Ryder stepped out of the old barn, the heavy wooden doors groaning shut behind him. His boots sank into the sun-warmed earth, the give of it soft from last night's dew. The air was thick with the sweetness of fresh-cut hay and that deep, loamy scent the valley kept tucked in its bones. He stretched his arms overhead, feeling the pull along his shoulders, the ache loosening just enough to make him believe he might be mending.
Down the drive, a low, familiar rumble rolled toward him. Wren's truck—dented, sun-faded, the color long ago surrendered to rust and road dust—pulled up in a slow, lazy crawl. The afternoon light caught on the cracked windshield, scattering gold across the hood.
Wren hopped out, boots crunching over the gravel, his grin as unpolished and dependable as the man himself. "Hey there, Callahan. How ya holdin' up?"
Ryder lifted a hand to shade his eyes, the sun burning white against the barn roof. "I'm alright. How 'bout you? What's got you wanderin' out this way?"
"Figured I'd check in on you," Wren said, ambling around to lean against the fender like it might fold under him. "See if you're still in one piece."
Ryder rolled his shoulder, felt the twinge—sharp but not crippling. Progress, even if it came slow. "Could be worse."
"You reckon you'll be back in the chutes soon?" Wren asked, folding his arms across his chest, his voice losing its easy edges.
Ryder's jaw worked tight, a muscle ticking as he fixed Wren with a look that could've cut through steel. "What kinda damn question is that? 'Course I am." His voice came low and steady, that Tennessee drawl laced with the clipped edge of a man who'd spent too long talking deals on Manhattan boardroom floors.
Wren lifted his hands, palms out, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth like he'd been here before and knew it wouldn't stick. The sun bore down, hot enough to bleach the color from the world, throwing sharp, mean shadows across their faces. Dust hung in the air between them—dry, stubborn, clinging to boots, jeans, skin—the same way the road clung to every man who'd ever chased eight seconds in a chute.
Ryder scuffed the toe of his boot into the dirt, eyes dropping to avoid the weight in Wren's gaze. "I ain't ready to get off," he said, voice quieter now, though the steel was still there. "Not sure I ever will be."
Wren's grin faded, the teasing sliding right off him. "You know, Ryder, you don't have to do this."
Ryder's head came up fast, eyes flaring under the brim of his hat. "Do what?"
"Keep tearin' yourself apart to make your daddy proud." Wren's tone softened, but the words carried heavy. "He's gone, brother. And when he was here, he was already damn proud of you." He looked out toward the pastures, where the heat shimmered off the fence rails. "I just don't see what it is you're tryin' to prove."
Ryder straightened, folding his arms across his chest like armor. "I ain't tryin' to prove nothin' to nobody." The defensiveness was there, sharp as barbed wire, but underneath it, a flicker—raw and unguarded. His gaze locked on Wren's. "What makes you think you get to talk to me like that? You're still in the ring, still throwin' yourself in front of horns. You've been busted up more times than you can count. So tell me—what the hell're you tryin' to prove?"
Wren let out a long breath, lifting his hands like he was trying to smooth the air between them. "Look, Callahan, I ain't here to pick a fight. I'm just sayin'… ever since your daddy passed, you've been ridin' like you're chasin' somethin' you can't quite rope." His eyes flicked toward the pasture, where the horses grazed slow and lazy in the heat. "Hell, even your style's different now. You're sharper, but you're gettin' reckless. I just don't wanna see you busted up again. Or worse."
The words settled heavy. Ryder felt his shoulders sag, the tension bleeding out of him in slow drips. "Yeah," he said finally, voice low, almost swallowed by the quiet. "I know." His gaze drifted to the dirt at his boots. "After Dad's accident… it's like I'm still runnin' after something. Maybe it's the win he never got. Maybe it's somethin' else I can't name."
He toed a rock, sent it skittering down the drive. "But I need to get back in the ring. I need to ride." The steel was back in his tone now, but under it was a hunger—old and bone-deep—that had nothing to do with prize money and everything to do with ghosts.
Wren studied him for a long beat, eyes softening in a way Ryder wasn't used to. "Doc cleared you yet?"
Ryder hesitated, glancing away toward the barn, where sunlight glinted off the corner of the hidden steel door that led down to a part of his life Wren didn't know about. "Not exactly," he said, giving a small, almost careless shrug. "But I already put my name in for Shelbyville next month."
Wren's eyebrows shot up. "That soon? You sure about this? And what did the doc say?"
Ryder drew in a long breath, the kind that filled him with the cold bite of mountain air and the sweetness of hay hanging in the stillness. When he let it out, it wasn't just air—it was the taste of resolve. "Doc says I oughta hang up my spurs," he said, voice low, steady. "Thinks the strain on this shoulder could finish it off for good. But I don't give a damn what he says. I'm ridin'."
Something unspoken passed between them then, as sharp and sure as a nod across an arena. Wren's eyes narrowed just a touch, not in judgment, but in knowing. "Yeah," he murmured. "I get it. Been there myself."
Ryder's gaze softened, the fight easing out of him like a rope sliding through calloused hands. "I know you have," he said quietly. And in that moment, with the dust rising lazy at their boots and the late sun burning the pasture gold, Ryder felt the rare weight of gratitude—for a friend who understood both the hell of the ride and why a man would crawl back into it anyway.
Ryder shook his head, the corner of his mouth curling as a laugh rolled out—low, easy, the kind that seemed to settle in the rafters of the barn before fading. "Sometimes I wonder about you, Wren. And yeah," he drawled, the Manhattan polish slipping like a shadow under the Tennessee grit, "both the girl and her friend were easy on the eyes."
That lit a spark in Wren's face. His brows climbed, and that mischievous glint got downright dangerous. "Two of 'em? Ryder, you best not keep information like that to yourself. I expect a formal introduction next time they come around."
Ryder's chuckle deepened, warm and resonant, bouncing off the wood beams and mingling with the scent of leather and dust. "Let's just saddle up Harley and Duke before you get yourself worked into a lather."
"Now that," Wren said, snatching a lead rope and heading toward Duke's stall, "is a damn fine plan." His boots crunched over the dirt floor, the sound quick and sure. "A ride's exactly what we need."