Chapter 25
Will
Yelling breaks through the steady hum of conversation out front, and I stand up from my desk, groaning as I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Not again.
I put out my cigar in the ashtray near the pile of invoices I’d been sorting and make my way through the narrow hallway toward the front of the bar. Before I’ve even stepped past the swinging doors, I hear the scuffle. Chairs scraping, glass clinking, and voices raised.
And then I see him.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter under my breath. “Fucking Liam Stone.”
Drunk. Again. Jaw clenched, eyes wild, fists clenched like he’s two seconds from breaking someone’s nose. And of course, he's squared up against a tourist. The poor guy’s wide-eyed, probably just said the wrong thing or looked at him sideways. Hard to say what’ll set Liam off these days.
I don’t wait.
I storm across the floor and grab Liam by the back of his neck just as he rears back to swing.
“Calm the fuck down,” I bark, loud enough to stop every head mid-turn. “Or get the hell out of my bar.”
Gasps. Awkward laughter. A few whispers.
Liam shoves at my arm, but I tighten my grip, dragging him backward like a disobedient teenager. The tourist backs off quickly, hands up like he wants none of this. Smart man.
I push Liam through the hallway, past the kitchen, and into my office before shoving the door shut behind us.
He stumbles, half-spins, and collapses onto the couch like a man who’s been pushed around too many times to care anymore.
“Don’t make me call the sheriff, Liam,” I say, dead serious.
He scoffs without looking at me, falling back against the couch with a loud, drunken sigh. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” I snap. “And I know for a fact he won’t be happy to see you again.”
He shrugs like he couldn’t care less, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his jaw. “Fine. Call him. See if I care.”
“I’m giving you one chance,” I say, voice lowering. “So use it. What the hell’s going on with you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just sits there, slumped over, looking like hell. His shirt’s wrinkled, his boots scuffed, and he smells like whiskey and like he hasn’t showered in a few days.
Then, with the clumsy determination of a man just drunk enough to think it’s a good idea, he digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
“Celebrating,” he mutters, thumbing at the screen until he finds whatever he’s looking for. Then he holds the phone out to me, eyes glassy.
I take it, eyebrows drawn.
“Am I supposed to know what this is?”
He just stares at me, jaw clenched.
I look down.
An ultrasound image fills the screen. Two tiny figures, side by side, black and white but unmistakable.
My brows lift as I scroll. The message is from Phern, and of course, she’s not exactly subtle.
Phern Stone
>
Here’s the latest ultrasound of your kids, you dumbass. They’re healthy and thriving while you’re busy self-destructing.
PS – Olive is fine, too.
My lips twitch despite myself. God bless that woman and that mouth of hers.
I hand the phone back. “Well. Congratulations, friend. You're gonna be a dad. Twice over.”
Liam leans forward, elbows on his knees, phone dangling from his fingers like it weighs more than he can hold.
“So why,” I continue, crossing my arms, “are you trying to start fights in my bar for the third goddamn time this week?”
He’s silent for a moment.
Then, quietly, “Because I hate being in that house.”
I blink. “What are you talking about? You built that house. You poured everything into it.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “And now every damn corner reminds me of her. Every creak in the floor, every stupid dent in the walls, every night when the bed’s too fucking quiet. She’s everywhere, and she’s nowhere.”
He swipes a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to shove the words back in, but it’s too late. They’re out now.
And they hurt.
“Then fix it,” I say, gentler this time. “You’ve still got time.”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t. I asked for proof. I practically accused her. She came to me, and I pushed her away. Let my father ruin everything. Again.”
He sinks deeper into the couch like he’s disappearing into it. And for the first time since he walked in here two months ago, drunk and angry and aching, I see the truth. He doesn’t know how to fix what he broke. And he’s scared shitless to try.
I sigh and walk back to my desk, pulling out the bottle of whiskey I keep stashed behind the bottom drawer. It’s the good stuff. Aged, expensive, only touched when life forces you to toast something worth remembering. Or fixing. Guess helping a man try to win back the love of his life qualifies.
I pour us each two fingers, the amber liquid catching the dim light like fire. I slide one glass across the desk toward him and keep the other for myself. He eyes it warily but doesn’t protest.
I raise mine slightly before taking a slow sip. Smooth. Sharp. Just like the truth I’m about to serve him.
“It’s going to have to be something grand,” I say, letting the warmth spread through my chest.
Liam lifts his head, frowning. “Grand how?”
“Something that leaves no room for doubt,” I say, leaning forward. “Something that tells her without hesitation that she’s the love of your life. That it was always her.”
He scoffs and takes a drink. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“Sure you do.”
His eyes snap to mine. “I don’t.”
His voice cracks a little, raw and defensive, like I just asked him to perform heart surgery with his old pocketknife.
“I never had someone show me how to love someone like that,” he continues, voice lower now.
“You know what I grew up with. My dad used people like tools. My mom silently took it and never showed real love because she was afraid it’d be used against her and then left everyone behind the moment she grew a backbone.
Everything I know about love is broken.”
He rubs a hand over his face. “Olive was the only real thing I ever had, and I ruined it. I let my fear crawl out of my mouth and shred the one person who believed in me.”
I let the silence sit between us for a minute.
Then I say, “Maybe it’s time you stop trying to know how and just start showing her.”
He looks at me, glass tight in his hand.
“You don't have to be perfect, Liam. You just have to mean it. And make damn sure she sees it.”
He lets out a breath. “So what do I do? Buy her a ring? Beg her back?”
“No,” I say. “You don’t buy her anything.”
He looks confused.
“You show up. In a way only you can. You build something. You create something. You remind her why she fell in love with you in the first place and why she might still be willing to try again.”
His lips twitch like he wants to argue but can’t. Because deep down, he knows I’m right.
I take another sip. “You’ve already been given something most men don’t get, Liam.”
He looks up, eyes bloodshot, voice rough. “What’s that?”
“A second chance,” I say, setting my glass down with finality. “Don’t waste it.”
He exhales slowly, shoulders sagging like the words hit something buried deep. Then he sighs again and leans back on the couch, covering his face with one hand.
I push back my chair and stand.
“Come on,” I say, already reaching for my keys.
He frowns up at me. “Where are we going?”
“I’m taking your sorry ass home so you can sleep this off. And in the morning—” I pause, meeting his gaze, “—we start planning.”
His brows lift, skeptical. “Planning?”
“Something grand, remember?” I grin. “You’re gonna show her she’s the love of your life. Which means we’ve got work to do.”
He lets out a tired, disbelieving laugh. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious,” I say, already opening the office door. “Now get up before I call the sheriff after all and have him drag you home in handcuffs.”
He mutters something under his breath but stands and wobbles a little. I catch his arm and steer him toward the back exit, away from the remaining crowd. Bonnie, my barback, can close up. I’ve got bigger things to take care of.
As we step into the cool night air, Liam mutters, “She’s probably never going to forgive me.”
I glance at him. “Then it’s your job to make sure she never forgets how hard you tried.”
He’s quiet after that. But when I help him into the passenger seat and close the door, he doesn’t look drunk anymore. He looks ready. Or, at the very least, willing to try. And for Liam Stone? That’s a hell of a start.
Mornings at Liam’s barn are quiet, just the way I like them.
Between his house and Sam’s, I practically grew up on Stonewater Ranch.
I know every nook and cranny. All the best places to hide.
But today, I’ve got a clipboard, a second coffee mug, and the stubborn hope that Liam Stone will actually show up.
The man’s been a damn ghost with fists lately. Angry, broken, and drunk more than he is sober. And yeah, I’ve kicked him out of my bar three times this week alone, but that doesn’t mean I’m not rooting for the guy.
I hear the familiar stomping of his boots, and sure enough, here he comes looking like hell warmed over. Hair a mess. Shirt half-tucked. But his eyes? They’re clearer than they’ve been in months.
He stalks over, hands stuffed in his pockets like he’s still debating whether this is worth it.
“You showed,” I say. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
He rolls his eyes. “This is my barn. Let’s just get this over with.”
I ignore the attitude. He’s here. That’s what matters.
I tap the clipboard in my hand and hold out the second coffee. “This isn’t a lecture. It’s a battle plan.”
He eyes the clipboard. “Why do you have a clipboard?”
“Because if I leave this up to your emotionally constipated ass, you’ll blow it before we even get to step one.”
He snorts but it’s something. I flip to the first page.
“We’re going to recreate your story. The real one. The parts that mattered. The moments that made Olive fall for you.”
He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “That feels corny.”
“So be corny,” I shoot back. “Be real. She’s already seen you fail. Now remind her why she stayed.”
He looks away. I give him a second. Then I press.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” I say, watching him over the rim of my coffee mug. “The night you met.”
Liam’s face shifts like he’s trying to fight a smile and loses. There’s warmth there, underneath all the wreckage.
“It was at a bar in Sheridan,” he says, voice low with memory. “She was on stage, getting water dumped on her.”
I bark out a laugh. “Right. Some wet t-shirt contest. She looked like a drowned cat, right?”
He grins. “Yeah, but she still looked good.”
“And didn’t you call her the wrong name and then ask her friend out?”
He winces, chuckling. “Not my best moment.”
“No, but it was memorable,” I say, flipping the page on my clipboard. “So we recreate it.”
His brow arches. “What, you want to pour water on her again?”
“No,” I snort. “We use my bar. Stage a lowkey night. Open mic, maybe. You don’t flirt with anyone else this time. You see her first. Only her.”
He gives me a long, skeptical look. “And that’s supposed to win her back?”
I shrug. “No. But it’s a start. You’re not trying to impress her. You’re trying to remind her of who you were before you let fear turn you into a damn wrecking ball.”
He looks away, and I don’t push. The silence stretches until I hear the soft scratch of pen on paper he’s jotting something in the margin of the clipboard.
Progress.
“What else?” he asks.
I flip the page. “The baby-making room.”
He nearly chokes on his coffee. “Jesus, Will.”
“Relax,” I say, deadpan. “Not that kind of reenactment. But that’s where the magic happened, right? Where you think y’all conceived the babies?”
I got that little bit of information from him on the drive last night. Not sure what a baby-making room is, but it must have done it’s job.
Liam sighs, his expression sobering. “I guess so.”
“You guess?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “We weren’t in a good place then. The real magic happened when she moved in here after Lura passed away… that’s when it started to feel real. Like home.”
I nod slowly. That’s the key. Not perfection but effort. The two of them, bruised and stubborn, still trying to build something that looked like a future.
“Then we lean into that,” I say. “Cook for her. Show her she still has a place here.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies the list like it’s sacred.
“You don’t win her back with promises, Liam,” I say gently. “You win her back with truth. With action. One memory at a time. One piece at a time.”
He’s quiet for a long beat.
Then, finally, he nods. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
I clap him on the shoulder hard and grin. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Because maybe Liam Stone’s done drowning in the wreckage of what he lost. Maybe now, he’s ready to rebuild something worth coming home to.
We plan and plot for the next few hours. Turns out, Liam has a few ideas of his own, like expanding the kitchen and turning the guest room by his into a nursery.
By the time we’re finished, he’s finally back to his old self.
“But how in the hell do I get her to agree to come home?”
I smile. “You let me handle that.”
And then I open my phone and text Phern.