I type three words. Delete them. Type them again.
Thank you. - B
My thumb hovers over the send button longer than wise. It's too much, too personal. It opens doors I've spent two years sealing shut.
It suggests Lucy Reid's opinion carries weight with me, which is a complication I can't afford.
But she embraced me today. Looked past the anger and rigid control to whatever damaged thing exists underneath, and offered comfort without demanding explanations.
When was the last time anyone had done that?
I hit send before I lose my nerve.
The phone goes dark in my hands, leaving only firelight reflected on the black screen.
In the surface, I can see my own face. Older than my thirty-six years, harder around the edges than I once was.
The face of a man who chose duty over desire so often he'd forgotten the difference.
Until today.
Until Lucy Reid looked at me like I might be worth saving.
The whiskey is gone, the fire burning low, and somewhere in the darkness beyond these windows, my injured dog sleeps in the clinic of the man I once called brother.
Tomorrow I'll drive back into town, back to the careful dance of avoidance and hostility that keeps everyone at a safe distance.
But tonight, for the first time in two years, I find myself wondering what might happen if I stopped playing the villain in my own story.
What might happen if I let someone see who I actually am.
The phone buzzes once more.
You're welcome. See you tomorrow. - L
Simple words. Professional courtesy. But something in that message makes my chest tighten with possibilities I'm not prepared to acknowledge.
I set the phone down and stare into the dying fire, watching the last flames lick at charred logs.
Outside, the coyotes have gone silent, leaving only wind and the settling house... and the weight of choices that can't be undone.
Tomorrow I'll return to the clinic. I'll check on Dusty, maybe catch another glimpse of the woman who's somehow managed to slip past mydefenses.
Maybe I'm not ready to stop playing the villain. But for the first time in two years, I want something worth fighting for.
And Lucy Reid might just be exactly that.
6
Colt
The Dusty Spur hasn't changed in the twenty years I've been coming here. Same scarred wooden bar worn smooth by decades of elbows and bad luck. Same neon beer signs casting blue and red shadows across smoke-stained walls, same smell of stale peanuts and regret soaked into the floorboards.
Tonight it's half-empty, just the usual suspects nursing their disappointments over cheap liquor and cheaper excuses.
Perfect. Last thing I need is company.
I slide onto my regular stool, the leather cracked and molded to my particular brand of misery.
