Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hay ducked under the door before it was fully open. “Ought to put a beacon on that beast of yours, Rowan. Be a shame if someone didn’t see ya comin’.”
Rowan climbed out and leaned against the truck, arms crossed, one corner of his mouth twitching at the familiar teasing from his buddy. “If they can’t spot her by now, Hay, they oughta trade their glasses for a telescope or something, because I got nothing.”
Hay barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he ambled toward the back of the truck. “Got your order ready soon as you phoned in.”
The feed bags were stacked in neat rows, much like his men did when they were waiting for orders.
Rowan grabbed one and hefted it into the bed of the truck.
The bag hit the metal with a solid thud.
“We’ve got a bunch in from the range.” he went back for another bag.
“Grass is poor this year, so they need some filling out. I’ll take some mineral licks if you have ‘em too?”
Henry passed him a bag of sweet feed. “I sure do. How many you want?”
“Gimmie six. If I need more, I’ll send one of the boys in before the weekend.”
Hay paused, leaning against the bumper. “Got something new if you’re interested,” he said, pulling a creased brochure from his pocket.
“Supposed to help with building up horses saved from a kill pen. At least that’s how they’re talkin’ it up.
Might be worth giving it a shot on those range beasts of yours. ”
Rowan took it and skimmed the front page. “A miracle cure from Idaho?”
“Miracle? Nah.” Hay reached back, snagging a small satchel from the stack. “But it’s got enough backing that they’re sending even me samples down here in Bell County. No harm in trying.”
Rowan turned the satchel in his hands, testing its weight.
Worst case, it’s just more grain to run through them and more shit to pick up in the pens. “Sure, why not. Thanks, Hay.”
“Don’t mention it.” Hay wiped his hands on his apron. “You heading home soon?”
Rowan scanned the bed of the truck and counted the bags. “Not before I grab pie at Nora-Mae’s.”
He handed over a few bills for the extra feed. “You coming over for a piece?”
“Nope, I’m waiting on someone from the T-bar-T coming in.”
“No worries.” Rowan climbed back into the F-350.
Hay and his wife had a baby due any day, no doubt he was anxious to get home to his wife.
Rowan figured it couldn’t hurt to be neighborly.
He had to pass right by the T-bar-T on his way home anyway.
“If they haven’t gotten here by the time you see me leaving town, let me know, and I’ll drop it off on my way. ”
“Appreciate that.” Hay tapped his hand on the roof of the truck. “Thanks, Ro.”
Rowan drove down the street and found a spot outside the diner. There was peach cobbler in there with his name on it, and he refused to leave town without it.
Nora-Mae’s peach cobbler is one hell of a reason to leave the ranch and deal with people.
The diner’s bell clanged as Rowan pushed through the door.
He paused for a second to appreciate the scent of fried bacon and coffee.
The air buzzed with conversation, the clatter of cutlery, and the occasional hiss of grease on the grill.
The place was packed as usual with locals in dust-caked Carhartts, what looked like a road crew in neon vests, and there, at the far end of the counter, old man Higgins sat hunched over his usual milkshake, his gnarled fingers clutching the glass.
Nora-Mae didn’t even glance up from the grill when the bell announced his arrival. “Took you long enough,” she called, her voice rough but not unkind. “Thought maybe you’d finally figured out how to live without my cobbler.”
Rowan eyed the wooden spoon in her hand. He was sure her gramma had chased him a time or two with that when he was a wild kid, who had zero capability to stay out of trouble.
“Hell no, I could smell those peaches cooking all the way out to the ranch.” He slid onto a stool near the register. “Why do you think I’m the one doing the feedstore run today?” he said, grinning. “Your cobblers summoned me from my bat cave.”
Nora-Mae shot him a look that could’ve curdled milk, but the corner of her mouth twitched. Got her. “Batcave, my foot. Just you wait until I talk to your mama. She’ll be all kinds of upset that you’re callin’ her home a cave.”
“Now, now, Nora-Mae, no need to be bringing my momma into this.” He reached for the menu wedged between the napkin dispenser and the sugar caddy, though he didn’t need it. “She might even cut their trip short and come back here just to whoop my behind.”
“Let’s not have her do that,” Nora-Mae agreed. “She done more than earned that trip, what with raising you and Gael, and then worrying about you both ‘til you were out of the Navy.”
He winked at her and turned his attention to the menu, but before he could even pretend to consider his options, Lila appeared beside him like she’d been conjured, her coffee pot already tilted toward his mug.
Nora-Mae’s teenage daughter was a whirlwind in a diner uniform, dark hair pulled into a messy bun, a smudge of flour on her cheek. “The usual, Mr. Salieri?”
Rowan leaned back, letting the diner’s chaos wash over him. “Unless you’ve got a secret stash of something better hidden in the back?”
Lila poured without waiting for confirmation, the dark stream of coffee streaming into his chipped mug. “You only wish we had pop or something.”
“Lila.”
Someone called her before he could respond, and she moved off as Rowan wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into his palms. The coffee was black, bitter, and strong enough to strip paint—just how he liked it. He took a slow sip, letting his gaze wander.
There had been plenty of days over the years when he thought he’d never make it back here. There was something about being in here with the locals milling around that represented something he couldn’t quite name but knew he never wanted to be without.
At the booth by the window, two ranch hands were locked in what looked like a heated debate over cattle prices. Even though their voices were low, their gestures were sharp. One of them stabbed at the table with his fork for emphasis, while the other shook his head in stubborn disagreement.
“Samul, if you put a scratch on my table with that fork, you’ll sit there polishing it until it’s removed,” Nora-Mae called.
Then there was Marla, the postmistress, tucked into her corner booth with her crossword puzzle, her pencil tapping against her chin in a rhythm that might as well have been Morse code.
Another fixture.
Another constant.
One, his momma liked them to check in on them every now and again. He picked up his mug and headed in her direction.
Marla didn’t look up when he sat down, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of him. “Heard you were out of town.” She kept her eyes fixed on the puzzle.
Of course, she knew. Marla knew almost everything. “News travels fast around here.”
Marla finally glanced at him over the rim of her glasses, her sharp gaze missing nothing.
“Not fast enough, apparently. You missed all the excitement.” She leaned back, folding her arms over her chest. “Old man Jenkins tried to mail a live chicken last week. Claimed it was ‘urgent.’” She shook her head.
“Took three of us to get that bird out of the sorting bin. Feathers went everywhere, and the post office smelled like a barnyard for days.”
Rowan choked back a laugh. “What was so urgent?”
Marla smirked. “Said it was a ‘gift.’ For his niece. Who lives in Boise.”
A gift for his niece?
A chicken?
Is he mad?
Lila returned before he could ask for details, sliding a plate in front of him filled with the ooey, gooey goodness he’d been waiting for.
The cobbler was still warm, the crust golden and flaky.
A generous scoop of vanilla ice cream was already melting into the peaches.
The scent rising from the plate was rich and comforting, and for a moment, the weight of the life he’d lived, the things he’d done, and the horrors he’d seen lifted just a little.
Rowan picked up his fork, the metal warm from the dishwasher. “I’ve been dreaming of this.”
“You should find something better to dream of,” Marla gave advice sagely, “Maybe a wife and a passel of young’uns for your mama to love on.”
“Did momma tell you to say that?” He took the first bite, the flavors exploding against his tongue—sweet peaches, buttery crust, the cold creaminess of the ice cream. For a little while, at least, everything else could wait.
“No.” Marla went back to her crossword. “But I know she’s thinking it.”
The fork scraped against the chipped ceramic plate, the tines catching the last remnants of cobbler crust. Rowan dragged it through the melted ice cream, now a thin, milky syrup pooling around the edges.
He licked his lips before wiping his mouth with a napkin from the holder in the center of the table.
The jukebox, tucked between the restrooms and the emergency exit, crackled to life with an old Patsy Cline tune.
Someone laughed, a real, belly-deep sound, and for a second, Rowan let himself pretend he was just another tired man winding down after a long day, not a man who dreamed of the horrors of war.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he tugged it out to glance at the screen.
Why the hell is Camden Moore calling me now?
Moore had paid his bill; there was no reason for him to call again. While he decided if he wanted to answer or not, his phone kept buzzing.
Marla glared at him in annoyance. Her eyes flicked to the phone, then back to him, one dark eyebrow lifting. “You gonna answer that, sugar, or you just planning on letting it ring till the battery dies?”