Then I see it, a busted section of fencing near the west paddock. It’s sagging, the posts barely clinging to the wire, a storm’s handiwork no doubt. Cash is clearly heading there next, gloves in hand.
"I’ll do it," I say, before I can think better of it.
He turns, brows raised. "You don't know how to patch fence?"
"Used to help my dad when I was a kid," I lie, sort of. I watched him do it at least. Once.
I grab a pair of gloves, a hammer, and the roll of fencing wire. Cash watches, silent but skeptical, as I head to the broken section.
The first few attempts are... wobbly. But I figure it out. I stabilize the post, brace it with a rock like I remember seeing, and pull the wire taut with everything I’ve got.Sweat trickles down my spine, dust clings to my skin, and I mutter a steady string of choice words under my breath.
It fights me, but I get it done. And as I stand there, sweat dripping from my brow and muscles trembling, something shifts inside me. It’s not just about proving Cash wrong anymore, it’s about proving something to myself. That I’m capable.
That I can handle this life, even if it terrifies me. I look at the fence and realize this moment, his tiny victory over wood and wire, is the first time I’ve felt grounded in weeks. I built that. Me. It may not be perfect, but it’s holding. And so am I.
When I step back, the section holds, straight and sturdy.
Cash walks over, expression unreadable. He nudges the post with his boot. It doesn’t budge.
He looks at me for a long beat, then offers a single nod. "Not bad."
It’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve heard all day.
"Thanks," I say, trying not to beam.
He doesn’t smile, but there’s something softer in his eyes. Something curious. And maybe a little impressed.
As he turns back toward the barn, I hear him mutter, just barely audible over the wind, "Maybe you’re not completely hopeless after all."
I grin, brushing dirt off my jeans. Damn right I’m not.
Just watch me!
Chapter four
Whiskey and Whiplash
Cash
There’s something about a Saturday night in Wilder Creek that gets under your skin. Maybe it’s the way the neon sign outside Dusty Spur flickers like it’s winking at you, or how the thrum of steel guitar from the live band playing some George Strait, wraps itself around your spine and settles somewhere low in your gut.
I nurse a whiskey at the end of the bar sitting with a couple of ranch hands, my elbows resting on the worn wood, half-listening to the band now playing cover music of Waylon Jennings rolling through the air. The place is packed, locals shoulder to shoulder, boots stomping in rhythm, beer flowing like water. It’s loud, gritty, and familiar. Line dancers on the floor stomping their fancy cowgirl boots with fancy hats.
The kind of place where nothing changes.
Until she walks in.
I spot her before she sees me, Avery Blake, in jeans that fit like a damn prayer and a tank top that doesn’t belong anywhere near this much sawdust. Her hair’spulled into some messy thing on top of her head, loose strands framing her face in a way that makes it hard to look away. She’s got her best friend Harper at her side, chattering in her ear, and the two of them wade into the crowd like they own the joint.
I swirl the ice in my glass, watching.
Avery used to come here in high school, back when she was all polished smiles and expensive lip gloss, sipping cherry Cokes while pretending she didn’t want to dance. Now? She’s still out of place, but she doesn’t seem to care.
She moves through the room with a kind of stubborn grace, chin high, eyes scanning the crowd like she’s daring someone to tell her she doesn’t belong. I wonder if she remembers the last time she was here, senior year, when she showed up in heels and a borrowed denim jacket, danced with Tyler McCoy just to make a point, then vanished before midnight.
Or maybe she’s thinking about the rumors that flew around after, about her daddy pulling strings to keep her out of trouble, about her never coming back.
I should look away. Should keep my damn focus on the glass in my hand and the reason I came out tonight,which has everything to do with getting away from the thoughts she’s been planting in my head like weeds.
