Chapter 20: The Last Ride

The muzzle was cold against my skull.

I did not turn around.

"Brody," I said. "You're bleeding on your boots."

"Shut up."

"You should be on a stretcher."

"I said shut up!"

His voice cracked.

The arena had gone dead quiet again.

I could hear the pickup horses blowing, and a medic running somewhere behind the chutes.

"Wyatt," Carys said, very softly, from across the dirt.

"Stay with Poppy," I said, without looking. "Both of you stay where you are."

"Walk to the middle," Brody said. "Slow. On your knees."

"No."

"I will shoot you."

"You'll shoot me in front of eight thousand people with phones," I said. "On a night when they already know what your family did."

"They don't know anything!"

"They heard it."

His breath was fast and ragged behind me.

A man who has decided to fire doesn't breathe like that.

A man who is scared and ashamed does.

"I had a title," Brody said. "I had a name. I had everything, and then you came home, you stupid, self-righteous bastard."

"You stood at my wedding," I said.

"You were never there!"

"I was at war," I said. "I paid for the house you've been sleeping in."

"She chose me!"

"She chose my death benefit," I said. "You came with it."

Cassidy, on her knees, made a small sound.

"Brody," someone said.

It was an older man's voice, rough and heavy, coming down from the stands.

Brody's father was standing at the rail with one hand on the top board.

He was a big man in a pearl-snap shirt, and he had run down the stairs for his son an hour ago.

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