My father runs a finger over his silver horseshoe mustache. “Well.” He chews the words around then says, “I won’t lie about that. I am.” He sighs as he turns to Wyatt. “Son.” Wyatt straightens. “Sir.” “You and I need to talk. But now’s not the time.” I watch my father’s fingers flex. “As a cowboy, I expected better of you.” My father’s jab cuts. Wyatt flinches. So do I. I’ve waited years for Wyatt to drop out of my father’s good graces. So I don’t know why I feel bad. Why I hate the crestfallen look on Wyatt’s face, the way his broad shoulders bow.
He’ll forgive him!
