When I opened my eyes, he was already at the stairs, moving with that same easy stride, never looking back.
I closed the door with shaking fingers, then stood there for a second, just breathing. The hallway was silent except for the distant wail of a trumpet from upstairs.
I touched my cheek, half-expecting it to still be warm.
It was scorching.
Ten
Ford
Ishould’ve gone home, but I didn’t want to be alone at Chickadee. All I could think about was the heat of Lily’s kitchen and the blue sprinkles on Noah’s lips and the way my heart hammered in my chest even now, after I’d left. I was keyed up—wired and restless in a way I hadn’t been in years, maybe ever. I was fallin’ for that woman and I couldn’t deny it. Didn’t want to.
Instead of driving straight back to the ranch, I did what every other emotionally hyped up, thirty-something rancher in Whittier Falls would do. I walked over to the Dusty Barrel.
The Barrel was the kind of place that looked closed even when it was open, its windows so caked with dust and nicotine you had to squint just to see the neon beer signs. Out front, the battered wooden porch slanted away from the door as if trying to escape the whole building. I could already smell the place before I got inside: spilled beer, fryer grease, the low piney note of cheap sanitizer, and the sharp tang of something unidentifiable but definitely alive.
I paused at the threshold, letting my eyes adjust. The inside was dim, lit mostly by a few burned-out bulbs and a pool table lamp held together with duct tape and hope. The floors werescarred from too many line dances, the bar top worn to a greasy shine, and the booths along the walls were half full—ranchers, a couple of college kids, one lady in a postal uniform taking shots like it was medicine.
It was a Tuesday night, so the volume was more country radio than chaos. Still, every head in the place swiveled my way when I stepped through the door. For a second, I considered turning around. But then I spotted them at the bar: Mason and Walker. Side by side, boots propped on the brass rail, posture so relaxed it was almost a dare.
I hesitated, but then forced myself to move and made my way over, ignoring the low murmurs and the brief, icy glares. Mason saw me first. He had a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, texting with his thumb in a slow, deliberate rhythm. When he looked up, he gave me the kind of nod a man reserves for another man who once bailed him out of a ditch at two in the morning. After our talk at Chickadee the previous week, I was hopeful we could truly be friends again. He looked like he was too.
Walker turned next, and his whole face split into a wolfish grin. “Well, hell,” he called, voice echoing off the bottles behind the bar. “Didn’t think you had the guts to show up in public after what happened to your face.”
I rolled my eyes and slid onto the empty stool next to him. “Yeah well that guy was always a tough one.”
Mason set down his beer, lips quirking at the corners. “You mean Damon? Last I saw, he was bitching to Gray about how his fist hurt.”
Walker’s laugh was pure, unfiltered Montana. “Now that’s justice.”
The bartender, a woman I vaguely recognized from high school—Addie, maybe?—came over and regarded me with theflat stare of someone who’s spent too long serving people who didn’t tip. “What’ll it be?” she asked.
“Rainier, if you have it.”
She snorted. “Of course we have it. You want it in a glass, Mr. High Roller?”
I shrugged. “Long as it’s cold, I don’t care.”
She popped the cap off a bottle and slid it over to me.
Walker raised his glass in mock salute. “To the prodigal son. Back in town, still making questionable life choices.”
I clinked my bottle against his, and for a brief moment, the world didn’t feel like it was about to tip over.
We fell into a not-all-that-uneasy rhythm. Walker did most of the talking, which was probably for the best. He had a story for everything, and half of them were about the three of us growing up: getting lost in the snow on the back forty, stealing horses (temporarily) from Red Downs, skinny-dipping in Blacktail Creek and then having to run home naked when the deputy’s headlights appeared over the ridge.
Mason kept mostly quiet, but when he spoke, it was with that old, sardonic warmth. “You know, I still have the scar from the time you tried to make a bonfire with gasoline and a half pack of sparklers,” he said, rolling up his sleeve to show the faint white line on his forearm.
I winced. “I thought I’d read somewhere it was safe.”
“You never read anything, Ford,” Walker shot back, and we all laughed, the sound sharp and bright.
I started to relax, a little. My shoulders dropped, my breathing slowed. The tension that had lived in my jaw since I got back to Whittier faded, replaced by the low hum of nostalgia and, under that, a cautious optimism. Maybe I really could stay. Maybe things could be different now.
Then the door swung open, and all the oxygen went out of the room.
Gray and Damon entered like they owned the place, which they kind of did. At least, Gray did. He was the firstborn of the Anderson line, the one who’d taken over Red Downs and turned it into a damn near legendary operation. He wore his rancher’s uniform—worn jeans, boots, a flannel that probably cost more than my first computer. He’d always been broad, but the years had turned him from a linebacker to a brick wall. Even his stubble looked aggressive.
