“Lies and slander,” I shot back, but she knew better. I grabbed a spoon and took a seat at the bar, letting the heat of the chili chase the last of the nerves away.
Gray lifted a beer in my direction. “Good to see you, man.”
I nodded, still chewing. “You too. Place looks great.”
He shrugged. “Not bad for a couple years’ worth of spit and baling wire. You working the house, too?”
“Every day,” I said. “Chickadee’s got more secrets than a Vegas bank vault.”
Mason grinned. “You find that old bootlegger’s stash yet?”
“Not yet,” I said, “but the attic smells like someone died in it, so I’m hopeful.”
We all laughed, and it was almost enough to make me forget the last twenty years.
The evening slid by in a blur of cards, beer, and stories. The old rhythms came back fast—Gray’s deadpan sarcasm, Mason’s running commentary, Walker’s attempts to hustle us with sleight-of-hand that a child could see through. Even Caroline, who claimed she was “just passing through,” dealt herself in more than once, and always managed to take me for at least a few chips.
It was easy. Too easy.
That should have been my first warning.
Because when the clock struck nine and Damon finally showed, the temperature in the room dropped a good ten degrees. He came in through the front door, boots echoing off the hardwood, eyes scanning the room until they landed on me.
He didn’t say a word at first. Just took a beer from the fridge and sat at the far end of the table, staring holes through me.
Walker tried to break the ice. “Damon, you made it. I was about to send out a search party.”
Damon didn’t smile. “Had to deal with a sick calf. Sorry I’m late.”
Caroline offered him chili, which he refused, and then she made her exit, saying she was off to watch a movie with the girls. The door clicked behind her, and now it was just us.
Gray shuffled the cards, his movements slower than usual. “You want in, Damon?”
He shrugged, eyes never leaving me. “Why not.”
Walker dealt the next hand. For a while, nobody said much. We played, drank, and let the cards do the talking. But the tension was an extra player at the table, lurking behind every bet and every sideways glance.
On the third hand, Damon pushed all-in and stared right at me. “You gonna call, Ford? Or you still running from the hard hands?”
It was so on the nose, so obvious, that the whole table fell silent.
I looked at him, forcing myself not to flinch. “I don’t run from anything anymore,” I said.
He sneered, but it looked tired, not mean. “That so? Only took you twenty years.”
Gray stiffened, but Mason jumped in. “He’s back, Damon. That’s what matters.”
Damon ignored him, kept his focus on me. “Yeah well maybe he shouldn’t be.”
The words stung, but I’d heard worse. I called his bet, showed my cards, and took the hand.
Walker grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “Damn, Damon, you used to be better at this game.”
Damon’s mouth twisted, but he let it go. For a while, the conversation moved on—ranch gossip, a little town politics, the usual posturing—but I could feel him waiting, like a viper in tall grass.
Finally, during a break when Gray went to check on the fire, Damon leaned across the table. His voice was low, private.
“I don’t care what you did in California, or how rich you are,” he said, eyes boring into mine. “If you hurt anybody here—anybody—I will bury you myself.”
