Page 25 of Rope Burn

"No."

The grin comes back. "You could've just said hello, Carrick."

He crosses past me toward the team-roping area, and his shoulder hits mine on the way by. Not a brush. A shove dressed as incidental contact.

The message is clear: I noticed you, and I'll remember that you were here. I hold my ground, let the contact absorb into my stance, and don't give him the satisfaction of turning to watch him leave.

Clint reaches the team-roping alley, pulls out his phone, and makes a call before he gets to Quinn. He doesn't look back at me. He doesn't have to.

I take out my own phone and photograph the trailer number as though I'm checking a message. Thornton 417. New Mexico plate. Ramp closed, side access locked. I record the time in the notes app and put the phone away.

Whoever Clint is calling will know I interrupted him before Morgan hears about it.

Sandy stood in a doorway at Lubbock and looked back at me and waved. Her hand came up casual, loose at the wrist. The wave of a woman leaving one room for another without understanding that the second room didn't have a door she could open from the inside.

I didn't move.

Rachel left carrying her duffel. The intervention cost me one lie and twenty seconds.

At Lubbock, I convinced myself saving Sandy would cost everything. Maybe it would have. I'll never know, because I did nothing.

I did something today.

I find Morgan near the stock office, lanyard swinging.

She's been working the fairgrounds all afternoon under her cover, pulling records and asking questions nobody cares about. Her pen is tucked behind her ear, and the clipboard under her arm carries enough fabricated notes to bore anyone who glances at it. She is very good at looking like someone with no authority.

"Clint," I tell her. "Off his roping schedule. His truck was parked beside two Thornton trailers, and he was steering a girl toward the back of one of them."

She doesn't ask me how I know what that means. The pen comes out from behind her ear. She writes on her clipboard without looking down.

"Which trailer?"

"Pen-twelve side. Second Thornton rig. Number 417."

"Did he touch the door?"

"No. He was taking her behind it."

"Then we don't know whether the trailer was the destination or the blind spot." She writes the number. "What did you hear?"

"He told her a sponsor representative was looking for new riders. Said the rep was only in town tonight and leaving early. Rachel asked about a meeting at the hotel. Clint redirected her to the rig."

Morgan's pen stops. That detail landed.

"The girl?"

"Rachel. Barrel racer. Young, first or second season. She left clean."

"You intervened."

"I told him the office was looking for him. After she left, he made a phone call before he reached the team-roping area. Whatever he's reporting, he isn't waiting."

She looks at me, and something moves behind her expression that I can't read. She finishes writing and closes the clipboard against her forearm.

"I'll put eyes on Rachel and pull every event where she and Clint overlapped."

"Watching isn't enough."