I move toward the door, but Josie waves me down from where she’s setting up the tap lines. She’s wearing a pair of overalls over a flannel shirt, looking every bit the part of a ranch hand.
“Sit,” Josie commands. “You’ve been running around since dawn. Hattie just brought in a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls. You need sugar.”
“I don’t have time for sugar,” I protest, though my stomach growls in betrayal.
“Make time,” she says, sliding a plate across the high table near the stage. “You’re going to crash before the first fiddle is tuned if you don’t eat.”
I look at the cinnamon rolls. They’re massive, dripping with white icing and pecans. My resolve crumbles. I take a bite, the warmth and sweetness exploding in my mouth. It’s delicious. It’s grounding.
“I can’t believe this is actually happening,” I say around a mouthful of roll. “Two days ago, this was just a crazy idea Pearl had over pancakes.”
“And now it’s a full-scale operation,” Pearl says, appearing at my elbow. She’s wearing a hard hat over her turban, holding a measuring tape. “We’re going to save this ranch, Saramaria. And we’re going to look good doing it.”
I look around the room. It’s starting to transform. The APBRA event coordinators—usually found organizing high-stakes rodeo finals—have turned their considerable talents to a hoedown. They are a machine. Carrie moves with the precision of a general, directing traffic and solving problems before they arise. Lila manages the timeline, coordinating with the local vendors who are donating supplies.
It makes me feel hopeful. Genuinely hopeful.
Since the storm, since the confrontation with Boone about the fines, I’ve been operating on a razor’s edge. I already wired a significant chunk of my savings to the lumber yard to cover the cost of the pipe and the electrical supplies Boone found. It hurt to see that money go. That money was supposed to be for my future, for a condo, for security.
But if tonight works, if this fundraiser brings in the money we need, I won’t just be saving the ranch. I’ll be proving that I can do this. That I can be part of this town.
The front door opens.
The noise level in the bar drops instantly.
Willa stands in the doorway. She’s wearing jeans that look like they’ve seen better days and a large knit sweater that swallows her frame. Her hair is pulled back in a messy braid, and she isn’t wearing a scrap of makeup.
For a second, nobody moves. Then, with a collective squeal, Dot and Pearl rush forward.
I’m right behind them.
We engulf her. It’s a tangle of arms and coats and the scent of vet clinic antiseptic and rain.
“You’re here,” I say, squeezing her tight.
“I wouldn’t miss this,” Willa says, her voice muffled against my shoulder. She hugs me back, hard.
When we pull apart, her eyes are shining. She looks tired, the circles under her eyes still dark, but the terrified edge is gone. She seems... lighter.
“I brought beer,” she says, pointing to a case she set down just inside the door. “Beau’s homebrew. It’s potent, but it’s free.”
“And I brought the hard stuff,” Carrie says, walking over with a tray of shot glasses filled with amber liquid. “To celebrate the guest of honor actually showing her face.”
Willa laughs. She accepts a glass.
“To Saramaria,” Pearl says, raising her glass. “For saving the ranch. For saving us all from boredom.”
“To Saramaria,” the room choruses.
“To... surviving,” Willa adds softly.
We clink glasses. The burn of the whiskey is instant, spreading warmth through my chest.
“Okay,” Willa says, slamming her glass down on the table. “I’m here. I’m fed. I’ve had my whiskey. Tell me where you need me. Do you need me to help wrangle drunks? Check IDs? I can be a bouncer if you need me to.”
Carrie grins. “We have Wade for security. But I do need someone to coordinate the silent auction items. People have been dropping stuff off all morning. It’s a mess in the back office.”
“Done,” Willa says, rolling up her sleeves. “Show me the mess.”
