“You’re workin’ too much. You ain’t sleepin’.” Ford drags a hand through his shaggy dark-blond hair. “Think I’ve seen you crack a six-pack more than a smile these days.” “What can I say? I’m thirsty.” The joke doesn’t land. No one laughs. “Wy, the road you’re headed on—I know it.” Ford eyes me warily. “You’re sleepin’ too little. Drinkin’ too much.” I am. Because my liver can handle a lot more than my heart can. “You ain’t rodeoin’ no more,” Ford goes on, “but I see you on those horses. A hundred miles per hour without breaking. You ain’t John Wayne, kid. It’s like you’re going through the
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