I remember Moxy—but then she’s been here since Reagan was president and hasn’t changed one bit, except her hair is now pink.
“How long do we have to stay?” I ask tentatively as Joy links her arm through mine and drags me to the end of the bar.
“We just got here, for the love of sweet alfalfa, and she already wants to leave,” Aria mutters good-naturedly.
Joy gives me a measured look as she pushes me toward a barstool. “Sit your pretty ass down, girlfriend, ‘cause you need a night out. Don’t argue. Everyone’s talking about what you did at the Dunn ranch. You’re practically the Wildflower Canyon hero of the week.”
Hero.
The word makes my stomach twist.
I don’t like the attention. Nothing good ever comes of it. The ones who remember what happened with Landonwon’t see past it—won’t see me as the girl wronged by an entire town, but as an outsider who has no business sullying their pristine landscape with my presence.
“Bodie is in love with you,” Aria adds, sliding onto my other side. I’m now flanked by these two women who have decided that they’re my friends.
A warmth blooms inside me, and I have to make an effort not to run, afraid that when push comes to shove, they’ll turn on me as everyone always does. And where the hell would that leave me?
“According to Bodie, you worked that heifer at Dunn Ranch like you know how to be elbow-deep inside a cow,” she continues.
I laugh at that, despite myself. “He said that?”
“Louder than he needed to.”
Joy orders a pitcher of beer. I’m not much of a drinker—not at all, actually. Alcohol isn’t something I trifle with. That’s how Landon got me, and since then, I steer clear.
“Moxy, a bottle of water, thank you,” I call out.
The bartender shoots me a sharp look. “Ain’t got sparklin’ or any of that fancy shit.”
“Just your everyday water will do.”
“You don’t drink?” Joy asks, curious but not nosy.
I shake my head.
They don’t press. Maybe they think I’m an alcoholic, and that’s fine by me. I’m not touching alcohol in a place like this, not when it’s wall-to-wall of men and half of them already hate my guts.Nuh-uh.That’s a risk I’ll never take again.
While Joy and Aria chatter about a trip they’replanning to New York, my eyes sweep the room. It’s automatic now. When you’ve been prey once, you learn to look for predators.
The fear never really leaves. Being a survivor means you carry it with you everywhere—even when the danger is only in your mind.
I’m always braced for it, always scared of it happening again. My nightmares are all the same: a repeat of that night of the ten minutes of shame and horror.
Six hundred lousy seconds.
That’s all it took to change the trajectory of my life—like a stampede tearing through a fence line, splintering everything in its path, leaving nothing standing the way it was before.
“Red Angus’ll finish faster on less feed, I don’t care what you say,” a cowboy behind me says emphatically.
“Hell, Herefords’ll marble better. You just don’t know how to feed ’em right,” another counters.
A smile touches my lips. No matter where you are, if you’re in ranch country, the conversations are all the same. California, Montana, Texas, and now Colorado—I’ve heard these same discussions on repeat.
Two women lean over their longnecks, boots kicked up on the rung of a chair.
“Trimmed his gelding’s hooves myself last week. Took me nearly two hours.”
“Two hours? Honey, you need sharper nippers.”
