He nods, accepting my answer. “Okay. Do you want me to take you home?”
Home. The word hangs in the air. My house. My sofa. My bed. The place I’m fighting to keep.
“Yes,” I say. “Please.”
He gives my hand one last, gentle squeeze before letting go to shift the truck into drive. It’s a long time before he moves his hand back to the steering wheel, and I find myself missing the warmth of his touch.
The drive back to the ranch is quiet. The landscape flies by in a blur of gold and green. I watch the horizon, thinking about Willa, about the violation she endured, about the strength it must take to survive something like that. I think about Josie, a fierce friend ready to go to battle. I think about Dot and Pearl, their sequins and rhinestones a small rebellion against the darkness. And I think about the man sitting next to me, his quiet strength a comforting presence in the passenger seat.
When we pull up to the main house, the first thing I notice is that Jasper’s truck is gone. The second thing I notice is Knox.
He’s on the porch, and the oak bed frame I bought is laid out on its side. He’s kneeling beside it, a drill in his hand, a look of intense concentration on his face. He’s tightening a loose screw, his movements sure and efficient. He’s fixing my bed.
And then I see Boone. He’s at the side of the house, near the kitchen door that’s been sticking ever since I got here. He has a small toolbox at his feet and a plane in his hand, shaving down the edge of the door, his brow furrowed in focus. He’s fixing my house.
I stand there for a moment, Rhett still beside me, and just stare. This is not what I expected. This is not the stonewalling, the silent treatment, the territorial posturing I’ve been dealing with for days.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. It’s all I can manage.
Knox looks up, a smudge of grease on his cheek. He doesn’t smirk. He just looks at me. But it’s Boone who answers. He sets down his plane and turns to face me, wiping his hands on a rag.
“We’re just trying to help,” he says. And the simple, direct honesty of the statement hits me harder than any argument, any angry word.
It’s an apology. It’s an offering. It’s a bridge.
Boone
The Salt Lick Saloon is a shitshow.
The air inside is thick with the smell of spilled beer, cheap whiskey, and the distinctive aroma of fried pickles. It clings to the dark wood-paneled walls and the worn-out felt of the pool tables.
Every few seconds, a burst of loud, drunken laughter cuts through the generic country music blaring from the speakers, followed by the satisfying crack of a cue ball breaking a triangle of colored balls.
This was Knox’s idea. Or, more accurately, his agent’s idea, passed down through Gary like a holy decree: “Look normal. Show your face. Don’t let the scandal keep you hidden.”
So here we are. Looking normal. And it’s a fucking disaster.
Judging by the number of inebriated ranch hands and local yokels who have taken this opportunity to sidle up to our table, the plan to get Knox’s mind off things has backfired spectacularly. Everyone wants to talk about it. About Jack Dalton. About Willa James. They whisper his name like it’s a curse and hers like it’s a prayer, their voices a mix of morbid curiosity and feigned sympathy.
“Damn shame, what happened,” a portly Beta in a dusty John Deere cap slurs, leaning way too far into our personal space. “Jack always seemed like such a good ol’ boy.”
Knox’s knuckles are white where he grips his beer bottle. He doesn’t say anything, just takes a long, hard swallow, his jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised his teeth don’t crack. He’s on his third, maybe fourth beer, and the angry flush on his cheeks isn’t from the alcohol. It’s from being trapped in a glass cage with a bunch of gossiping voyeurs.
“Bet the APBRA comes down on him like a ton of bricks,” another one adds, this one a lanky Alpha with a weaselly face who keeps looking over his shoulder like he expects Jack Dalton to appear and challenge him to a duel. “Can’t have that kind of press. Bad for the brand.”
Rhett, who’s nursing a single beer, shoots me a look across the table. It’s a look that says,This was a terrible idea.I nod in agreement. I’ve been nursing bourbon, and I’m on my second. I’m not drunk, but I’m wishing I was. Wishing I could just shut off my brain and not hear the speculations, not see the pity in their eyes when they glance at Knox.
“Another round?” the weaselly Alpha asks, already waving at the bartender.
“No,” I say, my voice flat and hard. It cuts through the noise, and the two interlopers flinch. “We’re leaving.”
I stand up, tossing a few bills onto the table to cover our tab. “Knox. Rhett. Let’s go.”
Knox looks like he wants to argue, but he knows it’s a lost cause. He drains the last of his beer and slams the bottle down on the table, the sound making a few nearby patrons jump. Rhett is already on his feet, his expression one of profound relief.
As we turn to leave, the bartender, a big, burly Alpha named Gus with a beard that reaches his chest, calls out. “Hey, Boone! You boys taking off?”
“Yeah,” I say, walking over to the bar. “This place is a fucking zoo tonight.”
