a good rest, then start using him again on the Montana circuit, which started in July.
Almost four months passed before he’d returned home again—earlier than intended thanks to Willa’s tip—to find Trena and Beckett long gone. She’d remained in the area until just before he’d returned. But had Beckett? That was the question.
The answer was almost certainly no.
The only way he knew to get the answers he wanted was to hunt Trena down and demand them. But even if he did that, would the answers be truthful?
Knowing what had happened would allow him to beat the shit out of whoever had hurt his horse, but it wouldn’t solve anything and it wouldn’t erase the pain Beckett had suffered.
Matt slowed as he approached the Y where the pavement turned to gravel. In the distance he could see the lights of the Bailey Ranch, two miles down the right fork. Did Tim also think he was an asshole animal abuser? Had Liv told other people that he’d hurt his horse?
No. It would have gotten back to him, but then again...would people tell him? Or just assume he had a dark secret and not call him on it?
Matt’s jaw tightened as he realized just how possible that might be.
How in the hell could Liv have ever believed that he’d injure his best rodeo horse? And apparently still believed it, even after he told her he had nothing to do with Beckett’s injuries. Okay, so maybe he’d missed that she’d had a crush on him in high school—which was understandable, since she’d never shown a sign of having any feelings that way—but that didn’t make him a horse abuser.
Shit.
Five minutes later, he parked the truck in its usual spot by the barn and sat for a moment. It was a night where he would have preferred to be alone, primarily so that he didn’t have to make an effort to be civil when he was feeling anything but. But he wasn’t alone, so he needed to suck it up, go inside, be friendly.
“Hey,” Craig called from where he was sitting at the kitchen table typing on his laptop when Matt walked in the door.
“Hey,” Matt said, hanging his hat and then pushing his fingers through his hair. He needed a haircut. “Something wrong with the sofa?”
“What?” Craig’s eyebrows went up behind his glasses, then he caught on. “Ha. Funny one.” He went back to his typing.
Matt smiled a little in spite of himself and debated. Disappear into his room and stew, or have a beer and pretend not to stew here in the kitchen? He hated being cooped up in his room.
“What are you doing?”
“Researching. Getting a feel for your profession.”
“You’re researching calf roping?”
“Tie-down roping. The name of the event has changed.” Craig looked over his glasses. “You knew that, right?”
“I’m aware,” Matt said, wondering again how Willa had ever produced a kid like this.
“I was just wondering how someone can make money roping a calf when my mom can’t make ends meet doing hair and training horses.” Craig pushed his glasses up as he stared at the screen. “Criminal,” he said. “I think my mom needs to brush up on her roping skills.”
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” And not many people made enough money at it to live. Most, like him, had additional income or a spouse with a decent job.
“Seems like you’ve made some bucks,” Craig said.
“You’re researching me?”
“Oh, yeah.” Craig leaned back so Matt could see the screen with his smiling face on it. “You have a fan club.”
“Unofficial,” Matt muttered. “It’s, like, three people.”
“Not according to this,” Craig said, pointing to the member box. “Looks like a good part of them are women.” Craig looped an arm over the back of the chair. “So this roping gig is a good way to meet chicks.”
Matt fought the urge to reach out and turn off the computer.
Craig started typing again. “It looks like your knee is going to hold you back. There’s some question as to whether you’ll even compete.”
“I’ll compete.” Matt’s decision was made. Beer. He opened it behind the fridge door and poured it into an opaque glass, not wanting to set a bad example.
“On the Montana circuit?” Craig asked without looking at him. “Because according to this article in the Montana Standard, you won’t make it.”
“They don’t know jack.”
“Read what this Madison guy says about you.”
Matt set down the glass with a clunk and crossed the small kitchen to read over Craig’s shoulder, trying not to