Page 60 of Score to Settle (Oakwood Ranch #1)

IZZY

“And the guy’s still alive?” Flic’s voice rings with surprise.

“I know, right? Who calls someone over the age of ten little lady ?” I huff, taking another sip of my beer.

My mind flashes back to the moment the truck door opened and out stepped arrogance personified: dark, cropped hair, massive shoulders, towering height, dark eyes, and that damn smirk. Like he knew just how sexy he was.

“Why are all the hot guys absolute dicks?” I ask, gripping the bottle tighter as I breathe in The Hay Barn’s aromas of wood polish and beer and try to let go of my frustration.

I’m no football fan like Flic, but I like the small-town vibe at The Hay Barn and the old country tunes playing on the jukebox.

It helps that my only real friend in the world owns the place.

“I’m surprised you didn’t give him your number.” Flic grins. “I thought hot guys who treated you like shit were your type.”

I laugh. “If he hadn’t ditched faster than a one-night stand realizing it’s Sunday morning church time, maybe I would have.

Or maybe I’d have put his ass on the ground.

He didn’t even apologize for rear-ending me.

” I try to laugh, but the noise comes out strangled as I remember the scent of his aftershave—like worn leather and cedar—as he pushed those bills into my hands.

Of course it happens to me.

Of course just when I’m about to be out of a job and a place to live at twenty-seven, my car breaks down in the middle of traffic. Of course the person who hits me is a jerk.

“But he gave you two hundred bucks,” my friend says, her long blonde braids brushing the top of the polished bar where she’s leaning over. “For a piece of junk older than I am? Hey, maybe this is your new career.”

“What?” I groan and shift on the barstool. It’s worn smooth and warm where the skin on the back of my thighs meets the leather.

“Breaking down in front of rich assholes who’ll throw you cash and drive away—sounds lucrative.”

I shoot her a glare, but she’s clearly pleased with herself, her smile wide enough to light the room.

Flic is effortlessly cool and gorgeous inside and out.

Dressed in all black like a rocker bartender goddess, she’s the kind of person who knows how to read a room without breaking a sweat.

It’s infuriating how she always looks put together.

But I know her too well to be intimidated.

I’ve seen her sprawled out on the couch in my trailer in mismatched pajamas, crying over Hallmark Christmas movies in the middle of July.

The mention of my career—or what used to be my career—hits harder than I want to admit.

For the last eight years, I’ve had the best damn job in the world: working for Bill, my granddaddy on my dad’s side, breeding and raising rodeo horses on his ranch east of Denver out near Shamrock, just off Route 36.

He’s never let me call him Granddaddy. Just Bill.

The man with the weathered hat, sun-lined face, and a faint limp to his step.

He taught me everything I know about ranching.

As a kid, I spent every weekend and summer I was allowed out there.

And when I came crawling back to Denver at nineteen—divorced, broke, and dragging more baggage than a rodeo trailer—he took me on as a ranch hand without a moment’s hesitation.

Over the last few years, we’ve both ignored how his health was slipping.

Pretended we didn’t notice the coughs or the way his steps slowed.

But just before Christmas, the doctor gave it to him straight.

Told him to sell up and rest or not expect to see many more New Years.

After that, every phone call, every meeting he took, felt like a countdown.

And the truth is, deep down, I’d always known my time with Bill wasn’t permanent.

I just didn’t realize how fast the clock would run out.

I lived with the weight of it pressing down daily, knowing I’d be jobless again, back to square one.

No savings. No security. Just more uncertainty in a life already full of it.

I don’t blame him for selling. He wants to travel and see the world, and I’m happy for him.

I just wish it was me buying the ranch. Instead, with no money to do that, I’m back dodging my parents’ calls and their “what next?” questions I can’t answer.

Because thinking about what’s next means thinking about Mad, and I can’t go there right now.

I have more than enough to be freaking out about.

I force another laugh, but it sounds wrong. My eyes squeeze shut for a moment, betraying more than I’d like. Without Bill’s ranch, I’ll have no paycheck and no place to live.

“Too soon to mention your career?” Flic asks, her tone softening.

I open my eyes to find her watching me with concern. “Just a bit,” I say, managing a smile.

Flic flashes me a sympathetic look as she steps away to serve a couple of guys at the other end of the bar.

Behind me, the corner table erupts in laughter.

Glasses clink over the music. A group of men in red football jerseys and baseball caps are throwing back beers.

I catch one of them elbowing his friend and jerking his chin in my direction.

I don’t bother flipping them the finger.

I’ve had enough of men and their opinions for one day.

I stare absently at the job postings on my phone until Flic returns. “It’s a shame you didn’t get that guy’s number for ‘repairs.’” She makes air quotes around “repairs,” her expression as suggestive as her tone.

I laugh despite myself, loving Flic for trying to cheer me up. “Did you forget the part where he was a jerk?” I ask.

“Come on, Izzy. Jerk or not, in the three years we’ve known each other, you haven’t had a single date.”

Sometimes I forget we’ve only known each other three years.

It feels like I’ve known Flic forever. We met at the county rodeo.

She was running the beer stand and I was watching the show, checking out a mare I knew was coming up for auction soon.

The owner swore up and down she had “the heart of a champion,” but for a barrel racer, she wouldn’t stop spooking at every stray sound.

Flic handed me my first drink that night, and we’ve been friends ever since.

“Oh, and you’re swiping right and out there every night of the week now, are you?” I shoot back.

Flic shrugs. “I’ve got this place to run. What’s your excuse?”

“With my track record? I’d rather be single forever.” For a split second, it’s not my present situation tugging at my gut; it’s the weight of my past and my mistakes and what a disappointment I am to my family.

“But it’s such a waste. You’re gorgeous, Iz, and the annoying thing is, you have no idea. I bet you just threw those clothes on this morning without a second thought and you still look like that.”

“It’s July. It’s too hot for more clothes than this.” I glance down at my black tank top and cutoffs and shrug. “Besides, the only men I meet are either total dicks or overachievers, and I’ve already got enough of those in my life.”

Flic falls silent. She knows I’m talking about my family. Just as she knows it’s a sore subject.

“My parents know Bill’s selling up. They want me to come home,” I admit quietly.

Flic leans closer, her hand resting on my arm, offering me the support she knows I need. “Will you go?” There’s no judgment in her question and I love her for it.

The thought of going back to live in the house I grew up in sends a shot of dread straight through me.

The house itself is nice enough. One of those cookie-cutter homes in Aurora Hills, East Denver.

And it’s not my parents, either. Not really.

They’re good people, always offering to help me.

But they’re doctors. They live their lives by structure and routine.

Living under their roof again would mean returning to a life that once felt like it might suffocate me.

A life where every step I had to take to become the daughter they wanted was mapped out for me.

It doesn’t help that I’m the youngest in the family.

Where my sister, Amelia, and my brother, David, followed the plan—med school, white coats, perfect families, picket fences— I’ve always been the wild card in their otherwise pristine deck.

The one who never felt like they belonged.

I even tried to play their game. I got the grades.

I followed them into med school. But it wasn’t for me.

One month in, I dropped out to marry a country singer.

I was eighteen and in love, and when he promised me freedom and fire and forever, I believed him.

But of course, that all fell apart faster than a cheap buckle at a rodeo.

I start to shake my head at Flic’s question, about to tell her I don’t know what choice I have, when movement at the far end of the bar catches my eye.

The guy in the black baseball cap, lost to his bourbon, turns on his barstool and stands, heading in the direction of the restrooms. I didn’t pay him any attention when I first arrived, but I’m hardly going to forget those impossibly broad shoulders. That half-hidden scowl.

I shake my head. “Unbelievable.”

Of course he’s here. Of course the universe would drop this man back in my path for the second time today, on the same day Bill’s ranch sale is going through.

The horses—Moonlight, Rusty, Bramble, Logan, and so many more.

I love them all. I know they’ll be well cared for by the ranch out in Dallas that bought them, but saying goodbye this morning broke a piece of my heart I don’t think will ever heal.

Suddenly I’m irritated as hell, like no time has passed since those bills were shoved in my hands.

“What?” Flic asks.

“That’s the guy,” I say under my breath. “The dick driver.”

She frowns, and then barks a laugh. “Dylan Sullivan called you ‘little lady’? That’s hilarious.”