Cash shrugs. “Maybe you can clear it up with him yourself now that you’re back in town?”
“I didn’t come here to bother him,” I say. “Besides, he obviously moved on. Doubt his wife would appreciate an old girlfriend calling him up—”
“—whoa, whoa, whoa.” Cash lifts a palm. “Did you say wife?”
I nod. “Yeah. I heard he got married … has a kid or two …”
His full lips spread into a wide grin and shakes his head. “Wow.”
The man a few spots down attempts to flag him down, but Cash is too amused to notice him.
“What?” I ask. “What’s so funny?”
“Wyatt’s never been married,” he says. “And he definitely doesn’t have any kids. None that I know of.”
An icy burst of confusion washes over me, leaving a numbness in its place.
My father isn’t the kind to make things up. He’s as straightforward as they come. And he knows all the big ranching families over here and nearly all of the three thousand seventy-eight residents of Whiskey Springs.
“I just … I …” I don’t know what to say. And I don’t know what to think because none of this is making sense.
“Look, I don’t know all the details about what went down between you two,” Cash says, leaning in again. “I just know that you really left a mark. The bastard hasn’t been the same since … you.”
He lifts both hands as if to say he’s finished with this discussion.
“Take it up with him?” He gestures to his right. “He’s sitting at the end of the bar.”
8
Wyatt
* * *
I stare into the bottom of an empty bourbon glass, twisting it with my fingers as the sounds of classic country, clinking beer mugs, and Friday night chatter fade into the background. A few years back, when Cash and his friend, Dylan, opened this place, I gave it six months, maybe a year tops. The two of them weren’t the shrewdest, most disciplined guns in the west, had zero business experience, and they were barely old enough to legally drink at the time.
But as Cash’s closest brother, I supported him regardless.
And I promised I’d stop by for a drink every Friday night, rain or shine.
It’s always one drink, never more. And I never stay long enough to get myself into any kind of trouble. Cash says all of the good brawls happen about an hour before closing time. I suppose they’re entertaining to the right audience, but drunk drama has never been my thing.
Shoving the glass out of reach, I rise from my seat and scan the room before eyeing the door … but something feels off.
I check my pockets for my wallet, keys, and phone, and I steady myself to make sure I’m straight enough to drive home—I am.
But something still isn’t right.
There’s a heaviness in the air, a weight blanketing over me.
I run my fingers through my hair, narrow my gaze, and scan the room again—until my attention lands on the prettiest, saddest thing I’ve ever seen.
Blaire Abbott.
So it was her the other day at the intersection. It happened so fast; I spent a good portion of time these last couple of days convincing myself I imagined the whole thing.
Or maybe that’s what I wanted to believe.
Not that I never wanted to see her again. Lord knows she’s all I’ve thought about for the past ten years, and she’s all I’ll think about for the next god-willing seventy.
I drink her in like a man dying of thirst; those long legs wrapped in tight jeans, the strappy top dipping low in front, the shiny chestnut hair draped over her delicate, creamy shoulders, that ripe little cherry mouth I still taste in my dreams.
She stands planted where she is, her attention fixed on me, so I do the honors and go to her. It’s the least I can do after everything. I can only imagine the awful things she’s assumed about me over the years, and I don’t blame her one bit.
“Blaire.” God, it feels good to say her name again.
“Wyatt.” Her arms fold and her throat bobs and her pointed gaze won’t leave mine for a second. She reminds me of a wild-eyed untamed mare—she wants to trust me, but she’s not in a place to surrender just yet. She’s keeping her guard up, and rightfully so.
“You’ve really been away all this time?” I ask. Over the years, I looked for her everywhere, in places I knew she’d never be. It didn’t matter if I was at the feed store or picking up a part for the implement or taking a lazy Sunday drive—I looked for her.
She swallows. “I’ve been in New York.”
“I know.”
Her eyes soften, as if she’s surprised I’ve cared to keep up with her over the years. While I’m not one to waste hours on the Internet, I’d once in a while find myself searching her name just to see what she was up to. Other than finding her name listed in play rosters once in a while, it was slim pickings. All I really knew was that she was acting and living in New York. I assured myself it meant she was happy and living her dream, and that’s all I ever wanted for her.