4. Walker
Chapter 4
Walker
I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve never taken a woman home from my bar. Mixing work with pleasure has never been my style. Sure, I’ve had a few one-night stands over the years, less than I can count on one hand—but only when I’ve been out of town for meetings. None of them came close to what had just happened with her.
Red isn’t just a one-night stand. She’s a fucking sensation. The way her body responds to mine, and her touch turns me to fire—she’s indescribable. Like fireworks lighting up the sky on the Fourth of July. Like a natural high that no substance could ever match. What happened between us wasn’t just fun. It was unforgettable.
She was this gorgeous siren in my bar that I couldn’t take my eyes off all night. And what would the chance be that she’s staying at the Dogwood of all places? The motel run by Maggie, who is like a mother to me and a grandmother to my daughter, Makayla, affectionately known as Mack. That’s why I have to get the hell out of here. I can’t let Maggie see my truck parked here at her motel. She’ll have so many questions that I won’t give her answers to. And the shit she’ll give me will be annoying. The shit she already gives me is annoying. I don’t need to add this to it as well. We have a unique relationship as it is with our constant jabs and sparring. But deep down, she’s family to me. She’s all I’ve got. Maggie isn’t originally from here, and has family in another state, so she kind of became a transplant like me and made her own family here locally.
I quietly slide out of bed, sliding my boxers and jeans on as quietly as possible, tucking my feet into my boots, and grabbing my shirt from the floor. I see her red lace panties and snag them, tucking them in my pocket. This was a night I’ll never forget. As much as I’ll think about her and this night, I have a lot on my plate right now and doubt that a woman as incredible as her will stick around in a small town in the middle of nowhere in Wyoming.
She’s like a dream lying there, her red wavy hair fanned out over her pillow in the moonlight shining in from the window, her perfectly plump lips parted slightly. She sleeps so peacefully after the orgasms I gave her.
I resist kissing those lips, even though I want to taste her.
I freeze when my eyes land on a battered guitar case leaning against the corner next to a small duffel bag with clothes spilling out. The sight knocks the breath out of me.
I glance back at her, surprise flickering through me. But then it’s something else—something deeper. I can’t stop staring, the pull toward her undeniable, like gravity itself.
I can’t help but wonder about the guitar. Does she play for fun? Does she perform? Musicians aren’t exactly common in this town, and another female musician is the last thing I need in my life.
She mentioned loving music—casually, like it was nothing—when I traced the lyrics inked on her thigh.
The lyrics I wrote. A song I poured my soul into years ago, now permanently etched on her skin. She has no idea. She can’t. There’s no way.
When my fingers followed those words, something in me twisted, a long-buried piece of my past clawing its way to the surface. But there’s no way she knows. I’ve spent years making sure of that, burying that part of myself so deep it’s practically a ghost.
If I could ever imagine myself having a woman to call mine, it would be someone like her. Sassy, confident, and sexy. But there was a vulnerability to her, too, that is just as alluring.
This night has been nothing short of a dream. A dream that, unfortunately, has to stay just a dream. Because someone as beautiful as Red is just passing through Bridger Falls. She doesn’t strike me as the type who would ever stay far from the nearest city in rural Wyoming. Which makes me wonder why she’s even here. Sadly, I’ll never get to find out. I have to go. It’s better this way. I try to convince myself of this, anyway.
It takes everything to pull open that door and get in my truck. The loneliness that lives in me makes me want to crawl back into that warm bed with her. And take her to breakfast in the morning. Get to know her more. Ask her why that song means so much to her that she’d mark it on her body forever. Hear her laugh as many times as I can before she leaves. Because she’ll leave. Everyone leaves eventually.
I reluctantly go to my truck but look back a few times, still trying to process everything that happened tonight. I’ve never met anyone like her. Had a connection with anyone like this before. It feels surreal.
The streets of Bridger Falls are quiet this late at night, the kind of stillness that only happens in a town where folks turn in early, where the only things stirring after dark were the occasional ranch truck rumbling down Main Street and the soft glow of porch lights left on out of habit. It’s peaceful and calming here.
As I drive, the truck’s tires hum over the cracked pavement, past the familiar landmarks of home. The Bridger Falls Feed and Supply sign sways slightly in the night breeze, its weathered wood a testament to years of Wyoming wind and sun. Across the street, the Harvest & Honey diner sits dark, its navy-and-white-checkered curtains drawn for the night, but come dawn, the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls will pull customers in for their daily treats.
The town square is empty now, the string lights hanging between the buildings swaying gently, casting a soft shimmer against the storefronts—the bank, the general store, the Boots and Bangs salon—all standing in quiet patience for morning foot traffic.
The last set of streetlights faded in my rear-view mirror as I cross the town’s edge, the landscape opening into rolling pastures and thick clusters of pine. Out here, there are no sidewalks, no streetlights, just dark, open land stretching for miles beneath a sky full of stars.
My turnoff comes twenty minutes later, a narrow dirt road marked by a simple wooden post with my mailbox, half-covered in creeping sage. My truck rumbles onto the gravel, the tires crunching against the earth as I start down the long driveway, lined on either side by weathered wooden fencing.
My land sprawls wide, acres of open pasture rolling out under the moonlight, framed by thick pines that offered a natural border against the world. The lake shimmers in the distance, a silver ribbon reflecting the sky, its glassy surface untouched by anything but the occasional ripple from a late-night breeze.
And then, my home comes into view.
With its rustic timber beams and high-pitched roof, the house stands proud against the Wyoming range, its windows glowing faintly from the few lights I’d left on. The wraparound porch stretches wide with deep-seated rocking chairs arranged neatly beneath the eaves, waiting for the kind of slow mornings I rarely have time for.
Not far from the main house sits the barn, its silhouette strong and familiar, the scent of hay and leather always lingering in the air. The paddocks stretch beyond, fenced and ready, even though the horses are still settled in.
And nestled just across the lake, sits the cabin. Smaller, cozier, with a stone chimney and a wide rustic front porch that overlooks the water. A place meant for quiet, solitude, and creation.
The truck rolls to a stop, the engine settling into silence. I sit there for a moment, looking at the home I’ve built, the space that should feel like peace.
Instead, all I can think about is the woman I left in town.
With a slow exhale, I climb out, the crisp night air filling my lungs as I head toward the house.
I unlock the back door, passing through the house, aglow with a few lamps.
I look at my watch. Four in the morning. Too wound up to sleep, I grab a few waters from the fridge and make my way down to the dock where my boat is tied up.
My cabin across the lake in the back of my house is my solace, one that has been just mine for well over the past decade. And this is the place I come to take out all my loneliness, pouring them into writing songs, and making masterpieces for other people to sing. Because that’s what keeps me going. Keeps me sane. Gives me something for me.
Making music is mine and mine alone. I don’t even share it with my fifteen-year-old daughter, although music is very much a part of our life in other ways. She’s active in her high school band and she can play several instruments. We own so much vinyl, we could open up our own vinyl shop. Music is a passion that can never take center stage in my life ever again. That entire stage is reserved for Mack now, and it always will be. I’ve made a good living writing songs and selling them privately, but running the bar and being a good dad is all I want people to see when they look at me now.
When Maggie suggested ten years ago that I buy the run-down local bar in town, I balked at first. I didn’t know anything about running a bar. I’m a former country musician. I retired here to Bridger Falls with more money than I knew what to do with. Now I write songs under a different name and live a quiet solitary life.
But becoming a single dad in an instant and realizing you have a whole human that depends on you for everything in life will quickly snap you back to reality. Mack didn’t deserve everything that happened to her. But I’ve made damn sure that she’s had everything she’s ever needed and given her the best possible life that I could. She will always be my top priority.
I keep writing to try to feel something. And up until tonight, writing songs was the only space that gave me that.
Until Red.
I settle in my chair, kick back, and pick up my guitar, playing a melody that chased me all evening. I write a few lyrics down on the pad of paper I keep in my pocket every day. I open it and begin to sing and tweak the lyrics as I strum my guitar.
After two hours I have a song. It’s not perfect, but it’s a song that I’ll keep working on and sharpen it until it’s ready to send over to my manager. I’ll sell it and then I’ll write another one. Just like I do with every song. Rinse and repeat. Then I’ll hear it all over the place. And I won’t tell anyone that I wrote it. I thought I had everything I needed in my life. A great kid that I love, a business that I enjoy, and I get to write songs. But lately I’ve been feeling like things are different.
But something tells me this song is different. This song just might be for me. I might tuck this one away. I haven’t wanted to do that before tonight. I think about the guitar in Red’s room with the battered case. A guitar that looked well-loved and used. Not a brand new one that someone’s looking to learn to play. I imagine Red and her smooth velvet voice singing a song and playing guitar, and my chest fills with warmth. I imagine myself singing this very song with Red and performing it beside her. Her plump red lips singing along as she strums her guitar.
Then I shake off the thoughts as quickly as they come. I used to share my music with someone and that nearly ruined me. It can never happen. That didn’t end the way I thought it would, and opening myself back to music opens up a can of worms I can’t afford to open. A risk I’m not willing to take.
Music will always be private to me. It has to be.
I make my way back to the house and head to the barn.
It’s early and the animals need to be taken care of before I try to get some sleep. Although, I’m not sure I can even sleep after last night. My mind is still vibrating with energy after being with her.
I run my hands over my horses and remind them that our favorite girl will be home in a few days. I make sure they have their feed, hay and water. I’m pretty much their back up human. They love Mack so much, and I know they tolerate me taking care of them, but they miss her.
I look over at the house as I make my way back inside. When I first built this home, I dreamed of having a family here. A big house full of people, laughter, and fun. But that hasn’t been the way life has worked out. So far, it’s just me, Mack, and Maggie. And of course, our growing farm that Mack keeps convincing me to add animals to. And we have a good life. I’m grateful for everything that I have in my life.
Until last night, I kept my life guarded. Didn’t take chances. It helps that Bridger Falls is small and there’s not a huge dating pool. I also can’t imagine what Mack would say if I dated. Sometimes I think she’s lonely as well and deserves more people in her life, but other times I’m not sure. Maybe we’re fine just the way that we are.
We’re lucky to have so many good friends here in town. I can call anyone and lend a helping hand when it’s needed. This town has helped me heal in ways it’ll never know. It’s been our refuge, and our safe place.
It’s safer to keep it that way.