Chapter 24
Saramaria
The Salt Lick during the day is a different beast entirely.
Without the neon signs buzzing or the classic rock on the jukebox, the bar is a cavern of exposed wood and dust motes dancing in the shafts of sunlight cutting through the high windows.
The usual smell of stale beer has been replaced by the sugary aroma of donuts.
I stand near the stage, my boots resting on a spot that has seen more cowboy boots than a dance floor at the Grand Ole Opry. In my hand, I hold a clipboard. It’s covered in lists, crossed-out items, and frantic scribbles in three different colors of ink.
“Okay, people,” Carrie Sloan shouts, clapping her hands together. The sound echoes off the rafters, startling a few sleeping flies. “Let’s move it. We have twelve hours until showtime. I want this floor swept until I can eat off it. Lila, where is the banner?”
Lila Sloan, Carrie’s twin and the logistical brain of the operation, has a headset permanently attached to her ear and a tablet strapped to her forearm. She looks up, her expression focused.
“Rolled up behind the bar,” Lila says, tapping her screen. “The graphics team dropped it off an hour ago. Gus is guarding it with his life.”
Gus, the bartender, grunts from behind the bar where he is polishing glasses with a rag that looks like it has seen better decades. “I’m not guarding it. I’m using it as a buffer so these yahoos don’t spill coffee on my clean bar top.”
He gestures a thumb at Sammy Reed, the APbrA intern, who is currently attempting to organize a stack of flyers that is slowly collapsing.
“I have them organized!” Sammy insists, her eyes wide behind thick glasses. “By color! And by font size!”
Carrie sighs, a long-suffering sound that speaks volumes. “Sammy, flyers go on the tables. Not in a pile on the floor. Go. Now.”
Sammy scrambles, tripping over her own feet and scattering a few papers. Carrie watches her go, then turns her gaze to me.
“Saramaria, the hay bales for the seating areas. Are they dry?”
“I checked them myself this morning,” I say, consulting my list. “Hattie brought them over from her barn. They’re in the alleyway. Covered in tarps.”
“Good. Get the guys to bring them in. We need to create that rustic ‘barn dance’ vibe without actually bringing in the mud and manure.”
“I’m on it.”
I move toward the door, but Josie waves me down from where she’s setting up the tap lines. She’s wearing a pair of overalls over a flannel shirt, looking every bit the part of a ranch hand.
“Sit,” Josie commands. “You’ve been running around since dawn. Hattie just brought in a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls. You need sugar.”
“I don’t have time for sugar,” I protest, though my stomach growls in betrayal.
“Make time,” she says, sliding a plate across the high table near the stage. “You’re going to crash before the first fiddle is tuned if you don’t eat.”
I look at the cinnamon rolls. They’re massive, dripping with white icing and pecans. My resolve crumbles. I take a bite, the warmth and sweetness exploding in my mouth. It’s delicious. It’s grounding.
“I can’t believe this is actually happening,” I say around a mouthful of roll. “Two days ago, this was just a crazy idea Pearl had over pancakes.”
“And now it’s a full-scale operation,” Pearl says, appearing at my elbow. She’s wearing a hard hat over her turban, holding a measuring tape. “We’re going to save this ranch, Saramaria. And we’re going to look good doing it.”
I look around the room. It’s starting to transform.
The APbrA event coordinators—usually found organizing high-stakes rodeo finals—have turned their considerable talents to a hoedown.
They are a machine. Carrie moves with the precision of a general, directing traffic and solving problems before they arise.
Lila manages the timeline, coordinating with the local vendors who are donating supplies.
It makes me feel hopeful. Genuinely hopeful.
Since the storm, since the confrontation with Boone about the fines, I’ve been operating on a razor’s edge.
I already wired a significant chunk of my savings to the lumber yard to cover the cost of the pipe and the electrical supplies Boone found.
It hurt to see that money go. That money was supposed to be for my future, for a condo, for security.
But if tonight works, if this fundraiser brings in the money we need, I won’t just be saving the ranch. I’ll be proving that I can do this. That I can be part of this town.
The front door opens.
The noise level in the bar drops instantly.
Willa stands in the doorway. She’s wearing jeans that look like they’ve seen better days and a large knit sweater that swallows her frame. Her hair is pulled back in a messy braid, and she isn’t wearing a scrap of makeup.
For a second, nobody moves. Then, with a collective squeal, Dot and Pearl rush forward.
I’m right behind them.
We engulf her. It’s a tangle of arms and coats and the scent of vet clinic antiseptic and rain.
“You’re here,” I say, squeezing her tight.
“I wouldn’t miss this,” Willa says, her voice muffled against my shoulder. She hugs me back, hard.
When we pull apart, her eyes are shining. She looks tired, the circles under her eyes still dark, but the terrified edge is gone. She seems... lighter.
“I brought beer,” she says, pointing to a case she set down just inside the door. “Beau’s homebrew. It’s potent, but it’s free.”
“And I brought the hard stuff,” Carrie says, walking over with a tray of shot glasses filled with amber liquid. “To celebrate the guest of honor actually showing her face.”
Willa laughs. She accepts a glass.
“To Saramaria,” Pearl says, raising her glass. “For saving the ranch. For saving us all from boredom.”
“To Saramaria,” the room choruses.
“To... surviving,” Willa adds softly.
We clink glasses. The burn of the whiskey is instant, spreading warmth through my chest.
“Okay,” Willa says, slamming her glass down on the table. “I’m here. I’m fed. I’ve had my whiskey. Tell me where you need me. Do you need me to help wrangle drunks? Check IDs? I can be a bouncer if you need me to.”
Carrie grins. “We have Wade for security. But I do need someone to coordinate the silent auction items. People have been dropping stuff off all morning. It’s a mess in the back office.”
“Done,” Willa says, rolling up her sleeves. “Show me the mess.”
For the next six hours, we work.
It’s a blur of activity. Hattie and her staff from Sweetbuns take over the kitchen, filling the air with the scents of roasting meat, cornbread, and spicy chili. Josie and Gus man the bar, setting up taps and arranging glassware.
I find myself working alongside the Sloan twins. They are fascinating to watch. They communicate in a shorthand of nods and hand signals, anticipating each other’s moves before they make them.
“Banner needs to be higher,” Carrie says, pointing to the rafters.
“On it,” Lila says, grabbing a ladder.
Sammy, the intern, is tasked with decorating the tables. She’s tying red bandanas around the mason jars that will hold wildflowers.
“Does this look right?” she asks me, holding up a jar.
“It looks perfect,” I tell her. And it does. It looks like Muddy Creek. Rugged, simple, and a little bit wild.
As the afternoon wears on, the room takes shape. The hay bales are arranged in semi-circles around low tables covered in red-and-white checkered cloths. Twinkle lights are strung up, replacing the harsh fluorescent overheads with a soft, warm glow.
The stage is cleared. The sound system is tested—the bass thumping through the floorboards, vibrating in my boots.
I stand back near the bar, wiping sweat from my forehead. It looks amazing. It looks like a place where people want to be.
“Not bad,” Josie says, leaning against the bar next to me. She hands me a bottle of water. “For a lawyer, you have decent taste in decor.”
“I have good teachers,” I say, nodding toward Pearl and Dot, who are currently arguing with Gus about the pricing of the domestic beer.
“Willa looks better,” Josie says quietly.
I look toward the office window. Willa is inside, organizing a stack of signed rodeo jerseys and gift baskets. She’s laughing at something Carrie said.
“She does,” I agree.
“It helps that she’s surrounded by people who love her,” Josie says. “This town has her back.”
I think about the men back at the ranch. Are they thinking about me? Do they know I’m here? Are they angry that I’ve been staying away?
Boone’s face flashes in my mind. The way he looked at me in the rain. The things he did to me.
I push the thought away. I can’t deal with that right now. I have to focus on this. If tonight fails, I lose the ranch. If tonight succeeds... I still have to figure out what to do about them.
The sun begins to set. The parking lot starts to fill up. Trucks and cars are arriving, their headlights cutting through the twilight.
The energy shifts. The work mode fades into anticipation.
Dot walks over to me, adjusting her spectacles. “It’s time, dear. You need to go get changed. You can’t meet your public wearing jeans and a T-shirt covered in paint.”
I look down at myself. She’s right. I have splatters of primer on my sleeve and flour on my jeans.
“Go,” Pearl says, shooing me toward the door. “We’ll handle the final touches. Go put on something pretty. Show these boys what they missed out on.”
I laugh. “Okay, I’m going.”
I walk out into the cool evening air. The stars are just starting to peek through the breaking clouds. For the first time in a week, the sky is clear.
I get into my truck and drive the short distance to Pearl’s guest house. I rush inside, Wellsy greeting me with a happy yip.
I take a quick shower, scrubbing the paint and grime from my skin. I stand in front of the mirror, debating. I don’t want to look too fancy. I don’t want to look like the city lawyer. I want to look like me.
I pull on a pair of dark wash jeans—my good ones—and a fitted button-down shirt. It’s blue, a deep, vibrant color that matches my eyes. I leave the top button undone and roll up the sleeves to my elbows.
I pull my hair back, but then I think better of it. I let it down. It’s curly and wild. It’s not perfect, not the smooth bun I wear in court.
It’s me.
I grab my boots and pull them on.
I look at myself in the mirror. I look strong. I look ready.
“Let’s do this,” I tell my reflection.
I drive back to The Salt Lick. The parking lot is full and I can hear music drifting from inside—a fiddle riff, fast and upbeat.
I walk in.
The difference is staggering. The place is packed. People are laughing, drinking, eating. The smell of barbecue and cedar is thick in the air.
I spot Willa near the stage. She’s wearing a dress—a simple, floral wrap dress that looks amazing on her—and laughing with Carrie, pointing at a stack of raffle tickets.
I spot Gus behind the bar, pouring drinks with a speed that defies his age. Josie is weaving through the crowd, taking orders.
And then I see them.
Boone, Knox, and Rhett.
They’re standing near the pool tables, dressed in their best jeans and clean shirts. They look... incredible. They look like a pack. Tall, broad-shouldered, commanding the space around them.
My heart stumbles. I wasn’t sure they would come.
Boone’s eyes scan the room. They lock onto mine.
He stops talking mid-sentence. He just looks at me.
Knox follows his gaze. A grin spreads across his face. He nudges Rhett. Rhett looks up, and his expression softens.
They start walking toward me.
The crowd parts for them, instinctively making way.
I stand my ground and hold my head high.
“Hey,” Boone says when he reaches me. His eyes roam over my face, taking in the loose hair, the blue shirt. “You look... nice.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I didn’t think you’d make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Knox says. “Pearl threatened to come drag us out by our ears if we didn’t show.”
“She would do it, too,” Rhett adds.
“Well,” I say, gesturing to the room. “It’s busy.”
“It’s a success,” Rhett corrects me. “You did this, Saramaria.”
“I had help,” I say.
Carrie walks up to the microphone on stage. The feedback squeal silences the room.
“Alright, everyone!” Carrie shouts. “Welcome to the Save the Ranch Hoedown! Let’s get this party started with a little silent auction bidding. Willa James is going to kick us off!”
Willa hops up on the stage, looking radiant. She holds up a framed jersey signed by the top riders of the circuit.
“Let’s start the bidding at five hundred!” she yells.
Hands go up all over the room.
I look at the men standing in front of me. For a second, the noise fades.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For being here.”
Boone reaches out, his hand brushing my arm. “We wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
It’s a simple sentence, but it means everything.
The night whirls on. I talk to people I haven’t seen in years. I drink too much sweet tea. I watch the pile of cash in the donation jar grow.
I watch Willa laugh with Dot and Pearl. I see Sammy manage to avoid tripping over a cowboy.
And I watch the men. I watch them talk to the locals, deflecting the rumors about Jack Dalton, keeping the conversation focused on the ranch.
At one point, I catch Boone looking at me from across the room. He’s leaning against a post, a drink in his hand. He isn’t smiling. He’s just watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
I look away. I can’t go down that road right now. I can’t think about the rain or the tree or the way his hands felt on me.
I have to focus on the money.
And as the band starts playing a fast-paced reel, and couples spin onto the dance floor, I realize something.
I’m happy.
I’m tired, and I’m stressed, and my future is still a mess.
But right now, in this noise and this heat, surrounded by people who are fighting for me... I am happy.
I catch Willa’s eye across the room. She raises her glass to me.
I raise mine back.
We’re going to save the ranch. I can feel it.
And maybe I’m going to save myself, too.