Page 23

A million dollars sounded different said aloud in a bar.

At Wyatt’s kitchen table, numbers had lived on paper. October payment. Year-end balance. Outside income. They’d been ugly, but flat.

A million dollars stood up.

I uncrossed my boots. My left shoulder had begun to throb under the shirt, a slow pulse warming the whole joint. I resisted the urge to reach across and rub it. Too many eyes. Too many people happy to see what they already believed.

Cash Calloway had announced a rodeo because Cash Calloway liked announcing things.

The room liked me.

That wasn’t the same as trusting me.

I set my bottle down.

I moved from table to table and settled the round. I shook hands. Accepted two promises to attend the rodeo, one likely lie about sponsorship, and several pieces of advice that disagreed with one another on principle.

The grin stayed easy.

That was the advantage of having worn one most of my life. Muscle memory carried it after conviction failed.

At the door, Earl called my name.

I looked back.

He had his beer raised, his expression rough with concern he’d never insult either of us by naming.

“Find the producer first,” he said.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“So?”

“Even licensed people observe the Lord’s day.”

“Not rodeo people.”

He had me there.

I tipped an imaginary hat and stepped outside.

The door swung shut behind me.

Silence hit hard enough to make me stop.

Not true silence. Gravel ground beneath boots near the far end of the lot. Music pressed faintly through the Rusty Spur’s walls. A truck passed out on the road, tires whispering over pavement before the sound thinned into distance.

But the room was gone.

No laughter to step into. No table waiting for the next line.

Just evening.

The mountains held the last pale light behind their shoulders. The sky over the valley was still blue, though darkness had collected beneath the parked trucks and along the ditch. Warm dust gave up the day’s heat under my boots.

I walked to my truck.

My shoulder had gone tight as baling wire. I opened the driver’s door with my right hand and stood there a moment, breathing through the pulse in the joint.