Still alive.
That night, we played pool, hustled a couple of locals, and drank The Honey Pot’s famous beer like it was water. I even danced with some redhead who pulled me onto the floor while the guys whistled and hollered.
I don’t dance anymore.
Don’t laugh much, either.
And the men I was here with that night?
All gone. Apart from Angus.
My smile fades as I pull into the lot, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
The past is dead.
The man I used to be is buried with it.
But some bonds don't break. Brotherhood. Loyalty. The unspoken oath we took to have each other's backs, no matter what. Angus's wife nearly died. Someone tried to murder her. And now he's calling in a favor—one I owe him a hundred times over.
I'll grab a room here for the night before hitting the road at dawn. Angus needs someone he can trust, and there aren't many of us left.
I kill the engine and step into the cool night air, rolling the tension out of my shoulders.
Inside, the air is warm and rich with the scent of oak, whiskey, and slow-roasted barbecue.The polished wood floors gleam under the low light, and the familiar murmur of conversation fills the space.
The Honey Pot hasn’t changed.
Not in the years since I last passed through, and maybe not in the decades before.
The walls are lined with polished wood and old photographs, making the place feel lived-in rather than rundown.A jukebox hums in the corner,playing some slow, sad country song about women leaving and dogs dying.
A far cry from the seedy hole-in-the-wall accommodation I’m used to. The Honey Pot has standards.
The “Rooms Available” sign near the entrance catches my eye—hand-carved, not slapped together like an afterthought.
The guy behind the front counter is built like a damn mountain,arms thick, expression unreadable.
He looks me over, assessing me. “Need a room?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just for the night.”
He grunts, reaching under the counter and sliding over a brass key. I turn it over in my palm, feeling its weight. It’s heavy and worn smooth from decades of use, like a relic from a time before plastic cards and digital access.
“Third door on the left, upstairs,” the mountain rumbles. “Breakfast is served from six to ten. Don’t start shit, and we won’t have a problem.”
Fair enough.
I pocket the key and climb the stairs to my room to unpack—not that I have much. Traveling light comes with the territory.
I could use a drink, so I head back downstairs, nodding to the bartender as I slide onto a stool.
“Beckett?”
I turn at the sound of my name. A genuine smile tugs at my mouth for the first time in a long time. “Well, hell. If it isn’t the only park ranger who could probably break a grizzly in half.”
Emmett Furbane looks exactly the same—broad shoulders, steady eyes, and the quiet confidence of a man who knows every inch of the wild and could disappear into it without a trace. A man who sees more than he says.
“Damn, Beckett,” he says, clasping my hand in a firm shake before pulling me in for a quick, back-thumping hug. “Didn’t think I’d see your fugly mug in my bar again.”
