The bell over the door sounded like a dare, and every hat at the long table turned like a jury that had already made up its mind. Travis’s cast glowed white against his shirt, a reminder of the day the chute gate failed and the bull didn’t. I could feel Cimarron Wells itself holding its breath as I stepped forward, rehearsed words dissolving on my tongue. Don Hollister’s eyes met mine from the table’s end, and in that moment, our mortgage, the hospital bill, and our daughter’s shattered savings felt heavier than any branding iron I’d ever swung. I opened my mouth to speak, knowing that if I named what Don had done in front of God and Hartley County, the ground we all ran cattle on would crack down the midd… Continues…
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