Page 39 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

Twenty-Two

Ford

A t Chickadee, I’d gotten used to the rhythm of sanding down floorboards—move, bend, sand, wipe, repeat. My knees were shot, and my lower back was screaming, but the house was finally starting to feel like close to home.

The rest of the world faded when I worked.

I could lose hours like this. It was better than therapy, cheaper than a shrink, and gave me the illusion of progress even when everything else in my life was frozen at “pending.” By the time the sun hit the west-facing windows, the place was hazy with sawdust and light, each particle floating in the late-afternoon sun like a fat, lazy snowflake.

I was elbow-deep in a battle with a warped board by the foyer when I heard the creak of the font door. Chickadee’s doors had never fit quite right, so anyone coming in sounded like a bear on a trampoline. I stood, brushed my hands on my jeans, and waited.

It was Walker, of course. He never knocked when he was young, so I didn’t expect it to be different now. He just entered, whistling a tune that was a little out of key.

He paused in the doorway of the living room, then grinned at me like he’d just caught me jerking off in a confessional. “You gonna say hello, or just stare at me like I’m a strippergram?”

I wiped sweat from my forehead. “Depends. Are you a strippergram?”

He shrugged, fake-modest. “Never say never. But today I’m here for business. Important business.” He stepped into the light, his boots tracking a line of fine sawdust behind him. “You busy, Ford?”

I gestured at the sander, which looked like it might give up the ghost at any second. “You could say that.”

He squatted beside me, inspecting my progress like a proud shop teacher. “You’ve done a hell of a job.”

“I’m working on it.”

He snorted, then turned serious. “You got plans tonight?”

I arched a brow. “Why?”

He dropped his voice, conspiratorial. “Poker night. My place. Just the crew.”

I hesitated. I hadn’t played cards with the Andersons in years. Last time was high school, and Gray took all our lunch money and Walker tried to cheat by stacking the deck with Magic the Gathering cards.

Walker must have sensed the pause. “Come on, man. Caroline made chili, and Mason’s bringing this jalapeno cornbread that should be illegal.

We’ll keep it low-key. You need some fun, man.

You been running yourself ragged. Plus, I know Lily is busy havin’ a girls’ night because my wife is attending.

So you got no excuse, boy. Come on.” He clapped his hands together like a gym teacher.

I hesitated again, but not because of the cards. “Who’s all coming?”

He ticked off names on his fingers. “Me, Gray, Mason. Damon’s driving in after he gets his last heifers corralled.” He looked up, eyes sharp. “You good with that?”

There it was. Damon.

I braced my arms on my knees, watching the dust motes swirl in the air between us. “I don’t want to have a problem with him,” I said, keeping my voice level. “But I don’t think he feels the same.”

Walker was quiet for a second, then shrugged. “He’s a pain in the ass, but that’s just his style. He’s pissed because he was hurt, Ford. It’s the whole situation he hates, and he’s a stubborn son’bitch who doesn’t know how to use his words.”

I snorted. “Color me surprised.”

“He just needs to see you’re still the same guy. If you don’t show up, it’ll just fester.”

I thought of the last time I’d seen Damon, at the Dusty Barrel. He’d glared at me like I was a fresh pile of manure tracked across his kitchen floor. But he’d always been like that—a little too loyal to a fault, a little too ready to fight the world for his own.

Walker didn’t let the silence go to waste. “Look, if you don’t want to come, I’ll say you’re swamped with house shit. But if you do show up, it’ll mean a lot to Gray and the crew. Caroline, too. She wants to see you happy because that means Lily’s happy.” He winked.

I sighed. “If I can’t see my girl, then I might as well hang with you sorry fuckers.”

Walker’s face went sly. “So y’all are gettin’ serious, huh?”

I glared. “You sound like a middle school gossip.”

He grinned wider. “I just like seeing my friends happy, that’s all. And you look . . . good, Ford. Best I’ve seen you since you came back.”

That took me off guard, and I didn’t know what to say. So I just started packing up the sander, pretending it required my full attention.

Walker let it hang, then said, “I gotta go return some feed to old man Bitner. I’ll pick you up at seven. Bring some cash. Gray’s gotten better at cards, but not at bluffin’.”

I watched him go, the late sun lighting up the golden dust in the wake of his boots. It was a dumb thing to be nervous about, but I felt it all the way down to my bones. Damon didn’t seem to be any closer to forgiving me for leaving. It was complicated, like everything else in this town.

I finished sweeping up, then hit the shower, scrubbing the sweat and sawdust from my arms until my tattoos looked new again.

I put on a fresh shirt, found my oldest, softest pair of jeans, and stepped outside just as Walker’s truck rumbled into the driveway.

He honked once, then twice, as if I needed a reminder.

I climbed in. The cab smelled like old hay and some expensive air freshener, an odd combination that felt more like home than anything in the city ever had.

Walker handed me a can of Rainier. “To pregame or not to pregame?” he said.

I popped the top, letting the foam hit my nose. “It’s poker night. Pregame is required.”

He grinned, throwing the truck into gear. We hit the road, wheels crunching over gravel, the sky turning a deep, electric blue as the last of the sun slid behind the mountains. Dusk in Montana is never subtle; it falls like a curtain and suddenly everything is shadows and starlight.

We didn’t say much on the drive. Walker tuned the radio to some old country station, and we both let the music fill the silence.

The air outside was cold and sharp, carrying the scent of pine and distant woodsmoke.

We passed old grain silos, then the stretch of road where the cedar trees grew so thick they looked like a wall of green teeth.

Red Downs Ranch sat on the far side of the hill, the lights from the main house and barn flickering like a beacon.

The lake came into view just past the bend, a silver sheet reflecting the first stars of the night.

We cut down the gravel drive, pulling up to the lakeside bungalow that Walker and Caroline called home.

Inside, it was all warmth. A big stone fireplace dominated the living room, the mantle lined with family photos and a lopsided clay mug that had to be Abigail’s handiwork.

The table was already set for cards—chips, beers, a stack of worn Bicycle decks, and a bowl of chili big enough to drown a grown man.

Gray and Mason were on the couch, arguing about the best method for training yearlings, while Caroline hovered in the kitchen, spoon in hand.

She spotted me and smiled, green eyes bright. “Hey, Ford. Glad you made it.” She gave me a quick, one-armed hug, then gestured at the pot. “You like it spicy?”

“Is there any other way?”

She laughed and ladled out a bowl, sliding it across the counter with a hunk of cornbread on the side. “Walker said you’ve been living off instant noodles and beef jerky.”

“Lies and slander,” I shot back, but she knew better. I grabbed a spoon and took a seat at the bar, letting the heat of the chili chase the last of the nerves away.

Gray lifted a beer in my direction. “Good to see you, man.”

I nodded, still chewing. “You too. Place looks great.”

He shrugged. “Not bad for a couple years’ worth of spit and baling wire. You working the house, too?”

“Every day,” I said. “Chickadee’s got more secrets than a Vegas bank vault.”

Mason grinned. “You find that old bootlegger’s stash yet?”

“Not yet,” I said, “but the attic smells like someone died in it, so I’m hopeful.”

We all laughed, and it was almost enough to make me forget the last twenty years.

The evening slid by in a blur of cards, beer, and stories.

The old rhythms came back fast—Gray’s deadpan sarcasm, Mason’s running commentary, Walker’s attempts to hustle us with sleight-of-hand that a child could see through.

Even Caroline, who claimed she was “just passing through,” dealt herself in more than once, and always managed to take me for at least a few chips.

It was easy. Too easy.

That should have been my first warning.

Because when the clock struck nine and Damon finally showed, the temperature in the room dropped a good ten degrees. He came in through the front door, boots echoing off the hardwood, eyes scanning the room until they landed on me.

He didn’t say a word at first. Just took a beer from the fridge and sat at the far end of the table, staring holes through me.

Walker tried to break the ice. “Damon, you made it. I was about to send out a search party.”

Damon didn’t smile. “Had to deal with a sick calf. Sorry I’m late.”

Caroline offered him chili, which he refused, and then she made her exit, saying she was off to watch a movie with the girls. The door clicked behind her, and now it was just us.

Gray shuffled the cards, his movements slower than usual. “You want in, Damon?”

He shrugged, eyes never leaving me. “Why not.”

Walker dealt the next hand. For a while, nobody said much. We played, drank, and let the cards do the talking. But the tension was an extra player at the table, lurking behind every bet and every sideways glance.

On the third hand, Damon pushed all-in and stared right at me. “You gonna call, Ford? Or you still running from the hard hands?”

It was so on the nose, so obvious, that the whole table fell silent.

I looked at him, forcing myself not to flinch. “I don’t run from anything anymore,” I said.

He sneered, but it looked tired, not mean. “That so? Only took you twenty years.”

Gray stiffened, but Mason jumped in. “He’s back, Damon. That’s what matters.”