“Porter Garrison, meet Bryce Raintree. My almost-but-not-quite brother-in-law.”
Bryce reaches around Charli to shake Porter’s hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m a big fan,” Porter says.
“Garrison? As in Senator Garrison?” Bryce asks.
“He’s my father,” Porter says.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I heard about him wanting to dedicate a day to you,” Porter says.
Which is news to me. He didn’t say anything when I told him about Charli and Bryce.
“Yeah. He mentioned it when I met him at Cheyenne Frontier Days last year. But to be honest, I’m not interested,” Bryce says.
“Why not?” Charli asks.
He shrugs. “Just seems a little over the top. I’m not a Wyoming native. If a senator from Oklahoma suggested it, I could see it.”
“You might not have been born here, but you call Wyoming home now. And this is where you’re planting roots and opening your rodeo school, which is a big deal for the state, Wildhaven in particular,” Porter says.
“That is true,” Charli agrees.
“Think of what the endorsement of a state senator will mean for the academy,” Porter continues. “It’d be beneficial for both you and the state.”
Bryce’s interest is piqued. “Spoken like a politician,” he says.
Porter shakes his head. “I guess it runs in the family.”
“Tell you what,” Bryce says after a few beats. “You tell Barron that if he agrees to come to the ribbon cutting for the academy next month, I’ll consider it.”
“Fair enough,” Porter says.
Charli hooks her arm in mine and leans in to whisper in my ear, “Well, well, he’s already fitting right in.”
“Stop,” I say under my breath.
“Lookie what I got!” Waylon shows back up with a paper plate piled high with brisket. “Who’s the favorite now?”
The first thing I notice about The Soused Cow is the noise.
It’s not the hum of conversation and quiet music I’m used to at places like the Belicourt lounge. This is louder, rougher—boots stomping, laughter rolling across the room, the steady twang of a country band banging out a song.
The second thing I notice is the smell.
Beer. Whiskey. Sawdust. And cheap cologne.
I stand just inside the doorway for a second, letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting while the band finishes the last chorus of whatever song they’re playing.
I still don’t know how I got here.
One minute, I was sitting in Harleigh’s front yard at Wildhaven Storm Ranch with a paper plate full of brisket and potato salad, listening to her family laugh around a bonfire.
The next minute, she and her sisters were piling into my SUV. Drunk and singing at the top of their lungs.
And I was following Cabe’s truck down a dark rural highway toward this place.
