Chapter 8 Clint
CHAPTER EIGHT
Clint
The parade’s underway and the heat’s still hanging thick, despite the late afternoon.
The streets of Colter Creek are crowded with people, kids running wild with candy and flags, their laughter mixing with the sound of the marching band and the occasional shout from a vendor hawking something fried and greasy.
Red Bronson is sitting next to me, grinning foolishly, but I’m not in the mood to share his enthusiasm. My mind’s still on the damn ranch, and something feels off. There’s this low, gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that I can’t shake, no matter how many beers I drink.
Red’s jabbering on about something, probably how the local band can’t keep a beat, but I’m not listening. I don’t even care.
I’m too busy running through everything that’s been happening at High Ridge. Gates left open. Cattle out of place.
A couple of times, we’ve had to round them up from the woods, because someone’s been letting them wander.
“Clint,” Red says, snapping me out of my thoughts, “You’re lookin’ like someone stole your damn dog. What’s goin’ on with you, man?”
I grunt, tipping my bottle back and letting the cold beer slide down my throat. “Nothing’s right at the ranch.”
Red laughs. “It’s probably just kids, Clint. Ain’t nothin’ to get all worked up over. I told you that already. You remember how boring it is being a teen in this small town. Trouble’s the only thing to do.”
“I’m tellin’ you, Red, it ain’t that simple,” I mutter, scanning the crowd as the parade floats roll by, all bright colors and happy faces. “Something’s off. Feels like someone’s tryin’ to get a rise outta me.”
Red, still grinning, doesn’t seem to notice the way my fists are clenched around the beer bottle. “Well, if they are, you’re takin’ the bait. Come on, it’s just kids havin’ a laugh.”
I shake my head, jaw tightening. “It’s not just kids. I’ve been watchin’ things. Some of it doesn’t add up.”
Red finally looks over at me, his expression shifting just a little. “You sure you ain’t lettin’ your mind wander? You got a lot on your plate lately.”
I meet his gaze, and the noise of the parade fades. The only thing I can hear is the wind ruffling through the trees, the distant clink of a horse’s bridle, and the pulse of the ranch that never leaves me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”
There’s a long pause between us, Red staring me down, deciding whether to push me on it or not. Eventually, he just shrugs and takes a swig of his own beer.
“Well, if you say so,” he mutters, looking back at the parade. “But I swear, Clint, you’re a hard-headed son of a bitch. Sometimes, you gotta let it go.”
I don’t answer him right away. I just keep staring at the crowd, the float in the distance, the kids laughing. There’s too much noise, too much distraction, but that knot in my gut isn’t going anywhere.
After the parade, Red and I head down to the Silver Bit Tavern, where the evening crowd’s already starting to fill the place. The low hum of chatter, clinking glasses, and country tunes from the jukebox surrounding us, mixing with the scent of fried food and old wood.
A few people wave as we walk in, but I’m not here to make small talk. I’m looking for a place to breathe.
Red slaps me on the back as we enter, grinning. “This’ll do you good, Clint. Get that stick outta your ass for a while.”
I grunt but don’t correct him. He’s right in his own way. I’m wound too tight, but the ranch never leaves me. Not even when I’m in town.
The Silver Bit has that timeless feel. Wood floors worn with age, walls lined with faded photos of ranching life, and tables scattered with familiar faces.
Riley McCarter, working the bar, catches my eye. He flashes a quick smile but doesn’t push, just sets us up with a couple of beers.
“Evening, Clint. Red,” he says. “Heard things have been a little hectic out at High Ridge. Everything alright?”
I glance over at Red, who’s already cracking a grin. “Clint’s always got something on his mind, Riley. He’ll be fine once we drink enough of this here.”
I take a pull from the bottle, not in the mood to talk ranch gossip, not yet.
“It’s more than that,” I mutter, half to myself.
Riley raises an eyebrow. “Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.”
Red gives me a sideways glance, not missing a beat. “You’re a hard man to read tonight. Must be the heat gettin’ to you. Let’s just have a drink, huh?”
Before I can respond, I hear a familiar voice behind me. Jesse Murphy, with his easy smile and casual demeanor.
He slides into the booth across from us, his eyes already scanning the room, trying to keep up with the flow of town gossip.
“Clint,” he says, grinning, “What’s got you in a twist?”
I shrug, not sure how to explain the feeling gnawing at me. “Just keepin’ an eye on things.”
Jesse tilts his head, picking up on my tone. “Ooh, dear, you really are in a bad place.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m fine. Just drinking.”
Jesse leans back in the booth, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh, sure you are. I’ve known you long enough to see when something’s eating at you. But if you don’t want to talk about it, we can drink.”
Before I can answer, Carrie Jo Porter walks through the door with a laugh, shaking her head at something her boss at the Buckhorn Diner, Betty Lou Winslow, says.
I offer them a half-wave, but as Carl Benson joins our table, I’m soon drawn back into the conversation.
“Well, that was something else, wasn’t it?” he declares. “What a celebration. But did you see the argument between Sammy Brooks and his wife?”
I really don’t have time for gossip, but I guess that’s what I’ve gotten myself into. Just walking into this bar, I should have known it’d go this way.
I give Carl a half-hearted nod, trying to keep my attention focused on my beer, but it’s hard to ignore the crowd that’s gathered around the table.
Red’s grinning, ready to dive into the drama, and Jesse is genuinely enjoying the distraction, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the table.
“Yeah, Sammy and Meg are always on edge,” I mutter, trying to sound casual. “I swear, every time they get into it, it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion.”
Carl laughs, clearly enjoying the gossip. “You’re right. But you know, I can’t help but wonder what’ll happen when they finally pull the plug on that marriage. The whole town’s gonna be in on it.”
I take another pull from my bottle, trying to tune out the noise. I don’t care about Sammy and Meg, not tonight. Not when my mind’s still tangled up in the mess at High Ridge.
But the conversation around me doesn’t stop. Carrie Jo sits down next to Red, and Betty Lou walks over to greet the group.
“Well, well, well,” she says, planting herself at the end of the table with a mischievous grin. “If it isn’t the usual suspects. How was the parade? Did Sammy and Meg provide their usual entertainment, or did someone else steal the spotlight?”
“Always Sammy and Meg,” Carl replies with a chuckle, but he’s glancing at me every now and then, sensing that I’m not quite as invested in the gossip as the others. “But I did hear that you might have some gossip, Carrie Jo. Something about an online romance?”
She blushes so brightly she might as well turn the whole tavern red. “I just wanted to meet someone that I haven’t gone to high school with.”
The conversation around me fades a little as I glance toward the door, half listening, half trying to ignore the constant buzz of the tavern. But then the door swings open and more people walk in.
Violet.
And Dakota.
My breath catches in my chest. Everything slows.
Her auburn hair catches the low light as she moves through the door, her silhouette framed by the dusty glow of the streetlight outside. She’s wearing a loose shirt and a pair of jeans that hug her just right.
She walks with that grace of hers. She knows she’s not just another face in a crowd, but someone who’s worth noticing.
It’s hard to look at her because she’s so beautiful.
Especially here, in this bar, where we first talked to one another. Where we met on that night.
It was only one night, but it kinda seems she was the one who got away.