He looks at me, challenging me. “Don’t tell me you haven’t felt it. I see how you look at her. I see how Knox looks at her. We’re all in the same boat, Rhett. We’re all drowning in her.”
I look away. I can’t deny it. I can’t deny that I want her, too. That I want to be the one who makes her feel safe. The one who makes her scream.
“She’s not ready for this,” I say. “She’s trying to save the ranch. She’s trying to figure out who she is without her grandfather. She doesn’t need three Alphas adding to the pressure.”
“I know,” Boone says. “But she’s not going to find herself in Denver, is she? She’s going to find herself here. With us. Whether she likes it or not.”
He picks up the coil of rope.
“I’m going to go check on the cattle,” he says. “You good here?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll start digging.”
Boone walks away, his boots squelching in the mud.
I watch him go. I think about Saramaria. I think about her running away.
If Boone crossed a line, she’s scared. She’s retreating because she feels out of control.
And if I want to help her—if I want to be the one she trusts—I need to give her that control back.
I pick up the shovel. I drive it into the mud.
Friday. The party.
Maybe I will go. Maybe I’ll show her that she doesn’t have to run from us. That she can stand her ground and we will still be there, right beside her.
But first, I have to fix this damn ditch.
Saramaria
The Salt Lick during the day is a different beast entirely. Without the neon signs buzzing or the classic rock on the jukebox, the bar is a cavern of exposed wood and dust motes dancing in the shafts of sunlight cutting through the high windows. The usual smell of stale beer has been replaced by the sugary aroma of donuts.
I stand near the stage, my boots resting on a spot that has seen more cowboy boots than a dance floor at the Grand Ole Opry. In my hand, I hold a clipboard. It’s covered in lists, crossed-out items, and frantic scribbles in three different colors of ink.
“Okay, people,” Carrie Sloan shouts, clapping her hands together. The sound echoes off the rafters, startling a few sleeping flies. “Let’s move it. We have twelve hours until showtime. I want this floor swept until I can eat off it. Lila, where is the banner?”
Lila Sloan, Carrie’s twin and the logistical brain of the operation, has a headset permanently attached to her ear and a tablet strapped to her forearm. She looks up, her expression focused.
“Rolled up behind the bar,” Lila says, tapping her screen. “The graphics team dropped it off an hour ago. Gus is guarding it with his life.”
Gus, the bartender, grunts from behind the bar where he is polishing glasses with a rag that looks like it has seen better decades. “I’m not guarding it. I’m using it as a buffer so these yahoos don’t spill coffee on my clean bar top.”
He gestures a thumb at Sammy Reed, the APBRA intern, who is currently attempting to organize a stack of flyers that is slowly collapsing.
“I have them organized!” Sammy insists, her eyes wide behind thick glasses. “By color! And by font size!”
Carrie sighs, a long-suffering sound that speaks volumes. “Sammy, flyers go on the tables. Not in a pile on the floor. Go. Now.”
Sammy scrambles, tripping over her own feet and scattering a few papers. Carrie watches her go, then turns her gaze to me.
“Saramaria, the hay bales for the seating areas. Are they dry?”
“I checked them myself this morning,” I say, consulting my list. “Hattie brought them over from her barn. They’re in the alleyway. Covered in tarps.”
“Good. Get the guys to bring them in. We need to create that rustic ‘barn dance’ vibe without actually bringing in the mud and manure.”
“I’m on it.”
