The Longest Ride

She sighed. “And then the bills started coming in, and I was looking at another three months at Duke, just to allow his body to heal, and all the reconstructive surgery on his face. Then, of course, he needed lots of rehab…”

“He told me about the ranch,” Sophia said softly.

“I know,” she said. “It’s how he justifies what he’s doing.”

“It still doesn’t justify it.”

“No,” Linda said. “It doesn’t.”

“Do you think he’s okay?”

“I don’t know,” she said, tapping the phone. “I never know until he texts.”
     

     
    The next two hours passed in slow motion, elongated minutes stretching into eternity. Linda served up some slices of pie, but neither of them was hungry. Instead, they picked at the slices, waiting.

And waiting.

Somehow, Sophia thought that being here with Linda would reduce her anxiety, but if anything, she’d begun to feel worse. Seeing the video had been bad enough, but hearing about his injuries in detail made her almost nauseated.

Luke was going to die.

In her mind, there was no question about it. He would fall, the bull would swing his head the wrong way again. Or Luke would ride but the bull would go after him as he was exiting the arena…

He had no chance of survival, not if he kept riding. It was only a matter of time.

She stayed lost in these thoughts until finally Linda’s phone vibrated on the table.

Linda lunged for it and read the message. Her shoulders suddenly relaxed and she let out a long breath. After sliding the phone to Sophia, she covered her face with her hands.

Sophia glanced at the words: I’m OK and on my way home.

27

    Luke
    T he fact that he didn’t win in Macon wasn’t a reflection of how well he rode, but rather a function of the quality of the bulls. The bulls’ performances made up half of every score, after all, meaning that every event was left somewhat in the hands of the gods.

His first bull was pretty much a flat spinner. Luke held on and the ride was no doubt exciting to the crowd, but when the scores came up, he found himself in ninth place. The second bull wasn’t much better, but at least he managed to hold on while others ranked above him had been thrown, and he moved up to sixth. In the short go, he drew a decent bull, and he’d hopped off with a score good enough to move him into fourth place. It wasn’t a stellar competition, but it was enough for him to retain, even extend, his lead in the overall points standings.

He should have been pleased. With one more good weekend, he’d practically be guaranteed a place on the big tour, even if he rode poorly in the events that followed. Despite the lack of practice, despite the concussion, he was in just the position he’d wanted to be.

Surprisingly, he didn’t think that the rides had worsened his concussion. On the drive home, he kept waiting for his headache to intensify, but it didn’t. Instead, it remained in low gear, a faint hum, nowhere close to the agony he’d felt earlier in the week. If anything, it seemed better than it had been this morning, and he had the sense that by morning, it might even be gone.

A good weekend, in other words. Everything was working out according to plan.

Except, of course, for Sophia.
     

     
    He rolled home an hour before dawn and slept until almost noon. Only after his shower did he realize he hadn’t reached for the painkillers. The headache, as he’d hoped, was gone.

Nor was his body as sore as it had been after the first event. There were the usual aches in his lower back, but nothing he couldn’t handle. After getting dressed, he saddled Horse and went to check on the cattle. On Friday morning, before he’d left for Macon, he’d tended to a calf who’d had a run-in with some barbed wire and he wanted to make sure it was healing properly.

Sunday afternoon and Monday were spent working on the irrigation system, repairing leaks that had sprung up because of the cold weather, and beginning Tuesday morning, he tore off, and then, over the next two days, gradually replaced the shingles on his mom’s roof.

It was a good week, the work physical and straightforward, and by Friday, he expected to feel a sense of accomplishment at everything he’d done. But he didn’t. Instead, he ached for Sophia. He hadn’t called or texted, nor had she, and her absence sometimes felt like a gaping hole where an essential limb used to be. He wanted things to go back to the way they were; he wanted to know that