Chapter 1
Brandy
I wipe down the medication cart with slow strokes, my shoulders burning beneath my scrub top and my feet throbbing inside sneakers that gave up on cushioning me months ago. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzz with a mean little persistence, adding to my exhaustion.
The care home has finally gone quiet.
Mostly.
Down the hall, Mr. Jenkins snores loud enough to rattle his water cup, and somewhere near the nurses’ station, the ice machine gives a tired cough and drops another handful of cubes.
The air smells like lemon disinfectant, latex gloves, and the faint powdery sweetness of the lotion Mrs. Bell insists on using after every bath.
I’m dreaming about getting home, peeling off my compression socks, and falling face-first onto my bed for exactly six minutes before somebody needs me.
Then Annie comes flying into the supply room like a glitter bomb with a pulse.
“Don’t say a word,” she warns, one glossy pink nail pointed straight at my face.
Her hoop earrings swing as she plants herself in front of me.
“You are done. Badge off. Scrubs off. And whatever excuse you’re about to give me about Naomi’s science project, Elijah’s nightmares, or your mama’s prayer circle? I do not want to hear it.”
I huff a laugh and toss the rag into the bin, though the tightness in my shoulders doesn’t loosen. “Annie, I’ve got a double tomorrow. Elijah’s been waking up crying again, and if I’m not there in the morning—”
“Brandy.” Annie’s voice softens before I can finish.
She steps closer, all that sparkle settling into tenderness.
“You’ve had a double every week for six months.
Those babies love you. Your mama loves you.
Everybody loves you. But love does not mean working yourself into the ground until there’s nothing left but bones and good intentions. ”
I look away because she isn’t wrong, and I hate that.
The truth aches in my chest, familiar as an unpaid bill.
Between shifts at the care home, raising my late sister’s children, and trying to keep my mama from crumbling under grief, I feel like I’m holding up the sky with one hand and smiling so nobody notices the tremor.
Annie snatches my tote bag off the counter before I can argue.
“Hey.”
“Nope.” She loops the strap over her shoulder and starts steering me toward the staff exit. “We are going to The Dusty Boot. One drink. A little music. Maybe, if the Lord is feeling generous, a man who knows how to use his hands for something besides fixing a fence.”
I groan, but I let her move me, pulling off my scrub top as we make our way down the hallway. “The last time I went on a date, I spent half of it texting the sitter and the other half explaining why I couldn’t stay out past nine. He called me ma’am when he dropped me off.”
Annie throws her head back and cackles as we step into the cool evening air. The parking lot shimmers under a pale wash of moonlight, and the breeze touches my skin like a welcome balm.
“That is exactly why we’re fixing this tonight,” she says. “You’re thirty-one, gorgeous, and those thighs deserve appreciation from somebody who is not related to you.”
“Annie.”
“I said what I said.” She unlocks her truck with a chirp. Then, more quietly, “Jasmine would haunt you in church shoes if she saw you living like this.”
My smile fades.
Even after two years, my sister’s name can still slide between my ribs and find the softest place. I rub the center of my chest out of habit, right over the ache that never fully leaves.
“Mama already thinks I’m headed down the wrong road if I miss too many Sundays,” I say. “Every time I sit in that pew, she’s scanning the congregation for my future husband. A respectable one, of course.”
Annie opens the passenger door and gives me a look. “Your mama is scared because she lost one daughter. That does not mean she gets to bury the other one alive.”
I flinch as her words hit hard enough to hurt.
She softens again. “Get in, Brandy.”
So, I do.
The drive to The Dusty Boot is short, loud, and entirely Annie.
She blasts old-school country, slaps the steering wheel on every chorus, and gives a running critique of every single eligible man in Rockwell Ridge.
According to her, half are emotionally unavailable, a quarter are allergic to soap, and the rest have been ruined by their mothers.
By the time we pull into the gravel lot, I’m laughing despite myself.
The Dusty Boot glows at the edge of town, its red neon sign buzzing above the door, throwing a pinkish halo over pickup trucks, motorcycles, and the occasional SUV.
Music pulses through the walls, low with the kind of bass you feel first in your chest. When Annie opens her door, the night fills with the scent of beer, fried onions, dust, and something reckless enough to make my pulse shift.
Inside, the bar is warm, crowded, and comfortably rowdy.
Boots scuff across the worn plank floor.
A couple spins near the jukebox, laughing when they nearly knock into a table.
Strings of amber lights loop over the bar, softening the place's rough edges. Framed rodeo posters and old license plates cover the walls, and a longhorn skull hangs above the whiskey shelves like it’s judging everyone for living.
Annie pushes through the crowd like she owns the building and finds us two stools at the bar.
“Two margaritas,” she tells the bartender. “Extra salt. Heavy on the mercy.”
We laugh about work, about Mr. Jenkins flirting with every woman over sixty-five, about Elijah’s latest dinosaur phase, and about Naomi deciding she wants to be a pastor because they only have to work on Sundays.”
That one makes me laugh until my eyes sting. For twenty blessed minutes, I let myself breathe.
Then Annie’s phone rings.
She looks at the screen and curses under her breath. “It’s my aunt.”
I already know from her face. “Trey?”
“Drunk and doing something stupid, apparently. That boy is allergic to sense.” She slides off her stool, frustration pinching her mouth. Then she catches my hand. “Stay.”
“Annie—”
“Please.” Her eyes soften. “Have one drink without me. Listen to a song. Let somebody look at you like you’re a woman and not a full-time emergency contact.”
I glance toward the door.
Responsibility tugs at me. The kids will be asleep soon. Mama has probably already texted twice and left a voicemail that starts with “I’m not trying to bother you, baby” and ends with a full list of concerns.
Annie squeezes my hand. “One terrible, wonderful decision,” she says, kissing my cheek. “You deserve to feel good, Brandy. Even if it’s only for tonight.”
Then she’s gone, swallowed by the crowd and the swing of the door.
I sit alone, nursing my margarita and telling myself I’ll finish it, leave a tip, and go home. That’s the sensible thing to do. The Brandy thing. The woman everybody counts on thing.
Salt clings to my lips. Music curls through the room. Around me, people laugh too loudly, lean too close, and touch with confidence.
I look down at my hands and realize I can’t remember the last time someone touched me just because they wanted to. The last time I had sex was three years ago, and it wasn’t good enough to register as a memory in my frazzled brain.
While I’m commiserating, a presence settles onto the empty stool beside me.
I glance over, curious, and heat rises beneath my skin before I can stop it.
The man is big, tall, and broad-shouldered, with a body built by hard work.
His dark blond hair is mussed like he’s dragged a hand through it too many times, and stubble shadows a jaw that looks stubborn enough to break somebody’s heart.
His black thermal shirt stretches across his chest and forearms, and the backs of his hands are rough, marked with pale scars that look like rope burns.
He isn’t local. I would remember a man like him.
He orders a whiskey on ice. His voice is low, roughened at the edges, the kind of voice that doesn’t need to be raised to be heard.
Then he turns his head and looks at me, and I’m swallowed whole by his pretty blue-gray eyes.
“Well,” he says, his mouth curving just a little, “you’re a sight after a hard day.”
I touch a hand to my curls, suddenly aware of the wildness of them around my face, the tired shadows under my eyes, and the scrub pants I haven’t had time or opportunity to change out of.
“Thanks,” I say. “I think.”
His almost-smile deepens, and I feel it lower than I have any business feeling it.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The bar noise rolls around us, but his attention makes a pocket of stillness where all I can hear is the clink of ice in his glass and the unsteady beat of my own heart.
“Bo,” he says, offering his hand.
His palm is broad, warm, and callused as I expected. I slide mine into it, and the contact sends a small, traitorous shiver straight through me.
“Brandy.”
Bo doesn’t hold on too long or squeeze too hard, just holds firmly enough to make me wonder what those hands would feel like if he stopped being polite.
Lord, I need to go home.
Instead, I pick up my margarita.
Bo takes a sip of whiskey and glances toward the dance floor. “You here by yourself, Brandy?”
“My friend abandoned me for a family crisis.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Her cousin Trey is drunk and stupid. So, it has the possibility to go that way if he’s left to his own devices. He'd better sober up before Annie gets near or he’s gonna regret the day he was born.”
That earns me a real smile that’s quick and devastating. “Every town’s got a Trey. Hell, most families got one too.”
“Unfortunately, Annie’s refuses to change, despite her unleashing hell's wrath on the regular.”
He chuckles, and the sound moves through me slowly, warm as bourbon.
“What are you drinking?”
“Something heavy on the liquor,” I say, swirling my drink and the ice around the glass. “It’s making my gums numb.”
“Sounds like my kind of drink.”
“Annie’s choice. She ordered it ‘heavy on the mercy.’”