Ryder slept for almost an hour, stretched out on the couch like he’d been dropped there by some invisible hand. Every so often, he shifted and muttered something under his breath—half-formed words about rope, bulls, and the sun.
Isobel sat in the armchair nearest him, knees pulled up, the wet cloth in her hand cooling again in the bowl of water Celeste had set beside her. Each time she wrung it out and laid it across his forehead, she felt the thrum of worry deep in her chest.
Wren lingered in the doorway, arms folded, his hat dangling by the brim. “You think he’ll tell a doc about this?”
Celeste’s answer was quiet, clipped. “No. He’s too much like his father that way.”
“Then what?”
“We keep an eye on him,” Celeste said, eyes never leaving her son. “And we don’t let him shrug it off.”
