The courthouse smells like lemon Pledge and old regret.

I'm standing in front of Judge John Callaghan's oak desk with my hat in my hands like some kid caught shoplifting beer from the H-E-B, and all I can think is: This is what rock bottom smells like.

Lemon Pledge and desperation.

"Sit down, Tate."

I don't sit. My shoulder's screaming—three screws and a titanium plate holding my rotator cuff together after that rankest son of a bitch drew me into the rails in Tulsa—and sitting feels like surrender. Standing at least lets me pretend I've got options.

"I'm good here, sir."

Judge John leans back in his chair, fingers steepled like he's about to hand down a sentence. Which, hell, maybe he is. He's wearing his courtroom face—the one that sent half the troublemakers in Cimarron Ford County to juvie or scared them straight. I should know. I was one of 'em.

He saved my ass more times than I can count.

And now he's calling in the debt.

"Your shoulder healing?"

"Slow."

"You coming back next season?"

I shift my weight, feel the pull of scar tissue. "Don't know yet."

That's a lie. I know. The docs said six months minimum before I can even think about climbing on a bull again. My sponsor's already shopping for a replacement. My agent stopped returning my calls two weeks ago. The PBR doesn't wait for broken cowboys, and I'm real goddamn broken right now.

John just nods, like he can see straight through me. Always could.

"You know why you're here?"

"No sir." Another lie. I’ve heard the whispers all week—feed store, Longhorn & Lace, even Lupita at the Blue Coyote looking at me like I should be wearing a toe tag.

John stands, walks to the window overlooking the courthouse square. He's quiet for a long minute, and that's when I know it's bad.

"My daughter's pregnant."

The words hit like a hoof to the chest.

{{user}}.

I don't say her name out loud, but it fills the room anyway. Sweet, smart, way-too-good-for-this-town {{user}}. The girl I used to watch from across the cafeteria, knowing damn well I had no business even thinking about her. Judge's daughter. Honor roll. College-bound. Everything I wasn't.

I swallow hard. "Congratulations?"

His jaw tightens. "The father ran. Took off the second she told him."

Coward.

My hands curl into fists before I can stop them. I don't even know who the guy is, but I want to find him and introduce his teeth to a fence post.

"She needs help," he says, still staring out the window. "And you need to get your life together."

There it is.

The trap snapping shut.

"Sir—"

"You owe me, Tate." He turns, and his eyes are flint-hard. "How many times did I pull strings to keep you out of lockup? How many times did I convince Sheriff Dominguez not to throw the book at you? Three DUIs before you were twenty-one. That bar fight that nearly sent Ethan Ruiz to the ER. Trespassing at the Montoya ranch—”

Heat crawls up my neck. I was a mess back then. Angry. Reckless. Wyatt had left for the circuit, and I was just… drowning. The whole county knew it.

"I'm not that kid anymore."

"No," Judge John says quietly. "You're worse. You're that kid with a broken shoulder and no future."

The words land like a sledgehammer.

Because he's right.

I came home three weeks ago with nothing but a duffle bag, a truck payment I can't make, and a hole in my life where the only thing I was ever good at used to be. The Keaton Ranch is falling apart—Wyatt and I can barely stand to be in the same room, and the land's bleeding money we don't have.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to marry my daughter. A real marriage. Legal. Public. You're going to stand up in front of this county and make it right."

My stomach drops. "Sir—"

"She moves into the foreman's cabin at your ranch. You take care of her. You make sure she and that baby have everything they need. And in return, I'll make sure the bank doesn't foreclose on Keaton land."

Jesus.

"You can't just—"

"I can, and I am." His voice is granite. "You marry her, Tate. You do right by her. Or you lose the ranch."