There’s something in her tone that makes me glance in the rearview mirror. Atlee’s looking out the window, but I catch the slight flush in her cheeks. Interesting.
“Where are we going for this fancy dinner?” Devlin asks, and I can hear the reluctance in his voice.
“The Cattleman’s Inn,” Aubree says before I can answer. “It’s in Millfield, about twenty minutes from here. I looked it up online. They have excellent steaks and a nice atmosphere.”
Millfield. One town over, where we’re less likely to run into anyone we know. Smart thinking.
The drive passes pleasantly, with Aubree and Atlee chatting about everything from the ranch to Aubree’s life in Chicago. I find myself relaxing as we put distance between us and the day’s tensions, letting the familiar rhythm of the road soothe my nerves.
The Cattleman’s Inn turns out to be exactly what Aubree promised, a rustic but upscale steakhouse with warm lighting and comfortable booths. The hostess seats us at a corner table with a good view of the dining room, and I make a mental note of the exits out of habit.
“This is nice,” Aubree says, settling beside me in the booth. Her leg brushes against mine under the table, and I have to fight the urge to pull her closer.
“Better than the Rusty Spur,” Atlee admits, studying her menu. “Though their burgers are pretty good.”
Devlin snorts. “Everything’s better than the Rusty Spur. That place is held together by duct tape and stubbornness.”
We order drinks—beer for Devlin and me, wine for the women—and settle into easy conversation. For the first time in weeks, I allow myself to relax completely, enjoying the simple pleasure of good company and the promise of a decent meal.
“So,” Atlee says after the waitress brings our drinks. “What’s the plan now? I mean, with the sale done and Truett on the mend.”
The question I’ve been dreading. I steal a glance at Aubree, trying to read her expression in the dim light.
“Well,” Aubree says slowly, swirling her wine glass. “I suppose that depends on a lot of things.”
“Such as?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
She meets my eyes, and I see something complicated there—want and uncertainty warring in her brown gaze. “Such as whether there’s a reason for me to stay.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. Across the table, Devlin and Atlee exchange a look that’s equal parts knowing and uncomfortable.
“Chicago’s got opportunities,” Atlee says carefully. “Your job, your life there.”
I wonder what they talked about while they were at Nora’s apartment all day.
“Chicago’s also got concrete and noise and people who don’t know the first thing about what matters,” Aubree replies. “Sometimes opportunities aren’t worth much if you’re not happy.”
My heart starts beating faster, but I force myself to stay calm. “And are you? Happy, I mean. Here.”
She reaches under the table and finds my hand, her fingers interlacing with mine. “Getting there.”
The food arrives before I can respond, giving us all something to focus on besides the elephant in the room. The steaks are perfectly cooked, the sides abundant, and the conversation flows more easily once we’re eating.
Devlin tells stories about his Army days that have Atlee laughing despite herself. Aubree shares memories of growingup on the ranch before her parents died, painting pictures of a childhood I can barely imagine. For a couple of hours, we’re just four people enjoying a good meal and each other’s company.
It’s almost enough to make me forget about the Morrison brothers, about Truett’s shooting, about all the complications that brought us to this point. Almost.
“This was perfect,” Aubree says as we finish dessert, leaning into my side with contentment. “Thank you for agreeing to come.”
“Thank you for talking me into it,” I reply, and I mean it. This—sitting here with her, watching Devlin slowly warm up to the idea of actually enjoying himself, seeing Atlee smile more than she has in months—this feels like something worth fighting for.
We’re getting ready to leave, Devlin arguing good-naturedly with the waitress about who’s paying the check, when I spot a familiar figure near the hostess station. My blood turns cold as Noah Sanchez turns around, his eyes scanning the dining room until they land on our table.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?” Aubree follows my gaze and stiffens. “Oh.”
Noah approaches our table with that easy, practiced smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s out of uniform but still carries himself like law enforcement, all confident swagger and barely concealed suspicion.
