Page 122 of Heartland

“Fucking hell,” Griffin snarls, rolling away from me. “What thefuck, Dylan.”

“Fuck you,” I bite out, shakily sitting up. “You don’t get to drop that bomb and laugh it off.”

“What bomb?” he bellows, sitting up.

“A fuckingjokeabout the tractor tire!” I shout. “On Christmas Eve!”

He stares back at me with the same self-righteous gaze he always wears. And I just can’t take it. I’m like a grenade that bounced when it landed and has yet to explode. I lunge at my brother, knocking him back on the snow with a grunt.

Here’s a tip for later—never tackle an ex-football player. Barely a half second after I watch his head bounce off the snow, the world tilts and I find myself on my back.

But I have anger on my side. I struggle with everything I’ve got, knocking him in the side of the head and curling my abs to try to twist free.

Ultimately, it’s no good. After a quick and brutal scuffle, I’m pinned on my back, squinting up into Griffin’s angry, dark eyes. “Are you on something? Serious question. Speed? Coke? What the fuck did you get into?”

That’s when I hear my mother gasp from somewhere nearby. In my peripheral vision, I see Mom and Daphne and Isaac and God knows who else.

“Nothing!” I gasp at Griff. And all the fight suddenly drains right out of me. I flop back against the snow as Mom marches toward us. “Are you really that mean, though? Serious question. You don’t get to bring up that fucking tire and turn your back on me like it’s nothing.”

“Dylan.” His voice is pure exasperation. “Whataboutthe tire?”

“I get that you’re pissed at me. But you don’t need to bring Dad into it.”

“WhataboutDad?” he demands.

“Jesus Christ. He asked for my help with a tractor tire on the day hedied. I didn’t show up. You want a replay on Christmas? I guess I can’t stop you.”

“What?” Griffin gasps, releasing me. “Dad changed a tire? Why?”

“Because—” I put one hand down on the frigid snow and push myself up. “Because I was horsing around with Keith and missed the school bus. So he tried to do it himself. And that was it.” I can’t even bring myself to say the last part out loud.He died trying.

“Mom?” Griff asks. “Is any of that true?”

Exhaustion bleeds through me. Because of course Griffin doesn’t believe me.

“No,” my mother says, stunning me. “Well, Dylan missed the bus. But it didn’t matter. Your father decided hours beforehand not to change the tire. He asked me to call T-Core for a service. They came at noon.”

“What?” I gulp.

And then mom is there in the snow in front of me, on her knees in the cold, and grabbing my hands. “Dylan, it wasn’t your fault. I had no idea you thought so. It wasmyfault.”

“What?” I repeat. That makes no sense.

“He said he wasn’t feeling well. But I didn’t press. He didn’t eat his lunch, and I thought that was strange. But I was busy doing the payroll and baking three pies. Pecan.”

“You never make pecan,” I say stupidly. Because nothing makes any sense.

“Right,” she whispers, her eyes sad. “I can’t look at a pecan pie anymore. That’s what I was doing when your father went back to the tractor shed to listen to the baseball game on his shop radio. Alone. And I never saw him again alive.”

My body must be shaking, because I hear my teeth chattering. “But the t-tire was there. When I found him.” I saw it with my own eyes, leaning against the wall where he’d left it.

“Whoa. Slow down.Youfound him?” Griff asks. “Fucking hell. I didn’t know that.” Griffin had been away at the time, training with other would-be football stars.

“He did,” my mother says, tears in her eyes. “It was a horrible thing.”

“I thought…” I can’t quite get the words out. “The tire was right there.”

“He always kept the busted ones,” Griff said. “They’re useful sometimes.”