Page 16 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

Ten

Ford

I should’ve gone home, but I didn’t want to be alone at Chickadee.

All I could think about was the heat of Lily’s kitchen and the blue sprinkles on Noah’s lips and the way my heart hammered in my chest even now, after I’d left.

I was keyed up—wired and restless in a way I hadn’t been in years, maybe ever.

I was fallin’ for that woman and I couldn’t deny it. Didn’t want to.

Instead of driving straight back to the ranch, I did what every other emotionally hyped up, thirty-something rancher in Whittier Falls would do. I walked over to the Dusty Barrel.

The Barrel was the kind of place that looked closed even when it was open, its windows so caked with dust and nicotine you had to squint just to see the neon beer signs.

Out front, the battered wooden porch slanted away from the door as if trying to escape the whole building.

I could already smell the place before I got inside: spilled beer, fryer grease, the low piney note of cheap sanitizer, and the sharp tang of something unidentifiable but definitely alive.

I paused at the threshold, letting my eyes adjust. The inside was dim, lit mostly by a few burned-out bulbs and a pool table lamp held together with duct tape and hope.

The floors were scarred from too many line dances, the bar top worn to a greasy shine, and the booths along the walls were half full—ranchers, a couple of college kids, one lady in a postal uniform taking shots like it was medicine.

It was a Tuesday night, so the volume was more country radio than chaos.

Still, every head in the place swiveled my way when I stepped through the door.

For a second, I considered turning around.

But then I spotted them at the bar: Mason and Walker.

Side by side, boots propped on the brass rail, posture so relaxed it was almost a dare.

I hesitated, but then forced myself to move and made my way over, ignoring the low murmurs and the brief, icy glares.

Mason saw me first. He had a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, texting with his thumb in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

When he looked up, he gave me the kind of nod a man reserves for another man who once bailed him out of a ditch at two in the morning.

After our talk at Chickadee the previous week, I was hopeful we could truly be friends again. He looked like he was too.

Walker turned next, and his whole face split into a wolfish grin. “Well, hell,” he called, voice echoing off the bottles behind the bar. “Didn’t think you had the guts to show up in public after what happened to your face.”

I rolled my eyes and slid onto the empty stool next to him. “Yeah well that guy was always a tough one.”

Mason set down his beer, lips quirking at the corners. “You mean Damon? Last I saw, he was bitching to Gray about how his fist hurt.”

Walker’s laugh was pure, unfiltered Montana. “Now that’s justice.”

The bartender, a woman I vaguely recognized from high school—Addie, maybe?—came over and regarded me with the flat stare of someone who’s spent too long serving people who didn’t tip. “What’ll it be?” she asked.

“Rainier, if you have it.”

She snorted. “Of course we have it. You want it in a glass, Mr. High Roller?”

I shrugged. “Long as it’s cold, I don’t care.”

She popped the cap off a bottle and slid it over to me.

Walker raised his glass in mock salute. “To the prodigal son. Back in town, still making questionable life choices.”

I clinked my bottle against his, and for a brief moment, the world didn’t feel like it was about to tip over.

We fell into a not-all-that-uneasy rhythm.

Walker did most of the talking, which was probably for the best. He had a story for everything, and half of them were about the three of us growing up: getting lost in the snow on the back forty, stealing horses (temporarily) from Red Downs, skinny-dipping in Blacktail Creek and then having to run home naked when the deputy’s headlights appeared over the ridge.

Mason kept mostly quiet, but when he spoke, it was with that old, sardonic warmth. “You know, I still have the scar from the time you tried to make a bonfire with gasoline and a half pack of sparklers,” he said, rolling up his sleeve to show the faint white line on his forearm.

I winced. “I thought I’d read somewhere it was safe.”

“You never read anything, Ford,” Walker shot back, and we all laughed, the sound sharp and bright.

I started to relax, a little. My shoulders dropped, my breathing slowed. The tension that had lived in my jaw since I got back to Whittier faded, replaced by the low hum of nostalgia and, under that, a cautious optimism. Maybe I really could stay. Maybe things could be different now.

Then the door swung open, and all the oxygen went out of the room.

Gray and Damon entered like they owned the place, which they kind of did.

At least, Gray did. He was the firstborn of the Anderson line, the one who’d taken over Red Downs and turned it into a damn near legendary operation.

He wore his rancher’s uniform—worn jeans, boots, a flannel that probably cost more than my first computer.

He’d always been broad, but the years had turned him from a linebacker to a brick wall. Even his stubble looked aggressive.

Damon was right behind him. If Gray was a boulder, Damon was the avalanche: taller, meaner, jaw set to maximum, arms folded tight across his chest. He learned to punch as a kid, but I suspected he perfected the craft in the Marines, before retiring and coming back to gain even more muscle as a rancher.

They both scanned the room, and when they spotted me at the bar, the temperature dropped by at least fifteen degrees.

Walker went silent. Mason shifted on his stool, fingers drumming the wood.

Gray took the seat at the end of the bar, giving himself room on either side. Damon didn’t sit. He just leaned in, close enough to make his point.

“Well, well,” Gray drawled, blue eyes fixed on me. “If it isn’t the man himself, still lurking around town.”

I met his gaze, not blinking. “Evening, Gray.”

Damon’s mouth twisted. “Thought you’d be drinking champagne somewhere fancy, not slumming it with us.”

I shrugged. “I like this place just fine, but thanks for your concern, Dame.”

Walker tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. Addie materialized to pour two whiskeys, neat, sliding them down the bar with the efficiency of a practiced arm.

Nobody said anything for a long minute.

Finally, Mason broke the silence. “How’d the vaccinations go?” he asked Gray and I almost laughed at the normalcy of the question, like we weren’t all pretending this wasn’t weird as fuck.

Gray didn’t look away from me when he answered. “Good. Should protect the stable from all kinds of disease.”

I did laugh at that, unable to help myself. Gray fancied himself a man of metaphors now, apparently.

Damon chimed in, louder this time: “You should bottle that and sell it, Gray. Might need to protect more than just the horses in this town.”

Nobody laughed, not even Walker. The jab wasn’t subtle, but I was past subtlety. The mood was teetering, dangerous now. This was the moment where old wounds either healed or tore open for good.

Gray set his whiskey on the bar, folding his hands around it. “You fixin’ to stay, Ford, or is this a sightseeing trip?”

I took a sip of beer. “Not sure yet. But I bought a place, so it’d be a pain in the ass to move again.”

Damon looked skeptical. “You always did think you were better than us.”

“Bullshit,” I said, with a little more anger than I intended.

“I never thought that. I just—” I stopped, not wanting to have this fight in front of a crowd, but suddenly tired of holding back.

“I just wanted to make it out. Maybe see if there was something besides this town. I didn’t expect it to happen the way it did.

I never meant to leave the way I did.” And then, under my breath I said, “It wasn’t my choice. ”

I caught Gray’s eyebrows quirk up as if he heard me, but Damon kept at it, his eyes narrowing. “Funny, you didn’t seem to care about any of that while twenty goddamn years passed by.”

I felt my fists clench, but I forced them to relax. “I had my reasons.”

Gray finally broke his stare. He glanced at Mason, then at Walker. “Did you two know he was back in town, or was that a surprise for you too?”

Mason shrugged. “It’s a small town, Gray. Word gets around.”

Walker shot me a look, then turned to Gray. “He’s here for his mom. Stop being such a stubborn asshole.”

Gray nodded, but it wasn’t agreement—it was a cataloging of information, the way a rancher checks off headcount at the end of the day.

The silence after that was uglier. A few more regulars drifted in, giving us a wide berth. Addie poured more drinks, and the air filled with the low hum of the radio and the clatter of billiard balls from the back room.

Every so often, I’d catch Damon glaring at me, and I’d glare right back. Old habits, I guess.

After a few minutes, Mason made another attempt at civility. “You missing California yet?” he asked, voice pitched low enough that only the five of us could hear.

I considered the question, then answered honestly. “Not really.”

Walker grinned. “I bet the Cali girls weren’t ready for you.”

“Neither were the Cali guys,” I deadpanned.

Even Gray almost cracked a smile at that.

But the mood didn’t last. Because the more we tried to act normal, the more obvious it became that we weren’t. Not even close. The energy around us was a ticking time bomb.

Damon leaned in, close enough that I could see the tiny scar above his left eyebrow—the one I’d given him, years ago, with the edge of a snow shovel during an ill-conceived igloo building incident.

“Bullshit,” he said. “You come waltzing in here, all high and mighty, and you think everyone’s just gonna forget what you did? ”