to qualify for scoring and a cash prize.

The scoreboard read 8.53.

When Tex slipped out of the pen, he found Mason clambered onto the top rung of the fence, yelling his lungs out. Mason didn’t like it, the rodeo riding, but he didn’t try to stop it either. Oh, he used to get his digs in, but some things were as natural as the sun rising, and unstoppable as the stars. Tex was born to ride the broncs. Rodeo dirt ran in his blood, no matter which way you looked; Pop chasing the circuit, always one step behind success, or that yellow-eyed bastard-bearer who gave Tex nothing but his blood and the devil’s grin. Mason could no more keep Tex from rodeos than he could redirect the world they lived in.

So instead, he waited for Tex outside the chute, t-shirt and hair sticky with sweat. Not even Mason could keep quiet at a rodeo. Yelling was part of the admission fee.

“I think their clocks are broken,” Mason said, socking Tex in the shoulder. “You definitely stayed on longer than last time.”

Last time, when Tex held out for a whopping 8.74.

Tex leaned next to him against the fence, glum. And then he craned his neck, searching the milling line of cowboys waiting for their shot at lightning death.

“Pop isn’t here,” Mason said. “Quit looking.”

“He might be.”

“Beats me why you even care about the damn liar.”

“I don’t ,” Tex snapped, and kept looking.

Mason rolled his eyes, and bought Tex a corn dog.

-

After, Tex took a wrong turn on the way home, and Mason didn’t even notice because he was too busy staring at some letter he kept in his back pocket. By the time he looked up, Tex had already pulled the car off the road and opened his door.

“The hell are we?” Mason scrambled after him. “The hell are you going?”

“Shut up,” Tex mumbled, already heading into the brush. “You gotta be quiet, someone might be home.”

Mason followed, spitting curses as brambles caught on his clothes. Tex stopped behind a tree, shushed Mason (again), and took a glance toward the other side.

The little clapboard house looked exactly how he remembered, friendly and dilapidated. No truck in the driveway, no lights on inside. Negrito whinnied from the barn.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Mason groaned behind him. “Tell me that isn’t the damn horse.”

Tex had already clambered over the fence. He didn’t feel right inside—kinda itchy, like wearing someone else’s shoes—and nothing readjusted the world on its hinges like the sight of his horse.

 Mason was right, it was stupid to keep searching the bronc riders like he thought he might recognize one of them, but he couldn’t stop. Every time his back hit the dirt he would shoot up like a little kid, looking for a guy who couldn’t even bother to phone every now and again.

Mason was right (Mason’s always right, the jerk), but Tex didn’t care. Pop would come back. He always did.

“Tex.” Mason’s whisper came loud and angry as he scrambled after Tex. “You can’t break into a stranger’s barn.”

Too late. The door swung shut behind them. “I’ll only be a couple minutes,” Tex mumbled. “I just wanna see him.”

Negrito stuck his face over the side of his stall, and Tex stopped listening to whatever Mason was going on about. “Hey buddy,” he said, kissing his horse’s nose. Problems felt small when his palms pressed against Negrito’s face, all thought of Pop vanishing to the wind. “They treating you right?”

“Tex—” Mason grabbed his arm, fingernails digging sharp into skin— “a truck just pulled in.”

Sure enough; the telltale crunch of tires on gravel. Tex’s heart skipped a beat. He peered through the crack in the barn door, left ajar by Mason. The truck doors slammed, and two familiar figures slowly made their way up the path towards the barn, one big and broad-shouldered, the other leaning heavily against him.

Mason dragged him into a little tack room, closing the door quick. “Idiot, I knew I shouldn’t have followed you,” he hissed. “We could get arrested for trespassing, or— Tex, what if they think we’re trying to steal the horse?”

Mason, for all his cool tough guy act, freaked out easily.

Tex turned around in the narrow space, looking at the halters and hay bales, bins of feed in the corner, and a pile of mail strewn across a small table. He began to say something, only for Mason to shove a hand over his mouth.

The voices outside grew louder as the pair entered the barn. Tex recognized the older brother’s deep baritone, pitched low with frustration.

“All I’m sayin’ is, I don’t like it.”

And then the cowboy, breezy as snapping beans. “You’re overreactin’, Dar.”

“Like hell I’m overreacting! You fell. Again .”

“So what? I’m fine now.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I was there to pick you up. When you start this job, what then? What if you fall there?”

A groan of frustration. “You’re killin’ me, man, let me live a little. It’s bad enough you won’t let me ride—”

“You know damn well why not!” The words burst out in a shout so intense, a shiver ran down Tex’s spine. Mason’s hold on him tightened. Silence followed, thick and stinking in the heat. Negrito nickered skittishly. Then, softer, “Don’t be stubborn. You’re in pain.”

The barn door slammed, and a moment later, Mason let go of Tex.

“I think they’re gone,” he said. “Let’s go before they come back.”

-

Mason wouldn’t let it go. He spent the next few hours yelling at Tex, cussing him out for being reckless and stupid and sentimental.

“You never think!” he yelled, lobbing his wadded napkin at Tex’s face. They got Dairy Queen on the way home, brought it back to their little house and sat spread out in the living room, a mess of burgers and fries and empty pop bottles. “What if they catch you?”

“They won’t,” Tex said. “I’m too sneaky.”

“Yeah, sneaky as a herd of cattle.”

Tex threw an onion ring at him. “Dunno what your problem is.”

“Oh nothing, just that you’ve been breaking into a stranger’s barn. ”

“Maybe I’ll ask next time.”

Mason bolted upright on the couch, eyes ablaze. “I’ll skin ya alive. Listen to me, Tex—” he crawled forward, grabbed Tex by the front of the shirt and shook him— “I know you’re gonna do whatever you damn well please, regardless of what I think, and I won’t stop you from seeing the horse. But don’t go knocking on their door looking to make friends.”

The sudden intensity took Tex aback. “Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know— common sense , maybe? And that big guy, I don’t like him.” This wasn’t news; Mason didn’t like most people. Tex snorted, ready to shove him off, but Mason doubled down. “I think he might be ex-military. I saw a bunch of letters in that storage room postmarked from Vietnam.”

Tex thought of the powerful build and cold, pale eyes. Put a gun in those meaty hands, and the picture seemed complete; a guard dog, fanged and fierce, ripping flesh with his teeth.

“He looks dangerous,” Mason said. “C’mon, Tex, please. I can’t have you—” his voice cracked, so soft you’d miss it if you didn’t know him— “don’t do that to me again.”

Since Tex’s accident a few years ago—the run-in with Lem Peters that left him in the hospital for weeks—Mason had been jumpier than ever. Almost paranoid, distrusting of everyone, especially the people Tex rubbed shoulders with. Tex couldn’t blame Mace, ‘cause trust didn’t come so easy to him either, these days; getting shot will do that to a guy. 

Mason was hard, but he really didn’t ask much of his little brother, and Tex didn’t want him to leave again. So Tex agreed.

They finished eating, turned on the TV, and settled back, sprawled on opposite sofas, with the dull chatter of late night cartoons filling up the house. Just like before , Tex thought, and let the feeling envelope him, thick as one of mom’s old quilts. Before Negrito got sold, before Pop left for good, before Mason went away. Hell, before their mom died.

He wouldn’t tell Mason, but the house ate at him sometimes, when he was home after work, all that silence rotting from the inside out. Like a big ol’ roadkill corpse left on the side of the road. The only noise coming from flies, drawn to the stink. With Mason back for a few months, everything could be just the way it used to be.

“I’m going to get a summer job,” Mason said now, stretching out his legs on the couch.

Tex looked up. “You going back to that construction place?” He grinned, reaching over to smack Mason’s arm, but Mason jerked away like the touch burned him. 

“Nah, think I’ll try something different,” he said, rubbing his wrist. He slid away from Tex. “Something less hick.”

They spent the night watching TV in silence, sitting on opposite ends of the couch.

-

On Monday, Tex mucked stalls and watered horses, scrubbed grime off their heaving sides until his fingernails turned black. He let them out to pasture and reveled at the kicking heels—beauty in sinew and the raw curve of hoof, sharp as knives and twice as powerful.

At lunchtime, Mr. Kencaide chewed him out for lollygagging by the training rings instead of cleaning saddles. Tex adamantly denied it (even though it was true, he’d been thinking about Pop and got distracted), but Mr. Kencaide wouldn’t buy it.

“I took a chance on you, son,” his boss said, sounding an awful lot like Cole Collins. “You have to get your head out of the clouds, or I can’t keep you.”

“Ain’t the kid’s fault,” a newcomer broke in. So far Tex’s boots had been way more interesting than looking Mr. Kencaide in the eye, but his head shot up at the familiar voice. There, swaggering down the hall: none other than the cowboy who intervened at Buck’s, who bought (stole) Negrito, whose barn Tex broke into. The cowboy Mason forbade Tex from talking to.

The cowboy winked.

“I asked the kid to stay,” he told Mr. Kencaide. He waved his cane. “You know, to help with the stuff I can’t do.”

Mr. Kencaide ran a hand down his face. “Curtis, if you can’t do your job without a kid tagging along, why did I hire you in the first place?”

“’Cause I’m damn good with horses.”

Mr. Kencaide sighed again. With one final long look at the cowboy (who beamed back at him), he left, shaking his head the entire way down the hall. They watched him go. Then, the cowboy snickered.

“Better straighten up, kid, ‘cause I ain’t blaming your crap on my leg a second time.” He whacked Tex in the shins with his cane. “You got a name?”

“My daddy called me Texas.”

“Dallas 'n Texas, I got the full set.” He chuckled, a private thing, and offered his hand to shake. His palm was warm and rough. “I'm here to train the colts. Name is Sodapop.”

“Boy howdy, that’s a funny name!”

“Suits me fine!” Soda gave Tex a once over, and Tex straightened, hoping he’d see a real tough guy, not some kid with stains on his jeans. (Shoot, Tex was taller than the cowboy, though it didn’t feel like it—that grin alone looked big enough to swallow the sky.) 

Soda didn’t seem to remember their encounter at Buck’s; he looked at Tex like a stranger yet to prove himself. “You good with horses?”

Tex scoffed. “I might as well been born in the saddle.”

Soda laughed, like it was the greatest joke in the world, and Tex couldn’t help but laugh with him. “Good, ‘cause you're coming with me. Our boss thinks I need your help.”

-

As it turned out, Sodapop Curtis didn’t need Tex’s help.

And he hadn’t lied, when he said he was damn good with horses. He spoke to them like they had a special language only he understood. Guys at the rodeo swapped stories about people like him, called ‘em horse whisperers , mocked ‘em for being a sentimental myth.

“ Broncs only listen to two things,” they said. “ A strong hand, and a rawhide whip.”

But Soda went into the ring with an unbroken horse, the colt feisty and fired up, eyes milky-white where they rolled back in fear; and Soda came out with a docile pet. He breathed into their nostrils, pressed his ear to their chests and moved in rhythm with the horses’ heartbeat. He played with ‘em, talked to ‘em, patting their sides with his strong, scarred hands. The creatures couldn’t get enough of him.

Tex spent most of the afternoon perched on the fence, doing nothing but watching. Soda forgot about him four hours ago, too wrapped up in the horses beneath his hands. Didn’t bother Tex none. Sitting quiet had never been his hobby (Mason filled a scrapbook with the teacher's notes Miss Carlson had written about it), but he could sit on the fence watching Soda handle horses all day, and never get bored. Man, if school were this interesting, he’d be a genius.

“I saw you at the rodeo yesterday,” Soda said suddenly, and it took Tex a minute to realize who he spoke to. “How long you been bronc riding?”

“Couple years.” Tex shrugged. “I ain’t stayed on for a full ride yet.”

Soda didn’t take his eyes off the horse he had on a lead, trotting in circles around him. “What’s your best time?”

“9.06.”

“Not bad!”

“Yeah?” The compliment buzzed under his skin. He leaned forward, flushing. “I never get to ten seconds.”

Soda paused in the middle of the corral, lead rope in hand and a palomino beauty pressing its nose against his face. He scratched the horse’s chin and finally spared Tex a glance.

 “It’s how you sit in the stirrups,” he said. “You gotta angle your heels different. And keep your legs up, you had ‘em too low. Even if you made the full ride, you’d get a lousy score for that.”

Tex cocked his head. “You ride saddle bronc?”

Soda looked away. For a moment, quietness settled over the corral; just heavy horse breaths and Tex picking at splinters on the fence; Soda with a spaced-out look in his eyes, like the whole world stopped just for him.

Then he blinked hard, eyes flickering like the lens in a camera. Teeth flashed in the sun. Boy howdy, he might be handsomer than Mason. Might even be handsomer than Tex.

“Take this rascal back to the barn,” he said, holding out the lead rope. Tex hopped off the fence, glad to finally be back in motion, only for Soda to stop him before he could take the horse. “Grab me that bucket, too.”

Tex did, and Soda turned it over, hobbled to the side of the corral, and sat on it. His shoulders rose with heavy breaths—up close like this, exhaustion lurked in the subtle tension of his forehead, the way he bit the inside of his cheek. When he caught Tex looking, he offered a half smile.

“Go back to your chores,” Soda said. “I just need to catch my breath.”

-

“Remember that steak house I worked at my last year of high school?”

“Yeah.” Already half-asleep, Tex turned to face Mason’s back. “You got lotsa tips ‘cause you’re good-lookin’.”

“I got hired again.”

Midnight breeze blew through the open window, ruffling their hair. The bed dipped in the middle from years of weight, and gravity rolledTex into the crevice, the side of his arm pressing between Mason’s shoulder blades. Cicadas harmonized with the frogs down in the creek.

“Tex, you still awake?”

You could feel someone’s pulse through their back; Tex didn’t know that. Mason’s beat erratic, like a jumpy little horse. Ain’t that funny? Cool, calm Mason, with a nervous heart.

“I know what I’m doin’ wrong in rodeo,” Tex mumbled through the haze of sleep, cozy in his brother’s heat. “It’s the stirrups.”

“Oh, great.” Mason snorted, shuffling away from the touch at his back. “Great, well, I guess that solves all our problems. Who cares about the mortgage, at least Tex can stay in the saddle for ten seconds.”

“Hey Mace?”

A huff of breath. “What?”

“Why are you scared?”

That pulse, chaotic, beating too quick. It jumped a little, racing faster. Like galloping hoofbeats. Like drumming rain.

Someone was snoring. Tex thought it might be himself.

-

Tex’s visits to Negrito were different, now that he knew Soda. He hadn’t forgotten his promise to Mason to stay out of the Curtis brothers’ business, but Mr. Kencaide had forced him to break that promise the moment Sodapop Curtis came to work. And Soda had been kind. If Tex asked, he was pretty sure he’d get a warm invitation to the Curtis ranch.

But something held him back. Not the promise, or Mason’s paranoid fussing, or even common sense, but a skittish feeling curled deep in the pit of his stomach. Soda adored horses easier than breathing. He was smart and tough and capable, and gave with his entire soul, but he clung to the things he loved with fists clenched tighter than a boxer throwing a punch. And Negrito loved him back.

Tex couldn’t pinpoint the feeling that kept him hidden in the bushes instead of stepping out to say hello. Maybe jealousy held him back. Or maybe the fear that when the time came and he saved enough, Soda wouldn’t sell.

(If it came down to him and Soda tanding side-by-side in the little paddock, he didn't want to know which one Negrito would run to first.)

Then, of course, there was the other brother: Darry.

Mason thought Darry was a war veteran, and Tex couldn't help but agree; the guy looked like he wrestled grizzlies for fun. Darry hung around a lot when Soda was home, following him out to the barn with a dishtowel tossed over one shoulder and arms folded so his muscles bulged. Tex couldn't hear their conversations, but they always argued. Darry was like one of the hens, pecking away. Soda laughed in his face more often than not.

Tex wasn't afraid of most people (much to Mason's dismay) but something about Darry's pale green eyes turned his stomach to ice. Tex saw the guy butcher meat chickens once—holding the bird down with one heavy hand, while lifting the axe with the other. Soda turned his face away when the blood sprayed; tears caught in his eyelashes. But Darry never hesitated, never flinched, wiping blood off his face with the same steady hands that ripped the feathers out, one fistful at a time.

To his brother, he was softer than a melted ice cream cone, fondness dripping from every look and touch, pooling in the space between them when they shared a grin. But he faced the rest of the world with shoulders back and teeth bared. A dog on a chain. Growling.

Tex wasn't afraid of most people. But that guy scared the crap out of him.

-

Sodapop Curtis did everything loud. He walked loud with the solid thump of cane against floor boards. He talked loud, booming voice and boisterous laughter, words running together into a cheerful race of sound. He loved loud; wore his heart on his sleeve for the horses, eyes so bright they could replace the moon. The only time he stayed quiet was when he talked to them—whispering secrets into their hide and kisses against their velvet noses—or when he listened to Tex.

The thing was, Tex ain’t no shy observer, neither. Not like Mason, biting back sarcasm and silence, oh no, Tex had a voice box and he used it. And Soda listened. More than that, Soda asked him stuff, and really paid attention, like Tex had an opinion worth something.

Soda taught him things, too. Tex grew up with horses, the stink and power, but Soda showed him how to speak their language in strange new ways. Every day, Tex followed him out into the little corral. They worked with bits and bridles, leather and rope, with yearlings kicking up dust in their faces. Soda gave him rodeo tips. He showed Tex how to turn his knees just so, how to sit in the stirrups so all his weight leaned back, and how to keep his toes angled outward.

“Don’t tell Mr. Kencaide,” he said with a wink. “What he don’t know can’t hurt him.”

Soda started his mornings in the middle of the corral, but by the time shadows stretched long toward the horizon, he’d wind up sitting on an overturned bucket or crate. 

Once, while they tacked up a horse, Tex asked what happened to his leg.

“An alligator crawled through my window,” Soda drawled. “I woke up and there he was, chewing right through my knee. You could see bone and everything. My brother went after the bastard—he’s tough like that—so there he was, fighting an alligator with his bare hands on the living room carpet. It was a mean ol’ cuss, but Darry’s meaner.”

Tex blinked. “…you yankin’ my chain?”

“Why would I lie?” He grinned, slow and sunny. “We called the zookeepers and everything, it was a big deal.”

After that, Tex had to finish the saddling by himself. Soda’s hands got shaky all of a sudden, and he couldn’t do up the little buckles.

-

Mason knew about Soda, kind of. He knew Tex worked with him, because Tex told Mason that much. But he didn’t know Soda was the guy who’s barn they broke into (who’s barn Tex still broke into, when nobody was around).

“Sometimes I think you care more about this Curtis guy than the horses,” Mason grumbled over his breakfast eggs. “He’s all you talk about anymore.”

“He’s teaching me how to throw a lasso,” Tex said. He reached across the table for some of Mason’s toast, only to get his hand slapped away. “He’s just so cool , Mace! You should see him with the colts, it’s like he can read their minds.”

Mason rolled his eyes. “Great, another animal obsessed psycho. Like I needed more.”

“You only got one,” Tex pointed out.

“One is enough.”

“Hey, you wanna mess around tonight? Like basketball or somethin’—you can show me all your fancy college moves.”

“Nah, I got work.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Mason grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet Tex cooked their eggs in and dropped it just as quick, yelping as it hit the floor. He shook his wrist. “Stupid thing, still hot.”

Tex helped clean up the egg on the floor. He put the skillet in the sink, too, and wondered if callouses were yet another thing Mason lost at college, ‘cause the skillet wasn’t that hot, at least, not when Tex picked it up.

“I got an appointment in the city tonight,” Mason said as he left for work. “Don’t wait up for me.”

And then he was gone, once again leaving Tex a prisoner of the buzzing silence.

-

Soda didn’t mind when Tex talked his ear off—he didn’t interrupt, at least, when Tex got going on a story. Tex rambled about the Collins kids, and Johnny’s motorcycle, and how Tex jumped the creek with it that one time. He told Soda about school pranks and favorite teachers. He even told him about Pop: Childhood recollections of summers past, when Pop would take them to the fair or buy them treats.

Those memories sent a particular stab of pain through Tex’s gut. Thinking about his parents didn’t used to hurt, but he’d wised up the last few years, at least a little bit, enough to know that half the stuff Pop did for Tex was only because Mason made him. 

For all his sarcasm and stinging bluntness, Mason never made Tex feel like a fake brother. But sometimes, Pop sure made him feel like a fake son.

“Where’s your dad now?” Soda asked, changing out a curry comb for a dry bristle brush as they groomed opposite sides of Nancy Mae, Mr. Kencaide’s newest quarter horse.

Tex shrugged. Dust puffed off Nancy Mae’s sides in little clouds. “Dunno. He stopped coming ‘round a few years ago.”

“What about your brother?”

“Oh, Mace sticks close,” Tex said. “He almost didn’t go to college ‘cause of me, but I made him. He’s real good at basketball—got a scholarship and everything, though he’s still gotta work a couple jobs on the side. He called every weekend to make sure I didn’t burn the place down.”

“Sounds like a tough guy.”

“Yeah, he’s okay.” Tex wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Sometimes he’s real mean, but I think he’s just scared, you know? Like a cornered dog.”

“Scared of what?” Soda asked, sorta gentle, like Tex’s mom used to be. He’d stopped brushing and stood there with his arms leaning against Nancy Mae’s side, face cupped in his hands while he listened. Tex wasn’t used to so much focus, not when he started rambling—Soda’s honey eyes warmed a place through his skin, right down to his heart. Made him feel important. Made him feel heard.

What scared Mason? Tex didn’t know anymore. Losing the house, probably. Scared of the state taking Tex away, though the older he got, the less they had to worry about that. Scared of getting stuck in Oklahoma. Scared of staying.

A lot of stuff scared Mason.

“We had a big fight a couple years back,” Tex admitted. “I don’t think he ever really got over it.”

“Being an oldest brother ain’t easy,” Soda said, gaze caught on some unseen memory. “All that burden, with no one to lean on. They need someone looking after them too, y’know?”

But Mason was the toughest person Tex knew, tougher than the cowboys in movies, tougher than ol’ Pop who never mustered the nerve to stay. Mason needing to be looked after seemed as foreign as the moon asking for a hand to hang it in the sky. How did you look after a guy who looked after himself? How did you look after a guy who looked after you ?

“I don’t think so,” Tex said. “He does his own thing, he don’t want my help.”

“ Want—” Soda winked— “is a very different word than need.”

-

“What’s college like?” 

The bed creaked, a telltale sign Mason wasn't as sleep as he pretended. “There’s a lotta people.”

“You like any of ‘em?”

“Some. Most of them don’t like me.”

Tex shot straight up, despite the late hour, and guffawed. “Shoot, no kidding? You ain't popular there?”

“Obviously not,” Mason snapped, and yanked Tex back down. “They think I’m a hick.”

“You are a hick.”

“Wow, thanks a lot.” Mason rolled over, turning his back on Tex. “I love talking to you, it always makes me feel so great, you know?”

Tex blinked at the dark ceiling. Mason’s voice held more tension than a tightly wound spool of wire, but Tex ain’t sure what he said. Mason, for all his sarcasm, rarely got under Tex’s skin. But Tex seemed to hurt Mason an awful lot without meaning to.

“Do you like Indiana?” Tex asked.

A moment of silence. Then, “A little.”

“More than Oklahoma?”

“It’s different, is all.”

“I like Oklahoma more,” Tex said, turning over on his side.

Mason snorted. “You’ve never been anywhere else.”

“So? I can still like it here.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“Hey Mace? You’re too smart to be a hick.”

A sigh. In the darkness, Mason’s hand found Tex's. “Go to sleep, man.”

-

One day, Soda didn’t show up to work.

“His brother called,” Mr. Kencaide said. “He’s out sick.”

After, Tex swung by the ranch on his way home. The house was so still, Tex thought it might be safe to leave the bushes, until the screen door slammed and Darry appeared on the porch.

“I know I ain’t who you’re lookin’ for,” Darry said to Negrito, real low like sharing a secret, as he went through the motions of Negrito’s evening routine. He knew how to care for a horse, but it was clumsy and unloving, a babysitter stuck with someone else’s kid. “He’s having one of his bad days.”

After, Tex crept out to take care of the parts Darry missed, the kisses to Negrito’s nose, the whispered compliments. And then, before he left, he swung by the house—one last rash act, just to spite the parts of himself affected by Mason’s influence—and peeked through the back window. He’d gotten so used to Soda being around, that without him, the place didn’t feel right anymore.

Inside was darker than a church without God, but after a moment his eyes adjusted to the dim shape of furniture, carpet and lamps. Soda slouched in the armchair. His eyes were open but he didn’t move, gaze fixed to a stain on the carpet, like he saw right through the floor to the dirt and earthworms underneath. He scratched at the back of his left arm. Jittery, like the ticking hand of a clock, unconscious to the rapid march of time. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Over and over again. His fingernails were bloody.

Tex ran. He didn’t want to see any more.

-

He dreamed of a car accident, and Sodapop’s bum leg, and those lightless eyes stuck staring at nothing. When Soda blinked, the eyes changed into Mason’s, but were still blank, still staring. Tex tried to reach him. He tried to say something, to make Mason look at him, but Mason blinked and the room became empty, no one but Tex left in the vacant house. No one left to love him. A stayer in a family of goers.

He might've been crying, when he opened his eyes to the dark room. He wasn't awake, not really, but not asleep either, and he felt a pressure at his back, arms around him. A deep sense of knowing— Mason’s got him.

He wasn't awake, not really. But he wasn't dreaming anymore.

Mason’s got him.

Tex slept. He didn't dream again.

-

The next day, Soda puttered around the barn like he’d never left.

“Bet ya missed me,” he crooned to the horses, all charmer. Bandages hid his left hand. “Ol’ Kencaide don’t love you like I do.”

He had to rest more often than usual, that day. Tex didn’t mention it. 

-

The summer break saw Mason edgier than usual, a grenade with pulled pin, waiting to detonate. The longer he stayed, the more restless he became.

One day he got home from work later than usual, after making a detour in the city. Tex asked what for, and Mason snapped, “I had a hankering to smell the roses.”

Tex didn't know what that meant or when Mason got interested in flowers, but he wasn't stupid enough to poke the bear. Mason slumped in his chair, shoulders pulled inward, and glowered at his chili so hard he could burn a hole clear through the spoon.

“One of the horses got rain rot,” Tex yelled from the kitchen. “Got all these nasty sores up his legs, and Soda taught me—”

“Glory sakes, Tex, can you shut up about your coworker for one damn second?”

Tex slammed the silverware drawer, harder than he should. “What’s your problem, man?”

“A fella would think he hung the moon with the way you keep yammering about him. It’s enough to give me a migraine.”

“Well I think he’s cool! He's the only person who listens to me when I tell him stuff!”

Mason rolled his eyes. “Great, guess I'm chopped liver.”

“At least his brothers actually like him,” Tex snapped, and just as quickly wished he could take the words back. They were past this, the bickering and name-calling, the shouts of I hate you! He'd said that once before. He didn't want Mason to think he meant it again.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I shouldn'ta said that.”

Mason looked away, jaw clenched. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

They ate in silence for a few moments, nothing but the clink of spoons against ceramic.

“You going to the rodeo this weekend?” Mason asked, not glancing up.

“Yeah.”

“I might come.”

Tex dropped his spoon. “Shoot, no kiddin’? I thought you worked at the steak house on Saturday.”

“I got fired,” Mason said, like it was no big deal. He leaned back. “Dropped a tray. Broke a crap ton of dishes.”

“Is that why you’re being so mean?”

“I reckon.” He took another bite of chili. Try as Tex might, he couldn't imagine Mason—strong, capable Mason—dropping a tray. He watched his brother from across the table, doggedly eating without making eye contact, and wondered when Mason got to be left-handed.

-

“Where’d that scar come from?”

Tex, stretched out on his tip-toes to get a bucket off the top shelf, glanced over his shoulder. Soda stood in the feed room door, cane propped against his leg. He looked at Tex’s side, where his shirt rode up. Puckered skin, pink as a kitten’s paw, twisted into a knot above Tex’s hip.

Tex puffed out his chest. “I got shot.”

Soda’s gaze drifted away, toward the little window letting in summer heat. One of those pregnant silences followed, the kind that left Tex feeling stupid, like he missed something right in front of his nose; Soda’s eyes, all glassy, and his fingers tap-tap-tapping at his cane like they had a mind of their own. Then:

“We match,” he said, lifting the side of his shirt. There, right beneath his ribs: a scar like Tex’s. “Hey, grab another halter on your way out.”

And just like that, he was gone again.

-

“Soon,” Tex whispered into Negrito’s ear, nothing but darkness and the quiet pasture to keep them company. The Curtis boys were out. The horse was his. “I’m gonna get you back soon.”

Negrito whinnied, high and warbling. He sounded like the girls who stood around their lockers in packs, side-eyeing everyone and laughing through their nose. 

Tex snorted. “You don’t believe me? Alright bud, just you wait and see.”

He left the ranch with a cold pit of dread in his stomach. Negrito wasn’t wrong to doubt. The longer time went on, the less Tex believed himself.

-

“What comes after highschool?” Soda asked him one day, as Tex mixed oats and barley into mash. Soda sat on a crate and cut carrot pieces into the mixture while Tex stirred. Soda’s hands moved with quick imprecision, the carrots falling in uneven chunks. Steam rose from the bucket and clung to his hair. “What do you want to make of yourself?”

Tex wiped his face on the back of his sleeve. Mason bugged him about this very question, saying Tex needed to get smart and make a plan, but Tex hadn't got the first clue what he wanted to do. Most days, he didn't think past dinner time.

“I ain’t going to college, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “I’ve had my fill of tests and teachers. I’ll probably just keep doing this. I like it here.”

A hum, deep in Soda’s throat. His leg—the good one—bounced. “No dreams?”

Tex’s dreams usually fell into a category Mason would call “unrealistic.” He got Negrito back, and Jamie Collins married him instead of leaving, and Mason came ho—

“No dreams,” Tex said.

“None?” Soda raised his eyebrows. “Shoot, kid, ain’t nothing ever filled you with fire?”

“Everything fills me with fire,” Tex said, and Soda guffawed. Tex grabbed a jar of molasses and drizzled it into the mash, watching the thick rope of liquid ooze out of the jar. “I like rodeo.”

“You could go pro, you know. Chase the circuit.”

The circuit. Oh, he'd thought about it, alright. Following the rodeo from town to town, never stopping for a breath, living in the stirrups and the sky and the dust. Boy, bronc, a dizzying cycle. An endless line of horses, with the little house and his childhood bedroom waiting for him at the end. He could get high on that dream.

But Tex also thought of Pop; always gone on an adventure, that dream-drunk cowboy who traveled like he had nothing to lose, not even the kids he called his own. Mason hated Pop, and for a while, Tex thought he did, too. But at the end of the day, the house remained empty. And he would do anything, even forgive the man who didn't have a right to be his dad, if it meant having someone else inhabit the silence with him.

“I dunno about the circuit,” Tex said at last. “Travelin’ alone seems awful lonely.”

“My little brother is hiking across the country,” Soda said. Another carrot chunk dropped into the bucket. “That’s what he wanted to do this summer, before heading back to college. He wants to see the world, wants to set his eyes on somewhere that ain’t home.” He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I traveled, once. Spent all my time dreamin’ of coming back.”

“Some people are goers,” Tex said. “You’re a stayer, like me.”

“Nah, kid. I went. I just came back, that’s the difference. Sometimes—” he looked away, over Tex’s shoulder, and his eyes got that glassy look like he wasn't there anymore, his feet in the sky instead of planted firmly in the dirt. “Sometimes I think about taking my horse and just makin' a break for it, riding clear on out to Texas. Just me and him and all that open land, all that sky to lasso.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Can’t feed these fellas mash if I’m in Texas,” he said, hauling himself to his feet. He gripped his cane, and Tex suddenly realized that as much time as Soda spent with the horses, Tex had never seen him atop one.

“Besides,” Soda said with a smile, “I got my own Mason to take care of.”

Tex had no idea what that meant. As he followed Soda out of the feed room, he found himself wondering for the first time what Sodapop Curtis would look like in the saddle.

-

On Saturday, they woke up early, took the highway into Tulsa with windows down, the old truck rattling around them. Mason drove, jaw set in that familiar way when something had upset him, though Tex couldn't imagine what. The whole day waited in front of them, nothing but sun and rodeo and riding.

Mason disappeared into the crowds to find a place to stand, and Tex headed towards the chutes. He got his number and joined the crush of cowboys milling around the gates. That’s where Soda found him.

“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Tex grinned, slapping him on the back. “You gonna ride?”

Sodapop guffawed, so loud the sun could hear it, and smacked him upside the head. “Don’t get mouthy, you little bastard. I’m here to watch you .”

They pushed closer to the ring, and watched cowboy after cowboy hit the dust. Soda commented on their strengths and weaknesses, and pointed out things for Tex to remember when his own turn came.

“Turn your knees,” he said, “and don’t forget to keep your legs up.”

Soda followed Tex to the chute. The bronc raged, a simmering bundle of power ready to explode. Tex clambered over the fence, and then into the saddle, finding the stirrups with his feet. A surge of electricity. He knew his brother was in the crowd somewhere, holding onto his seat with white knuckles. Tex couldn't see him, but he could feel Mason's gaze all the same.

Soda reached through the gate to grip Tex’s knee. His eyes burned lightning gold, brighter than the beast stamping at the earth—wild, manic, sun-kissed. Tex waited for the last piece of advice, but Soda only grinned with sharp teeth:

“Hold on like hell.”

The gate opened.

Boy. Bronc.

Hold on tight, don’t let go.

Tex’s shoulder hit the dust and he darted up again, rolling away from kicking hooves. The ride was over too fast, they always were, and he couldn't remember a second of it except for the dizzying surge of glee, the adrenaline. Soda’s whoop broke through the din from the bleachers. Tex spun in search of the scoreboard.

10.04.

He made the minimum time. He completed the ride.

The roar of announcer and onlookers and music compressed to a dull buzz as he staggered towards the fence. He heard Soda hollering, atta boy! and give ‘em hell! and that’s how it’s done! Then he'd clambered over the fence and into the crush of onlookers already cheering for the next cowboy in the chute. Tex turned, dizzy on his feet. Mason clung to the fence, yelling his name, and with one final push of adrenaline, Tex surged forward.

He rammed into Mason shoulder first, sending them both crashing into the fence, his arms flung ‘round Mason’s neck. They were both yelling, but neither were listening, and at some point Mason got his arms around Tex, crushing him against his ribs, and Tex thought, I did it.

The rodeo continued. The next few cowboys easily outmatched Tex and his name disappeared off the scoreboard. But he still completed the ride. He held on for ten seconds.

“Unbelievable,” Mason said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You actually did it.”

Tex puffed out his chest. “’Course I did. Next time I’m gonna actually win something.”

He heard his name called over the surrounding roar. Soda pushed through the crowd, whacking anyone unlucky enough to be in his way with his cane. Mason did a double-take. “Is that—”

“Soda!” Tex bounded forward. “I kept my knees turned!”

“You did!”

“And the stirrups!”

“I saw!”

Tex bounced on the balls of his feet as a million tons of energy coursed through his veins. Soda looked at him with unbridled pride spilling from his eyes, sun-scorched and golden, swelling in the heat. He gripped Tex by the shoulder. “You did real good, little buddy.”

For just a moment, the world was perfect, and Tex thought he could pass out from happiness.

Then the next bronc rider's name was called. And just like that, the sun snuffed out.

Tex whipped around. Mason stared back, eyes huge. Together, like puppets on the same string, they jolted towards the fence. The gate opened, the horse released like lightning from a bottle, and there on its back, hanging on for dear life: Pop.

He held on for 11.12 seconds. They watched the whole thing, and it could’ve been eleven years, for how long it seemed. Tex felt cold inside. Beside him, Mason had gone still and quiet.

“Tex?” Soda’s voice, still behind him. “Everything okay?”

Pop hit the dirt.

And then Mason got hold of Tex’s collar and dragged him away from the fence, away from Soda, through the milling crowd and towards the parking lot.

“I’ll be damned if he sees us,” Mason muttered, every scrap of him tense, even his words. “Damn bastard, he didn’t even come home.”

Tex stumbled after him. He felt like he’d been kicked off a horse again, but without the rush of pride to soften the fall. They made it out of the rodeo, and then Mason let go of him, striding ahead across the sizzling pavement. They got to the truck. Mason kicked the tire. 

“Damn fool,” he kept saying, over and over again, like a chant. “He didn’t even come home.”

“Maybe he just got here.” Tex bit his nails, chewing them down to the quick. “Maybe he’s still gonna.”

“He could’ve called.”

(In the past, Pop always called.)

Mason paced. Tex leaned against the side of the truck, hot metal burning him through his shirt. For the first time in months, he hadn’t checked the line of bronc riders in search of Pop. This time felt different—because Mason was there, and Soda too, following him up to the chute and pressing confidence into the grip on his knee. Just for a moment, memory of Pop had been erased by the pride in Soda’s eyes.

Tex always thought he’d be able to forgive Pop, when the time came. But suddenly, he wasn’t sure of anything.

The sound of footsteps mixed with a familiar tapping made Tex lift his head. Soda crossed the parking lot, his face scrunched as he met Tex’s gaze. “You boys okay?” he asked, stopping in front of them. “You sure know how to make an exit.”

At the sound of his voice, Mason whirled. “You!” he snapped, striding forward. “You’re the guy my brother won’t shut up about!”

Tex’s ears burned. “What the hell, man?”

Soda looked between them, eyebrows raised. He was shorter than Mason—most people were—and wirier too, but where Mason steamed, spitting, his body vibrating with stress, Soda seemed bigger for his calmness. He smiled and extended his hand. “You must be Mason.”

“Oh, so he does talk about me,” Mason snapped, and Tex couldn't figure out what made him so mad—it wasn't Soda’s fault Pop forgot about them. But Mason was riled up now, too much pent-up anger, his temper like a bronc let out of the chute as he loomed over Soda. “We’re trying to have a private conversation here, so you can just walk yourself back across the parking lot and out of our business.”

The barest hint of a amusement flickered at the corners of Soda’s mouth. His lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m not trying to butt in,” he said, incredibly gentle; the same voice he used for taming colts. “Just makin’ sure you boys are alright.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Mason said. “Teaching him things, filling his tomfool head with nothing but horses. He’s not some scared little kid living on his own, he don’t need you looking out for him. I’m his brother, I take care of him!”

Tex’s eyes shifted between the two. He felt like he missed something right there in front of him, that he was too stupid to see: Soda, impossibly calm, and Mason on the verge of hysteria.

Soda reached forward, “Kid—”

Mason shoved him. Too hard—Soda grunted in surprise and pain, his cane slipping against the pavement. But Mason also hissed, clutching his hand to his chest like he’d been burned. They stared at each other for a long, tense moment.

Soda’s eyes softened. Then, impossibly gentle, “Kid, I go to the hospital sometimes, for my leg—I’ve seen you there, haven’t I?”

Mason stared at him with the eyes of a wild horse, cornered, with a rope around its neck. “Mind your damn business,” he mumbled, and stalked back to the truck.

“What did he mean?” Tex asked, scrambling in beside him. “Mace, what did—”

“Shut it,” Mason yelled, jamming the key in the ignition. “If I hear another word I’m gonna drive us off a cliff, you got that?”

Tex settled back, but he couldn't sit still. His leg bounced a restless rhythm as they pulled out of the rodeo, leaving Sodapop Curtis in a cloud of dust. They drove in silence. No radio, no open windows, no talking. Mason gripped the steering wheel with only his left hand.

“Pop didn’t come home,” Mason whispered into the stale air. “He didn’t even call.”

-

They didn’t talk about it when they got home. They ate dinner in stony silence, Tex a vibrating mess, Mason stiff and stony. Then they went to bed.

Mason took forever to fall asleep, tossing and turning on the little mattress, but at long last his breathing deepened. Tex slipped out from under the covers. First he checked Mason’s wallet, still in the back pocket of his dirty jeans. Then he went through the drawers in Mason’s bedside table. He didn't know what to look for, but Mason was too tidy to not keep a record of his life. Surely somewhere, Tex would find the missing jigsaw piece.

Nothing turned up in the bedroom, so he moved to the kitchen. In the junk drawer, he found an envelope with the hospital’s letterhead. He peered inside.

It was a bill.

-

In his dreams, he walked alone through the house. He could hear Mason’s voice, always on the other side of a wall, but no matter how many doors he opened, he always entered an empty room. He followed the trail of his brother’s voice, but he couldn't find his brother.

 Tex stood in the center of the living room. Alone.

-

“…ou gotta wake up.”

Tex blinked. The living room was dark. Mason’s voice a dull hum in his ears, like noises underwater. With a gasp, Tex whirled around, desperately clawing for his brother.

“Ow,” Mason said flatly when Tex smacked him in the chest.

“You’re here.” Tex grabbed his arm. He gripped so hard that Mason tried to wriggle away, but Tex wouldn't let him. “You’re here.”

“Duh.”

He wasn't alone in the house.

“We’ve got to do something about your sleepwalking,” Mason said as they went back to the bedroom.

“I don’t get many nightmares anymore,” Tex mumbled, burrowing under the quilt. “Not when you’re home.”

A moment of quiet. Then, hesitantly, “Was it bad when I was gone?”

Tex shrugged. “It don’t matter.”

“It does.”

“I can’t go,” Tex said, like an explanation. He pulled the blankets up around his chin. “You can’t stay.”

Mason chewed on the inside of his cheek, his right arm pressed to his chest where his heart beat. Tex rolled onto his side. Silence pooled between them, an uncrossable ocean. Then:

“When did you hurt your wrist?”

Mason stiffened. “I didn't hurt my wrist.”

“I ain’t completely stupid, man.”

“Pretty stupid,” Mason said nastily, and then swallowed, thick. “It was. Um. The first game of the semester.” He rubbed his nose. “Got benched for the rest of the season.”

“And it still ain’t better?”

“Doctor told me I need surgery if I want to play again, but I can't afford that.” Mason shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

For as long as Tex could remember, Mason lived and breathed basketball, shooting hoops when he was still short enough to barely crest Pop's shoulder. He spent his life on that court, doing the drills, working 'til the sweat dripped into his shoes, facing the future with deadly focus. If Tex only ever cared about one thing, so did Mason: basketball was Mason’s Negrito.

The thought should have filled Tex with spite—fate’s paybacks for what Mason did to Tex those few summers ago, without warning or compassion. But Tex had grown, and he understood Mason better than he used to. Now, all he felt was a cold ball of dread deep in his stomach. 

What would Mason do, if he couldn't play anymore? How could anyone move on from a blow like that?

“I knew Pop would forget about us eventually,” Mason whispered suddenly, and Tex didn't know why, of all things, that’s what was on his mind right now. “I just keep thinking—is this how he felt? I mean, he’s made to travel, it’s in his nature. When I was born, was I the damn wrist injury that held him back from his dreams?”

“Stupid way of lookin’ at it,” Tex scoffed.

“I dunno. I can almost forgive him, thinking about it like that.”

“We'll be okay,” Tex said, because it seemed like the only thing he could say. The words felt like a lie. But then, they'd always been okay before. They'd been through a lot, and somehow, they always made it through.

Mason snorted. “ You'll be okay. You've got your dream job with damn Pepsi-Pop Mountain Dew and his magical horses.”

“Yeah, but—” Tex turned toward Mason, who doggedly refused to tear his gaze away from the ceiling— “it ain't the same as having you.”

“I'd think it would be better.”

Tex wrinkled his nose. “Why? He ain't my brother.”

Mason stiffened when Tex pressed against his side, but he didn't push Tex away, either. The night hummed around them with a hundred sounds. Tex thought Mason might be crying.

-

On Monday, Soda didn't show up to work, and that evening after Tex finished up for the day, he swung by the Curtis ranch. Their last meeting lingered like a bitter taste in his mouth, a fruit he bit into only to be rotten inside. So many things had happened in the past few days, they jumbled together in his head. He needed to see his horse.

But Negrito was gone from the paddock. Tex checked the little barn, and Negrito's tack was missing from its usual place. On top of that, Soda's cane leaned against the wall, abandoned. Tex turned in circles in the empty barn. As many times as he'd skulked around in the bushes, he’d never once seen Negrito ridden. 

He wandered into the feed room. Soda was a sentimental ol’ cuss, and a pack rat to boot—scraps and memorabilia covered the table in the corner, the whole time-line of his life. A framed photo caught Tex’s eye: Soda and Darry when they were knee-high, gap-toothed and grinning. Behind them, a beaming mother and father, and in between them, a toddler with piercing green eyes and a pout that could start wars.

Tex wondered what happened to reduce that beautiful family to a household of two. And then he thought of the picture on his own dresser—Mom and Pop and Mason and Tex—and suddenly, it wasn't so hard to imagine.

Funny how life whittled away the people you love. When he was a little kid, he never could've imagined life without his mother, or Pop and his silly, scatterbrained ways. In the end, Mason was the one he got stuck with. 

(In the end, Mason was the only one who really mattered.)

Tex put the photo down, and it clinked against something metal. Dog tags. Mason mentioned seeing letters from ‘Nam the first time they were here, when he made Tex swear to keep his visits to Negrito secret. Mason hadn't seen the name, but he said Darry was probably a Vietnam vet, said he had the look.

Tex picked the dog tags up and held them, swinging, in front of his nose. The evening light pouring through the window hit them just so, emblazoning the name in molten gold. But that name—

“That sure don't say Darry,” Tex whispered.

Hoof beats outside the barn interrupted his discovery. He dropped the dog tags like hot iron and crept to the door. He was stuck in here, no way out. Shoot, Mason would tan his hide.

The horse slowed outside the barn, and then he heard a thud, the crunch of brittle grass, and a soft groan. Negrito, nickering gently. Sodapop’s voice: 

“Kid?”

Tex froze.

“You’re here, right?” He sounded— not angry , but thin in a way Tex only heard from Mason when he was trying to hide another ulcer, his voice stretched out and tight. “C’mon, now’s not the time to be shy.”

Cautiously, Tex pushed open the barn door and stepped out. Soda lay on the ground staring at the sky, with one leg crooked up and the other twisted beneath him. A fully tacked Negrito snuffled in his hair. 

Even with all the blood drained from his face, Soda still grinned. “Hey, man.”

Tex jammed his hands in his pockets, shifting from foot to foot. “How’d you know I was here?”

“Buddy, you’re ‘bout as sneaky as a rattlesnake fixing to bite someone’s ankle.”

Mason would never let him hear the end of this.

“I need you to put ol' Mickey away for me,” Soda said. “But first, help me inside ‘fore Darry looks out the window and flips his lid.”

Tex scrambled forward, and with an arm around his shoulders, Soda hobbled into the barn. Negrito trailed after them like a lost puppy. Soda’s leg dragged painfully, stiff and heavy at the knee. He sank to the ground outside Negrito’s stall with a stifled groan.

“What happened?” Tex asked.

“I did somethin’ Darry told me not to do.” Soda laughed through clenched teeth. “Big brothers are the worst, man. They gotta be right about everything .”

Tex grabbed Negrito’s bridle before he could wander away and tied him to the hitching post. Negrito huffed warm horsey breath into his face. Tex snickered and pushed him away.

“He knows you,” Soda said, as Tex closed the stall door.

“’Course he does, he’s mine.”

Soda laughed. He was always laughing, even now, face pinched white with pain. “Funny—he's mine too.”

-

After, Tex unsaddled Negrito while Soda sat in the corner, picking at the handle of his cane. That spaced-out look had returned to his eyes, like he was lost somewhere between a memory and the current moment. Tex felt as though he were watching the world through a TV screen.

“If you knew I was coming by, why didn’t you say nothin’?” Tex asked, unbuckling the leather girth strap.

Soda blinked hard, resurfacing. “Where’s the fun in that? A guy wants to do something illegal every once in a while, I ain’t gonna stop him.” He nodded toward the horse, trying to eat Tex’s hair. “What’d you call him, when he was yours?”

“Negrito. You?”

“Mickey Mouse.”

“I like my name better.”

Soda guffawed. “Sorry, kid, but that name is even stupider than Sodapop.”

Tex put the saddle away and exchanged the bridle for a halter. He turned Negrito loose in the pasture, and then Soda wrestled himself up and followed them. His leg twisted under him, still stiff, but he kept going until he was seated on a hay bale outside.

“What happened?” Tex asked.

Soda chewed on his nails. Even while in pain, he couldn't stop moving, crackling with restless energy. “Damn knee locked up. Darry said it would.” He huffed. “He didn’t think I could get in the saddle by myself though, so I proved him wrong there.”

“No, I mean—” Tex nodded at the cane resting against Soda’s hip, and thought of the dog tags in the storage room. “What happened? And none of that alligator crap, I never believed all that.”

“Aw shoot, yes you did. You ate that story up!”

“I didn’t.”

Soda threw up his hands. “Whatever you say, pal.” A moment of silence, as he scratched at his knee. Then, “I was over there for six months—‘Nam, I mean. Got to come home early ‘cause I caught a bullet in the chest and jeep on my knee. Landmine. Whole vehicle landed on top o’ me.”

He said it without expression, like reading a list of supplies, not the story of his life. He looked up to meet Tex’s gaze. “Not everyone gets to be a stayer.”

Tex wondered if Soda killed people—and then a split second later, realized that if Soda had been shipped off to war, with a gun put in his hands and jungle mud beneath his feet, he'd definitely killed people. That was part of the deal, getting drafted. Your country got honor and glory, and you came home with a bunch of corpses stacked at your door.

That picture didn't seem right, Sodapop Curtis with a rifle in his hands, getting his knee messed up thousands of miles from home. Tex had seen the war propoganda, and he'd seen the anti-war stuff, too. Soda seemed too golden for all that.

“Mason thought your brother was the vet,” Tex said.

Soda burst out laughing, so violent he choked. “ Darry? Hell naw, man, war would kill Dar. He’s too brittle, he don’t bounce back from stuff like that.” He scratched at his leg, and then, too breezily, tipped his chin towards Negrito kicking up dust at the far end of the pasture. “How’d you lose him, anyway?”

“We needed the money. How’d you lose him?”

“The rodeo owned him, not me. He was always mine, though.” Soda’s eyes crinkled as he watched Negrito, the same kind of fondness when a mother looked at her kid. “My ornery pony.”

“He likes you more than me,” Tex admitted, and it felt like surrendering at a duel. “Even though I had him longer.”

“Me and him, we tore up the turf.” Soda chuckled. “Man, we were something.”

With eyes locked on his horse’s every motion, wistfulness bled through the breaks in his voice. Who was he, when he was Tex's age? Tex could imagine him—like a cowboy in a western, slouched in the saddle with wind-tossed hair, chaps and boots, the devil’s own grin on his perfect handsome face. That was Soda's dream, wasn’t it? The one he’d told Tex, when they talked about the future.

“Were you going to Texas?” Tex asked. “You and him, just now—were you going to lasso the sky?”

Sodapop Curtis smiled, and somehow it was the most ancient thing in the world. “Some things just ain’t meant to be.”

In the surrender of his voice, Tex heard a different truth: Soda would never sell Negrito. He'd lived too much of life, spent too much time losing the things he loved, to lose this one too.

What a cruel joke, that after a decade Sodapop Curtis finally got his horse back, only to be unable to ride him. What a cruel joke, that after months of saving, Tex McCormick had the money to buy his horse  only for Negrito to fall into the hands of someone who wouldn't sell. 

And what a cruel joke, that all MasonMcCormick had ever wanted was to make something of himself, and the very hands that earned him a future were the ones that ruined it for him.

Who was a cowboy who couldn't ride? What was a boy without his horse? Who was a basketball star who couldn't play? Why were the best parts of a person’s life snatched away from them, without warning, without mercy?

“Some people go and some people stay,” Tex whispered. “And some people, they don’t get a choice.”

-

They sat together, watching Negrito graze and gallop laps, and for the first time in a long time, Tex didn't have anything to say, and Soda stayed motionless as a bronze statue. Silence usually got under Tex’s skin and made him feel itchy. But this was nice, companionable even, just the two of them and the horse that bridged a decade between their childhoods.

“Nice place you got,” Tex finally said, looking around him.

Soda beamed. “It ain’t much, but we worked hard for it. My kid brother—he’s in college, going for an eight-year degree or something nuts like that—he writes detective books and they got real popular. It makes him a tidy little profit, enough to pay for schooling and buy this place for us. I owe him a lot.”

Then he smiled, tipping his chin toward the house. “I owe that guy even more.”

Tex watched Mickey Mouse kick up his heels in the soft grass, still green before the worst of the hot season. He couldn’t imagine how a little ol’ book bought all this. Ink and letters and dry, dusty paper didn’t seem comparable to so much open sky.

“I don’t like to read,” he said, glum. “It drives my teacher nuts.”

Soda laughed so loud, Mickey pricked his ears and trotted over, wanting to be part of the gossip. “To tell ya the truth,” Soda said around a mouthful of horse-hide, “books ain’t my rodeo, either. I’m trying to get through Pony’s ‘cause they’re special to him, but the kid uses words I don’t even know how to say.”

“Mason does that too,” Tex said. “I ain't stupid, he's just too damn brainy.”

“I don’t sleep so good these days,” Soda admitted, looking back towards the house, “so Darry’s been reading to me in bits and pieces. Stuff makes more sense with an Oklahoma twang.”

Negrito rammed his face against Tex’s chest, like a little kid switching between parents. Tex scratched behind his ears. “The only book I like is Smokey the Cow Horse .”

“Wait, no kiddin’?” Soda whirled around. “Man I loved that book!”

“My teacher found me a bunch of books by the same guy. They’re real good too, lottsa cowboys and stuff.”

“Yeah?” Soda hauled himself to his feet and sauntered back towards the house, the old self-sure swagger returning step by step. Tex scrambled after him. “You’ll hafta bring ‘em next time you come 'round.”

He said it so casual, like the most natural thing in the world. Tex found himself agreeing before he even caught on to what Soda meant. Excitement licked through him like lightning. “Wait, I can come back?”

“Obviously,” Soda scoffed. “Mickey likes you.” Then, softer. “He needs to be ridden.”

As they approached the house, Soda’s older brother stepped onto the porch, arms crossed and eyebrow cocked. He came down to meet them when he noticed how much worse Soda's limp had gotten, and folded an arm around Soda’s shoulders.

“Found another stray?” he asked, with the ghost of a grin haunting his mouth.

“This is Darry,” Soda said to Tex. “He’s my Mason.”

With the soft light in his eyes and an apron tied around his waist, Darry didn’t seem so scary anymore—all the stern, hard stature, but with a touch of kindness. Mason would think he was alright.

“Cake's done,” he said. “Kid, you stayin' for supper?”

With a jolt, Tex noticed the shadows stretching for his boots, the trees rimmed in setting gold. “Shoot, I gotta go,” he mumbled, scrambling for his watch.

“Sure.” Soda leaned peacefully against Darry. “Come back anytime. The door is always open even if nobody’s around.”

Tex nodded, turning to race down the drive. And then, skidding on his heels, he was back again, flinging himself at Sodapop Curtis so hard it knocked the wind outta both of them.

“Thanks,” he said, breathless. Soda only laughed.

He turned again, really going to leave, but this time Soda called him back, yelling his name when he was already halfway down the drive.

“Hey Tex?”

He glanced back.

“Darry’s lookin’ to hire.” Soda grinned. “Y’know, if Mason has the time.”

(Darry looked like this was as much news to him as it was to Tex, but he only laughed, and bundled Soda inside.)

-

Mason found him sitting in their bedroom, the lights off and a jar in his hands.

“What are you doing?” Mace asked, cautious, like he'd walked into a trap. “Tex McCormick, did you steal that?”

Tex smiled. He rattled the jar, coins clinking together, wads of dollar bills packed tight against the glass. “I earned it, stupid.”

Mason took a step forward. His wrist curled against his chest, cupped protectively in his other hand. “This isn't still about the damn horse, is it?”

“Maybe.”

Mason stopped at the foot of the bed, still wary. Tex had seen colts that did the same, afraid to approach because they didn't know if they'd get a kind word or a kick. Mason looked older than Tex had ever seen him. College had not been gentle.

Tex held out the jar.  

Mason snorted. “What, you want me to count it?”

“Nope.” Tex rattled it. “I want you to keep it.”

Mason still didn't get it, written plain as day on his face, but he took the jar anyway and gave it an experimental shake. “How much is in here?”

“Enough to buy a horse. At lease as much to fix your arm.”

Mazon stiffened. His eyes darted from the jar of money, to Tex, back to the jar. Then he tossed it on the bed. “No way, man. You worked for that.”

“So? I'd rather you be happy.”

“It's your horse .”

“I don't hate you for it, Mace,” Tex said, the words an unburied time capsul, brought back into the light. They were fifteen and seventeen again, covered in broken glass on the kitchen floor, tears and blood mixing on their faces. They were fifteen and seventeen in the truck cab, driving away from Tex's only dream. They were fifteen and seventeen in a hospital hallway, one of them bleeding out on a guerney, the other sobbing until he went numb.

“I kinda wish you'd stop hating yourself for it, too.”

Mason stared at him, unblinking, until his eyes turned glassy and red-rimmed. He turned away and scrubbed a hand over his face. “You bastard, you're gonna make me cry.”

“Shoot, I've seen you cry before.” Tex grinned, scooting forward. “Remember the time when I got shot—”

Before he could finish, Mason stepped forward and grabbed him in a hug so tight, Tex thought his lungs might burst. Damp soaked through his shoulder, but then, Tex cried too, and smiled, sinking into Mason's warmth. He’d never taken Mason for the hugging kind. 

But people changed. Boy, did he ever know that. 

“How'm I s'posed to look after you when you're pulling stunts like this?” Mason mumbled, his voice raspy.

“'Cause you're my ornery pony.” Tex grinned bigger. “And sometimes, I gotta look after you .”