Chapter 6 Colt
Colt
The Dusty Spur hasn't changed in the twenty years I've been coming here. Same scarred wooden bar worn smooth by decades of elbows and bad luck. Same neon beer signs casting blue and red shadows across smoke-stained walls, same smell of stale peanuts and regret soaked into the floorboards.
Tonight it's half-empty, just the usual suspects nursing their disappointments over cheap liquor and cheaper excuses.
Perfect. Last thing I need is company.
I slide onto my regular stool, the leather cracked and molded to my particular brand of misery.
Mae catches my eye from behind the bar. Twenty years she's been slinging drinks here, since before I was old enough to legally drown my problems.
She doesn't ask what I want. Just pours three fingers of Jack into a rocks glass and slides it across the scarred wood without a word.
Smart woman. She knows better than to make small talk when I'm wearing this particular shade of darkness.
The whiskey burns going down, but not enough.
Nothing burns enough anymore.
Two years since my world imploded. Two years since I lost everything that mattered in the span of a single conversation.
Some days I'm still not sure I'm really here. Still breathing, still functioning, still pretending that losing both my best friend and the woman I loved didn't gut me like a fish left bleeding on the dock.
Two years since Beau looked me in the eye, jaw set like granite, and said he was done.
Done with her. Done with us. Done with everything we'd built.
When Sophia couldn't handle being with just me, when she made it crystal fucking clear that what we'd had only mattered because Beau was part of it, I lost them both in one brutal swoop.
Funny how time changes what hurts. I can barely remember what Sophia's laugh sounded like now, can't recall why I thought I loved her so desperately. That pain faded months after she left, becoming just another mistake filed away with all the others.
But losing Beau?
That still feels like walking around with a piece of myself missing. Like trying to work with a phantom limb that aches every goddamn day.
The pool balls clack behind me, some ranch hands trying to hustle a couple of tourists who wandered too far from the interstate. Their laughter scrapes against my skull like nails on rusted metal.
Everything's too loud tonight, too bright, too fucking much.
I drain the glass and tap the rim. Mae's already reaching for the bottle.
Today was worse than usual. Beau showed up at the clinic this afternoon for his daily check on Dusty, all controlled politeness and careful distance. The same dance we've been doing for two years. But I caught him watching Lucy when he thought no one was looking.
Those gray eyes tracked her movements like she was something precious he was afraid to break.
The jealousy that sliced through me was sharp enough to draw blood.
Not that I have any right to it. Lucy's not mine. Hell, she's barely been working for me for three days. Made it crystal clear she's just passing through, another tumbleweed blowing across Montana until something better comes along.
But watching Beau notice her? Seeing that flicker of interest he probably doesn't even realize he's showing?
That jealousy flared hot and ugly in my chest, like touching a branding iron.
"Another," I grunt when Mae glances my way.
The second whiskey goes down easier than the first. Or is it the third? Numbers stop mattering after the pain starts dulling.
Lucy stayed late again tonight, organizing files and updating the appointment system in ways I didn't know were possible.
She'd alphabetized the medications by both species and emergency priority, color-coded the schedule whiteboard like some kind of organizational wizard, and somehow made the reception area look like it belonged in a real veterinary hospital instead of the barely controlled disaster I'd been running.
Three days. She's been working for me for three goddamn days, and she's already transformed my practice into something I might actually be proud of.
But it's not just the organizational skills that get to me.
It's the way she talks to the animals, like they're worthy of respect and comfort instead of just another paycheck. The way she can talk a terrified owner through their pet's procedure, voice steady and warm, making them feel like their fear matters and their animal is precious.
The way she makes coffee that doesn't taste like motor oil and somehow always knows exactly when I need it most.
The way she looks when she thinks no one's watching. Guard down, brown eyes soft with whatever pain she's carrying around like a lead weight.
Fuck, she's beautiful.
Not the obvious kind that stops traffic and knows it, but the kind that sneaks up on you like a sucker punch.
Delicate bone structure that makes her look too young for the shadows in her eyes, but with a mouth that's pure sin when she smiles.
Like when we let Dusty out of his crate for his first shaky steps after surgery. That smile illuminated the whole damn clinic.
Dark hair that catches light like spun silk. Skin that looks like it would be soft as hell under my rough hands.
And those eyes. Deep brown with flecks of gold, framed by lashes long enough to get a man in serious trouble. They see too much, feel too much.
When she looks at me, I get the uncomfortable sensation that she's cataloging every scar, every broken piece, every reason I'm not worth the trouble.
Smart girl.
I'm halfway through the third whiskey when the bar door creaks open, letting in a gust of cold Montana air that cuts through the smoky haze. Gabriel Maddox fills the doorframe, still wearing his sheriff's uniform but with the badge unpinned and the official edge softened around the corners.
He nods at Mae, orders a Coors, and settles onto the stool next to mine without invitation. The leather groans under his weight.
"Rough day?" he asks, those blue eyes taking in my general state of disrepair with the practiced assessment.
"Every day's rough when you're me." I don't look at him, just focus on the amber liquid catching the neon light. "Shouldn't you be out serving and protecting the good citizens of Briarhaven?"
"Off duty." Gabriel takes a long pull from his beer bottle, condensation already beading on the glass. "Even small-town sheriffs need to blow off steam sometimes. Heard Beau Blackwell's been visiting your clinic."
The laugh that escapes me is bitter enough to strip paint off a barn. "News travels fast in this town."
"Must be strange, having him back in your space after everything that went down."
Gabriel doesn't know the whole story. Nobody does. But he knows enough. Knows that Beau and I used to be thick as thieves, knows something went sideways around two years ago, knows we've been circling each other like wounded animals ever since.
"Strange is one word for it." I drain the whiskey and tap the glass. "Tense would be more accurate. If Lucy hadn't stepped between us yesterday, things might've gotten real ugly, real fast."
"Lucy." Gabriel's voice changes when he says her name, gets a little rougher around the edges. "Your new assistant."
"Temporary assistant," I correct, though something twists in my chest at the reminder. "But you already knew that. You keeping tabs on my employee, Sheriff?"
Gabriel studies me with those cop eyes that miss nothing.
"I'm keeping tabs on everyone new in my town. Especially people with secrets."
"We all have secrets."
"Some more than others." Gabriel takes another sip of beer, studying my face like he's reading a report. "She's gotten under your skin."
It's not a question.
"She's good at her job," I say carefully. "Makes my life easier."
"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it."
Gabriel's right, and that pisses me off more than it should. Lucy has gotten under my skin, in ways that have nothing to do with her organizational skills and everything to do with the way she makes me want things I'd buried two years ago.
"Even if she had," I say slowly, "what would it matter? She's too young, too good, too everything for a burned-out bastard like me."
"You're thirty-six, not sixty. And last I checked, you still have most of your teeth."
"Hilarious." I down half the whiskey in one swallow, feeling it burn all the way down. "Besides, I prefer my women with no expectations and fewer complications. One night, no names, no contact information. Clean and simple."
Gabriel's quiet for a long moment, rolling the beer bottle between his palms. "She seems... competent. Professional."
"She's more than competent." The words come out more defensive than I intended. "She's turned my disaster of a practice into something that actually functions."
"Must be nice, having reliable help."
Something in his tone makes me look at him sideways. "It is. Why?"
Gabriel shrugs, taking another sip. "Just making conversation. Small town curiosity."
But there's something careful in the way he's not looking at me, something too casual about his casual tone. Like he's working hard to seem disinterested.
"And, I think you're selling yourself short."
"And I think you've been hitting the bottle harder than me if you believe that."
Gabriel laughs, the sound surprisingly warm in the smoky air. "Probably. But then again, we're both here drowning our problems in alcohol instead of dealing with them like adults."
"Speak for yourself. I'm just living up to my reputation as the local heartbreaker with questionable life choices."
"Is that what you're doing?" Gabriel's voice gets serious. "Because it looks like you're trying to drink away the memory of someone who meant more to you than you want to admit."
The words hit too close to home, slice through the whiskey haze and dig into wounds that haven't even started to heal. I want to tell him to mind his own damn business, want to walk away before this conversation cuts any deeper.
Instead, I find myself talking.
"You ever lose someone who was your whole world?" The question comes out rougher than I intended. "Someone you thought you'd have forever?"
Gabriel's quiet for a moment. "Yeah. I have."
"Then you know that drinking's not about forgetting. It's about making it through the next hour without putting your fist through something."
Or someone.
Gabriel nods slowly, understanding passing between us in the way it only can between men who've both had their hearts ripped out and handed back to them in pieces.
"And now?" Gabriel asks quietly, his eyes fixed on his beer bottle.
I don't answer right away, because the truth is complicated. "Now I've got an assistant who reorganizes my life whether I want her to or not."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant. Lucy's... she's different."
"Different how?"
I don't answer right away, because putting it into words makes it too real. "She makes things... quieter. In here." I tap my chest. "And that scares the hell out of me."
I reach for my wallet to pay the tab, but Gabriel waves me off.
"I've got it."
"You don't have to—"
"Consider it an investment in keeping you off the roads tonight." Gabriel signals Mae for the check, then reaches across and plucks my truck keys from my coat pocket. "These are mine until tomorrow."
"Bastard."
"Just doing my duty." Gabriel's grin is sharp around the edges. "Besides, everything in this town is within walking distance. Fresh air might do you some good."
I want to argue, but the truth is I'm in no shape to drive. The whiskey's hit harder than usual tonight, probably because I haven't eaten anything since the coffee and bear claw Lucy brought me this morning.
Lucy, who somehow managed to get me to eat breakfast for the first time in months.
Lucy, who looked at me like I might be worth saving.
Lucy, who's going to leave.
"You know what the worst part is?" I tell Gabriel as we head for the door.
"What's that?"
The night air hits my face like a slap, sharp and clean after the smoky warmth of the bar.
"Lucy. She makes me want to be better than I am."
"And that's bad because?"
I stop walking and look at him, this man who wears authority like armor and probably hasn't let anyone close enough to hurt him in years.
"Because wanting things you can't have is the fastest way to destroy what's left of yourself."
Gabriel considers this. "Maybe. Or maybe wanting something worth having is the only way to become the kind of man who deserves it."
"Jesus, when did you become a philosopher?"
"About the same time you became the local heartbreaker with questionable life choices." Gabriel's smile takes the sting out of the words. "Get some sleep, Colt. Tomorrow's going to come whether you're ready for it or not."
He walks away, boots echoing on the empty street, leaving me standing alone under the streetlight like some country song cliché.
In the distance, I can see the lights of my clinic, warm and welcoming in a way they never were before Lucy started working there.
Three days. She's been in my life for three days, and already I can't imagine it without her.
Which is exactly the fucking problem.
I start walking toward home, each step a small victory against the whiskey and the gravity of my own self-pity. The night air cuts through the haze, sharp with the bite of late March in Montana. Winter's last cruel kiss before spring takes hold.
By the time I reach the clinic, my head is clearer but my chest feels heavier.
I climb the external staircase that leads to my apartment above the clinic. The metal steps are slick with evening frost, and the whiskey makes everything feel slightly off-kilter.
Tomorrow, Lucy will walk through that door with her bright smile and her organizational magic and her way of making everything better just by being there.
And I'll spend another day pretending that I'm not falling for someone who's going to leave.
My boot catches on the fourth step, and I go down hard, my knee slamming against the metal grating with a sharp crack that echoes in the cold air.
I lie there for a moment, waiting for the pain.
But it doesn't hurt.
That's the trouble.
Nothing does anymore.