Chapter 3 #2
Wes Dalton stood in the doorway, scanning the room. He’d cleaned up well since yesterday—wearing a crisp flannel shirt, his beard trimmed, his hair still slightly damp like he’d recently showered. He looked–
Pretty damn good, Jake thought.
But he also looked defeated.
Their eyes met.
Wes’s weary expression shifted—recognition, then something Jake couldn’t place. Annoyance, maybe. Or resignation.
He crossed to the bar, not looking at Jake, and took a seat two stools down.
Tucker appeared immediately. “Wes. Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
“Yeah, well.” Wes rubbed the back of his neck. “I needed to get out of the house.”
“How’s Henry?”
“Good. Asleep.”
“Good.” Tucker grabbed a glass. “Your usual?”
“Yeah.”
Tucker poured something amber—whiskey, probably—and set it in front of Wes. “You eat?”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Wes sighed. “I ate.”
“Good.” Tucker glanced between Wes and Jake, then smirked. “You two know each other?”
Wes took a drink. “Something like that.”
Jake kept his expression neutral. “We met yesterday. At his farm.”
“Hmm.” Tucker’s smirk widened. “Small world.”
“Tiny,” Wes muttered.
Tucker left to help another customer. The bar hummed with comforting noise around them—someone laughing at a booth, the trilling of dartboards from the rear, Cal’s jukebox playing on. But the two stools between Jake and Wes felt like a gulf.
I should probably just let it go, Jake thought. Let Wes have his drink in peace.
Instead, he said, “I sent you an email.”
Wes didn’t look at him. “I know.”
“Did you read it?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Wes turned to meet Jake’s gaze. His eyes were dark, guarded. “And I’m still trying to decide if you’re full of shit or not.”
Jake stared blankly for a moment, then he couldn’t help it. He chuckled.
Wes scowled. “What’s funny?” he asked.
“You. Most people at least pretend to be polite.”
“I’m not most people.”
“I noticed.”
Wes took another drink, set the glass down carefully. “You really think you can save my farm?”
“I think there’s a good chance, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the fundamentals are solid. You’ve got land, equipment, and a customer base. What you don’t have is capital and a sustainability plan.”
“And you can give me that?”
“I can help you restructure your debt and connect you with resources. The rest is up to you.”
Wes looked away. “And what’s it cost me?”
“Restructured payments. Lower interest. Possibly some equipment leasing instead of outright purchase.” Jake paused. “And your pride, maybe. You’ll have to accept help.”
“My pride,” Wes repeated.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t pull punches, do you?”
“Not when it comes to saving a family farm, no.”
The jukebox changed songs. Something slower, melancholy. Cal glanced over at them and grinned.
Wes scowled. “Cal’s got a sick sense of humor.”
“Why?”
“The song.” Wes pointed up, a gesture to listen.
It was Losing My Religion by R.E.M.
Jake smiled. “That’s pretty much on the nose.”
“Cal thinks he’s a prophet.” Wes finished his whiskey and signaled Tucker for another.
Jake watched him. In the warm light of the bar, he looked less like the hostile farmer from the day before and more like a man who was just... tired. Tired of fighting, tired of worrying, tired of carrying everything alone.
Foster care had taught Jake that look. He’d worn it himself more often than he could count.
“For what it’s worth,” Jake said quietly, “I’m not here to screw you over.”
Wes looked at him. He stared hard, as if he were searching for the lie.
Jake held his gaze.
“Yeah,” Wes said finally. “Maybe.”
It wasn’t an agreement. But it wasn’t dismissal either.
Tucker returned with Wes’s refill. “You boys want some food? The kitchen’s open another hour.”
“I’m good,” Wes said.
“Jake?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Tucker shrugged and moved off again.
Wes picked up his glass, then set it down without drinking. “You throw darts?”
Jake blinked at the non sequitur. “Not well.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Then, yes. I throw darts.”
Wes stood, grabbed his glass. “Come on.”
“I—I don’t—”
“You can’t come to Tucker’s and not throw at least one round.” He started toward the back, then glanced over his shoulder. “Unless you’re scared I’ll beat you.”
Is he... teasing?
Jake grabbed his beer and followed.
The dartboards were in the back corner, two of them, well-used. At the nearest one, four guys were mid-game, trash-talking with the ease of old friends. Money sat on the high-top table nearby—looked like twenties.
Wes headed for the empty board, nodding at the group. “Hey. fellas.”
A stocky guy with a beard looked over. “Hey, Wes. Surprised to see you on a weekend this time of year.”
“Special occasion.”
One of the other guys—blond, bespectacled, and rangy—grinned. “You playing for money? Because we’ll take it.”
“Not tonight, Sam.” Wes gestured to Jake. “This is Jake. Jake, that’s Sam and his brother Dex. And that’s Chuck and Brody—they own the BBQ place and bakery on the square.”
Brody, the bearded one, raised his beer. “Welcome to Spoon. Fair warning: Wes here is a hustler.”
“I am not.”
“You are absolutely a hustler,” Chuck said, lining up a throw. His dart hit with a thump, the board chirping approval. “You show up, act all rusty, then fleece people.”
“That was one time.”
“Three times,” Sam corrected.
Wes rolled his eyes, grabbed darts from the empty board. “Ignore them. They’re just sore losers.”
The group laughed and went back to their game. Their board flashed and blee-blee-bleeped as someone hit a triple.
Wes handed three darts to Jake. “You go first.”
Jake positioned himself, eyeing the board. It had been years since he’d thrown darts—college, maybe, at some bar he couldn’t remember the name of.
He threw.
The dart hit the outer ring.
“That’s a double. Not awful,” Wes said.
“I warned you.”
“Try again.”
Jake threw twice more. One hit near the bullseye. The other missed the scoring area entirely and bounced off the plastic casing.
“Jesus.” Wes walked over, retrieved the darts. “You’re a hazard.”
“I’m out of practice.”
“Clearly.” Wes lined up, his movements smooth and polished, and threw. Bullseye. The board chirped enthusiastically.
Then another.
Then a third.
The board flashed, lights cycling through red and green.
Wes turned, smirking. “That’s how it’s done.”
Jake shook his head. “Show-off.”
“Sore loser.”
“I haven’t lost yet. This is just practice.”
“Fine. Let’s play a round. Loser buys the next drink.”
“Deal.”
They played three games. Jake lost all of them, but the gap narrowed each time. And somewhere between the second and third rounds, Wes’s shoulders relaxed. The tightness of his jaw eased. He even laughed when Jake’s dart bounced off the board and nearly hit Chuck.
“He’s a hazard,” Wes said, grinning.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Jake bought the next round—whiskey for Wes, another beer for himself—and they leaned against the wall near the dartboards, not talking, just... relaxing.
Cal’s jukebox played on. Something about wicked games. He caught Jake’s eye again, grinning like he knew something Jake didn’t.
Jake shook his head, dismissing. He hadn’t cut loose like this in a long time–and in Spoon, GA, of all places!
He was buzzing from the beer, throwing darts with a rugged and handsome man.
And though he knew better than to fraternize with a client, it felt good.
It felt like maybe, somewhere deep within his lager-induced bliss, the bonding occurring between him and Wes might not be strictly professional. That maybe–
“I should get going,” Wes said. “Early morning tomorrow.”
Jake sighed. “Yeah. Me too.”
They walked out together, the night air cold enough to see their breath. The town square was quieter now, most of the shops dark, just the Christmas lights still glowing.
Wes stopped on the sidewalk, hands shoved in his pockets. “So. This meeting you mentioned. When?”
“Whenever works for you.”
“Tuesday?”
“Tuesday’s good.”
“Okay.” Wes nodded, then hesitated. “And... thanks. For not being an asshole tonight.”
Jake laughed. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m serious. I was ready to hate you.”
“I noticed.”
“But you’re...” Wes trailed off, looking bemused. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Neither are you.”
Their eyes met. Held.
Something shifted, and with the cold came sobriety.
Shit.
Wes cleared his throat, looked away. “Right. So, Tuesday.”
“Tuesday.”
As they approached Wes’s truck, Jake noticed quite a collection of wadded-up Dairy Dream bags and cups scattered in the bed.
“Someone has a junk food habit,” he teased.
“It’s fast and easy… kinda like beating you at darts.”
“Hey!”
“Just kidding.” But whether he was or not, the grin and the twinkle in Wes’s eyes warmed Jake completely. “See ya, Jake.”
Wes climbed in and started the engine. For a second, they gazed at each other through the truck window, then Wes pulled away, taillights disappearing around the corner.
Jake stood on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, staring after him.
This is a bad idea.
He knew it was.
But standing there in the cold December night, Jake couldn’t shake the image of Wes’s smile and those dark and soulful brown eyes.
You’re in trouble.
He continued walking back toward the Hawthorne House.