Page 22 of Careless Hope
“Maybe he just needs someone to believe in him,” I whispered, more to myself than to Sutton, feeling an odd kinship with Walker in that moment. We were both searching for something more—something meaningful to shape with our own hands.
“Maybe,” Sutton agreed, pushing her empty glass aside.
Walker had told me we were friends the other day. And I believed him. Maybe I needed to show him he could count on me, too.
He turned then and caught me watching him. But instead of being embarrassed and looking away, I just smiled. He returned it with a lopsided one of his own. I thought about how hard it must be to wish for more, to hope for more, to want to make more for yourself, but everyone around you doubted your every move. Suddenly it occurred to me we were exactly the same in that way.
I wondered then if we could do something to help each other. I could be a good friend. I could give him the support he needed to go after what he wanted. And maybe, just maybe, I could convince Walker to help me with my own mission.
7
Walker
I’d saidgoodbye to the family, stepping out into the cool spring air with a mix of defeat and new purpose. I wasn’t sure which one would win out but I didn’t want to go back to my place, which sat only a five minute walk from Gray’s house, and have to think about that dinner conversation all night.
I knew I was responsible for my family’s impression of me, but I’d been less and less of a wild spirit and more like a cow tied to a post lately. And it didn’t seem to matter. I guess I’d have to do something big to change their perception, but I didn’t know what. I thought manning up and bringing new business ideas to the table would be the thing, but Gray didn’t want to hear it.
The night sky was peppered with stars, but it wasn’t enough to light the fire in my chest. My boots crunched on the gravel as I made for my truck, the leather of the steering wheel familiar under my hands. I needed something else tonight, something to drown out the voice in my head telling me I was still that reckless kid in their eyes.
My engine roared and tires kicked up dust as I drove downthe road and into town. When the neon sign of the Dusty Barrel came into view, I felt a half-grin tug at my lips and parked my truck in the lot behind the building. The place was always good for a laugh, a drink, and forgetting your worries until morning. I wouldn’t act a fool and bring home a one night stand like the old days. But I could at least drown my sorrows for a bit.
Swinging the door open, I stepped into a haze of chatter, clinking glasses, and a country tune crooning about lost love and found freedom. The Dusty Barrel was alive with the kind of vibrant energy that could make you forget the world outside its walls. I edged through the crowd, the buzz of conversation washing over me like the warmth from the old potbelly stove in my house.
“Hey, Walker!” someone called, and I raised a hand in response without breaking stride. The bar smelled of aged whiskey and worn leather, scents that spoke of hard work and harder play. Laughter erupted from a group by the pool tables, the sound as infectious as the twang of a well-played guitar.
“You lookin’ for a whiskey, Walker?” the bartender, a broad-shouldered guy named Hank, asked with a knowing look as I approached.
“Make it a double,” I said, sliding onto a stool. I caught sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar—brown hair curling around my ears, blue eyes that didn’t shine quite as bright today. I blinked, shaking my head and looking away.
The glass touched down in front of me, amber liquid catching the dim light. I picked it up, the weight familiar in my hand, and took a sip, letting the burn slide down and settle deep. For a moment, I let the sounds of the bar wrap around me, a comforting blanket of life being lived loud and without apologies.
But somewhere beneath the din and the whiskey warmth, the dreams of the ranch beckoned—the wild beauty of the horses, the satisfaction of a day’s hard work, the legacy I wanted to build. It was time to prove I was more than just a pair of hands, more than the last name I inherited. I wanted to earn it.
The twang of a steel guitar cut through the chatter, and I swiveled on the stool, leaning back against the bar to scan the room. That’s when I saw her—Jessie, with that same wild mane of hair and a smirk that knew too many of my secrets. She sauntered over, hips swaying to the rhythm of a honky-tonk anthem, each step a chapter from a past I was trying to rewrite.
“Hey, Walker,” she drawled, her voice as smooth as the whiskey in my glass.
“Jessie.” I nodded, tipping my hat slightly—a gesture of respect for the history we didn’t need to speak aloud.
“Looks like you could use some company tonight.” Her eyes glittered with an invitation I’d accepted more times than I cared to remember.
The old me would’ve taken her up on it without a second thought, drowned the restlessness in her familiar touch. But the echoes of dinner still rang in my ears—my brother’s skeptical look, my mother’s hopeful gaze. They saw the same Walker who always found his way back to the comfort of fleeting pleasures. A good-time boy and not much else.
“Thanks, but not tonight.” The words surprised even me, rough-hewn and unfamiliar.
“Come on, don’t be like that.” Jessie leaned in, her perfume a mix of wildflowers and temptation. “You know we always have a good time.”
A good time. The phrase bounced around my skull, hollow and taunting. I glanced at the half-empty glass in my hand,wondering if the burn was enough to scorch away the yearning for something real, something lasting.
“Sorry, Jessie. It ain’t you. I’m just . . . I’m looking for different these days.” The admission felt like a lasso tightening around my chest, squeezing out a truth I hadn’t known was there.
She raised an eyebrow, then shrugged, the corners of her mouth quirking up in a knowing smile. “Your loss, cowboy,” she said, before turning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd.
Left alone with the buzz of the bar and the ghost of what could’ve been, I took another sip of whiskey, the liquid fire a stark contrast to the cool resolve settling in my bones. Commitment, responsibility, legacy—they were fences I’d been too scared to mend, but now, they seemed like the only path worth taking.
I watched the throng of dancers, the soles of my boots sticking slightly to the beer-slick floor, when a familiar laugh sliced through the twang of guitars and fiddles. Turning towards the sound, I caught sight of Sutton, her brown hair bouncing as she threw her head back in mirth, and across from her, a woman whose laughter matched the timbre of nostalgia.
Caroline Cressley.
