Page 18 of Careless Hope
“Then it’s settled,” Mom declared, raising her glass. “Now, let’s finish eating before everything goes cold.”
I settled back into the worn wooden chair, my fingers tracing the grain of the table as I listened to the laughter and conversation that once felt like home. The roast was savory, and each bite should’ve been a comfort, but it lay heavy in my stomach, like an unspoken promise I had yet to keep.
Gray’s words echoed in my head, a challenge wrapped in concern, and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was merit to his skepticism. Had I been too carefree, too wild? The cowboy hat on the hook by the door felt like a testament to a life half-lived,one foot always out the door to the next rodeo or late-night adventure. But times were changing, and so was I.
Gran always said actions spoke louder than words, and Gray needed more than promises; he needed proof. To earn his trust, I’d have to do more than change—I’d have to evolve. Not just for him, but for all of Red Downs Ranch. It wasn’t just about riding lessons or tourists or even the therapy. It was about legacy, something enduring I could build and be proud of.
And being committed wasn’t necessarily about losing your sense of fun. It was about planting your boots firmly where they matter. Proving you could be counted on.
“You alright, honey?” Mama asked quietly, her eyes soft and knowing, as if she could read the turmoil written in the crease of my brow.
“Better than alright,” I replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes yet. “Just thinking about tomorrow’s work.”
Mama nodded, pleased, and the conversation shifted, leaving me alone with my thoughts again. As dinner wound down and everyone said their goodbyes, I lingered at the table, looking out the window at the sprawling ranch bathed in twilight.
The night was quiet, save for the distant call of a coyote, and the stars above were starting to blink awake. Tomorrow would bring the scent of hay and leather, the sound of hooves against the earth, and the feel of dirt on my hands. It would also bring a chance—a chance to transform doubt into belief, and belief into something tangible.
I just needed to do something big to prove it to Gray—to all of them. Something that would turn their opinion of me on its head.
6
Caroline
The Dusty Barrel’sneon sign buzzed like a beacon in the heart of Whittier Falls, casting a warm glow over the wooden facade. I pushed open the door, the familiar scent of sawdust and spilt beer welcoming me back to a place that hadn’t changed much since my high school days. A blend of anticipation and unease curled in my stomach as my gaze swept across the sea of cowboy hats and denim, searching for Sutton.
“Caroline Cressley, back in the saddle?” a voice called out from the bar with a chuckle. I mustered a smile, recognizing the bartender from years gone by, but didn’t stop. This wasn’t a nostalgia trip; it was recon. My mission? To learn from a friend who knew how to navigate life’s more social terrains better than I ever did.
The thumping bass of a country-rock hybrid reverberated through the soles of my boots as I wove through clusters of townsfolk. They were caught up in their own worlds—laughing, swapping stories, living lives that had rolled on without me while I’d been off chasing my medical degree.
I sidestepped a tipsy couple stumbling off the dancefloor, their laughter trailing behind them like the tail of a comet. The Dusty Barrel was alive with energy, a stark contrast to the quiet, orderly halls of the office where I spent most of my days—and nights, if I’m honest. It reminded me of what I’d given up to legacy and responsibility.
It’s not that I wanted to be in a crowd of rowdy drunk ranchers every night. But it was telling that instead of being put off by the overstimulation, I was filled with a sense of longing.
I spotted Sutton toward the back of the room, the embodiment of everything I wasn’t—confident, easygoing, rooted. She sat at a corner table, her brown hair cascading over her shoulders, a mug of something frothy cradled between her hands. She looked up, her gray eyes catching mine, and I felt a flicker of relief.
“Hey!” I called out, raising my hand to wave as I dodged a rowdy group of guys vying for the next round of pool. One of them nearly clipped me with his cue stick, too busy boasting about some long shot he’d made to notice the near-collision.
“Watch it, Doc,” he drawled, catching sight of me at the last second, his grin wide and unapologetic.
“Sorry, just passing through,” I muttered, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.
“Hey, Caroline!” Sutton beckoned, her voice a lifeline in the cacophony. I navigated around the dance floor, where couples spun and swayed, lost in the rhythm of a song about love and wide-open spaces. It struck me then, how this place was like a microcosm of Whittier Falls—people from all walks of life, with common goals. Maybe socializing wasn’t as scary as I feared it would be. Maybe I was finally ready to be part of life again.
I finally reached Sutton’s table, my breath a bit uneven—not from the short trek, but from the unfamiliar thrill of being here, in this moment, ready to step outside the neat lines I’d alwaysdrawn around my life. It was time to learn a thing or two about the world beyond prescriptions and patient charts. Time to start living a little more like the characters in the romance novel waiting for me on my nightstand.
Sutton’s smile was like the sun breaking through storm clouds, and her hug wrapped around me with the kind of warmth that could thaw the chill from the coldest winter day. “Thanks for meeting me here. I needed a drink after the long day I’ve had.”
“I was happy to. I figured I might as well start this education sooner than later and the Barrel might be the best place for a crash course.”
“No kidding,” she said with a snort as a drunk couple passed by us, their hands gliding all over each other.
I slid into the worn wooden booth, the leather seats squeaking a familiar tune beneath my jeans. The air was thick with the scent of bar food and beer. A kaleidoscope of voices rose and fell in a symphony of ranch stories, each tale punctuated by hearty guffaws or the sharp twang of a fiddle from the live band tucked away in the corner.
I leaned back, letting my gaze drift over the scattered remnants of peanut shells on the floor, the flickering neon signs advertising local brews, and the couples two-stepping with an ease I envied. There was something about the Dusty Barrel that felt like coming home, even if I’d never really been one to frequent bars. It was as if the walls themselves were whispering old secrets and shared memories, inviting me to let go of the rigid self-control I clung to like a lifeline.
“Feels good to be back, doesn’t it?” Sutton’s voice cut through my thoughts, her gray eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Surprisingly, yes.” I smiled, realizing that for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t thinking about patientappointments or diagnostic tests. Well, until that moment. “It’s louder than I remember, though.”
