I'd stopped waiting for anything to be different. Stopped checking the door every time it opened. I'd made my choice weeks ago and left the letters at the cabin so Tanner would understand exactly what pattern he'd been repeating. After that, I'd focused on Outlaw, on training runs that pushed us both, on the upcoming Mustang Mountain rodeo already circled on my calendar. It was easier that way.
Then the door opened again and Tanner walked in. The room shifted. A few heads turned. Conversations paused just long enough to notice his presence before continuing, though the energy underneath them altered in ways I felt more than heard.
Tanner's gaze found mine immediately and didn't waver. He didn't pretend he'd come here for any reason except to find me. He crossed the room, his boots solid on the scarred floor, and stopped a few feet away.
"Waverly." That was all he said, just my name. But the weight in it carried more than words.
I took a slow sip of whiskey and let the burn settle. "Tanner."
He didn't move closer, didn't crowd into my space, but he didn't back away either. He just stood there in full view of everyone in the bar, visible and present in a way he'd never allowed before. Something inside him had shifted. I could see it in the set of his shoulders and the steadiness of his gaze.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
The question wasn't complicated, but the context around it was. This wasn't the parking lot after I'd confronted him the first time. Wasn't the cabin where everything between us had existed in private.
This was Ace's Place on a Friday night with half the valley watching. Before I could answer, a voice cut across the music from somewhere behind Tanner.
"I didn't know Hollisters were taking charity cases now."
The comment landed loud enough to be heard around the room and that’s how the dark-haired cowboy at the bar intended. I recognized him as one of the ranch hands who worked a spread east of town. He sat there smirking like he'd said something clever, his buddies snickering into their beers.
The room didn't go silent, but the noise softened. Everyone around us pretended not to listen while they strained to catch every word.
Tanner turned, smoothly pivoting to face the man head on, his body angled between me and the comment like a wall going up.
"Waverly Kincaid's the best barrel racer in this valley." His voice was steady and strong, and he spoke loud enough so everyone could her him. "And she's exactly where she should be."
The cowboy’s grin faltered. "I was just?—"
"You were running your mouth about something that's none of your damn business." Tanner didn't raise his voice, yet his words left no room for interpretation. "You've got a problem with her being here, you take it up with me."
The room went quiet enough that I heard someone set down a bottle too hard, the clink sharp against wood. The other cowboys at the bar seemed to suddenly find their drinks fascinating. The one who’d made the crack opened his mouth, closed it, then muttered something that might have been an apology before turning back to the bar.
Tanner stayed still for a moment longer, just long enough for everyone watching to understand exactly what he'd done and what line he’d crossed. Once he was satisfied that was the end of it, he turned back to me.
The music kept playing. Couples kept swaying on the floor. Conversations started up again, louder than necessary, with people pretending they hadn't just witnessed something that would be all over town by morning.
But I'd felt the shift. For the first time since I'd met him, he wasn't hiding what I meant to him. He wasn't stepping back or choosing silence when it mattered. He'd stood there in front of everyone who'd have an opinion and claimed me publicly in the only way that counted… by making it clear I belonged.
I sat at the bar with my whiskey still in hand, watching him watch me, letting the weight of what he'd just done settle between us. The room hummed with conversation, with people trying too hard to pretend they weren't paying attention, but I felt every gaze that landed and slid away, every head that turned just enough to size us up.
Tanner stayed where he was long enough that I wondered if he'd retreat, if he'd done what he came to do and that would be it. But then he moved. Not toward the door. Toward me.
He stopped close enough that I felt the heat coming off him, close enough that anyone watching could see exactly how things stood between us. His gaze held mine. The brown eyes that had always been observant but distant had been stripped of every filter he'd put in place to not let me get too close.
"I chose wrong." His voice came out low but clear, meant for me but not hidden from anyone else. "From the beginning, I chose wrong."
Somewhere across the room, someone laughed. The space around us felt suspended, like everything had narrowed to him standing in front of me, saying things he'd spent weeks avoiding.
"I let you walk away because I thought protecting my name, my reputation, the feud—" He stopped, his jaw working, then pushed through. "I thought all of that mattered more than you. But it doesn't. Nothing does."
My pulse kicked hard against my ribs. I didn't speak. Didn't give him an out or try to make this easier for him. I held his gaze and waited for him to say what he'd come here to say, what he'd walked into Ace's Place on a Friday night to claim in front of everyone.
"I'm done pretending you're separate from the rest of my life. Done acting like what we have only exists when no one's watching." His hand came up, not touching me yet. "You're not something I want to hide, Waverly. You're not something I want to keep quiet about. And I'm not walking away from you again."
The bar felt louder and quieter at the same time. I glanced around the room. Torin leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed and expression unreadable. Ruby sat at a corner table with the mayor, her eyes wide. Ethan stood by the door, his jaw tight with something that looked like disapproval.
Tanner didn't look at any of them. He didn't check to see who was listening or what they thought. Just kept his attention on me, steady and unwavering, like I was the only person in the room that mattered.
