I place a call to our three biggest vendors on the drive, and they assure me they’ll send shipments this afternoon.
When we reach the bar, Logan tells me he’ll be back to check on me shortly, and he leaves me be in the empty Cowherd. The place has been shut down for the past twenty-four hours, and I spend the first few minutes dusting off the bartop and going through the books from last week. The Derby was a success. We made up for a lot of the financial loss in our security fund.
When the liquor trucks arrive, I let them in and show the delivery men into the back room. After they’ve left, I sit at my desk and stare at the empty jail cell. I feel as trapped as a mythical ghost right now.
Frustrated and helpless, and with the contract still clutched in my hand, I do what I always do when I feel this way—I get my shotgun. Time to practice for the upcoming target contest.
I walk back into the saloon and hang up the amended contract back behind the bar where it’s been for years. Then, I place twelve cans of beer into a box and open up the back serving door off the bar so I can step outside to the rarely-used picnic tables. I walk fifty feet through the hard-packed dirt and burnt grass to my target box in front of the bullet-ridden wall that remained after the last jailbreak before the prison was retired. It’s here that I set up my pyramid of beer cans.
I take aim, unlock the safety, and shoot three off-target shots in a row. I never miss. Not like this.
I’m pulling back to reload when Logan returns.
“Hey,” I say to him as he steps into the backyard. “You here to line up against me? ’Cause you know I always win.”
He chuckles. “True. And I saw the delivery trucks made it—must mean you’re back in business.”
I lock down the gun and walk inside to the bar so I can try the taps. “Thank goodness, yes. They’re connected.”
Logan follows behind. “Is that the latest one…hold up.” He glances at the contract on the wall. “This looks different…”
He leans over the bar.
And I wait for it.
It takes him about thirty seconds of reading before…
“Forever!” he says incredulously. “What the fuck is that, like eternal imprisonment?”
“Kind of like how Jane’s ghost must feel.”
I don’t look back at Logan because I’m scared if I look into his eyes, it will make me cry.
“Mace.” He reaches for my chin and lifts it up so I have to face him. “Seriously, that’s nuts. You know that’s nuts.”
“It is what it is,” I say. “The mayor did offer a loophole. He said that if Jane Austen’s ghost were ever freed—proven to be so—that he’d rethink the forever part of the contract. He claims that maybe then my father’s stress levels would decrease and he’d be less drawn to the bottle because so many customers would flood the bar to see the place where a miracle happened.”
Logan snorts. “He’s an ass to include that in the terms. The ghost is a fucking myth.”
“I know.” But I’m holding onto that myth like a lifeline right now.
“What if your daddy can prove he’s capable?”
“Without the ghost loophole, the mayor’s unlikely to bend. If my father stays sober, then maybe. But that means he can’t slip at all. And I don’t know how long he has to stay sober for the mayor to agree. Probably a long time.” I exhale. “Honestly, today I can’t even hit a darn beer can. I’m a lousy shot on top of it all.”
“You’re the best shot in Hunt County, and you damn well know it.” Logan shakes his head. “How can I help?”
I bat my eyelashes at him flirtatiously. “You already did. Last night. And the night before that.”
“Mace.”
I exhale. “I think I just need time to process.”
He nods slowly. “I’ll give you space if that’s what you need. Maybe you should make some time for yourself so you can start writing that novel you’ve always dreamed about.”
Logan always told me he could never be a novelist—he wouldn’t know what to say. He said that he always knows what to paint, though.
“Maybe,” I say without much confidence. “I can at least write in my journal.”
