Chapter 2
TWO
Jesse
Nine weeks ago
The bottle felt cool in my hands, its amber liquid glistening under the fluorescent lighting.
Feeling foolish, I dropped it in the red shopping basket nestled over the crook of my elbow and weaved through the aisles.
I hoped the hour was late enough I wouldn’t have to see any acquaintances, but I tucked my head low and tipped the brim of my cowboy hat over my face… just in case.
I could’ve gone to the bigger city of Kerrville for more choices and less folks who knew my name.
But my son Cade was already asleep in the cabin and I couldn’t afford the extra driving time.
So my alcohol options would be limited to whatever old Bill had sitting in the liquor section of his grocery and gas station called The Tasty Mart.
I hurried through the shop, my stomach turning with dread and guilt.
My eyes darted to the door when the metal bells softly jangled.
Bill stepped out of the back room, his worn jeans fraying over the top of his boots.
He wore a cowboy hat and his tight chest pocket outlined his box of cigarettes.
Per the usual, he was packing that well-maintained, old Colt Python at his hip.
He strode up to help the woman, and I turned my face as she looked my way.
My breathing quickened.
I shouldn’t be here.
That fact wasn’t anything new, because this certainly wasn’t the first time I’d found myself at Tasty Mart, using a shopping basket to hide my purchases from prying eyes. Although, admittedly, it had been a long, long time.
But my circumstances were new.
No, not new. Different.
I browsed the beer section, burning time until the woman left. When the bells signaled her departure, I hauled my poison up to the counter, keeping my chin down and letting my gaze study the worn, beige countertop between Bill and me.
I’d come to know Bill over the years, but he kept conversation surface level most of the time—not much of a chatterbox or a gossip.
Most likely, he wouldn’t spill my business to other people.
Hopefully, because I didn’t have many choices.
I either took my chance with Bill, made the drive to Kerrville, or went home without something to numb the pain.
And my heart was being ripped to shreds. Going without wasn’t an option. Sobriety be damned.
I thunked my basket down without looking up. “Evening, Bill.”
He regarded me. “Jesse. How are you tonight?”
“Just fine, sir. You?”
“Better than I deserve.” Bill reached into the basket, his hand faltering a moment when it met the stout glass neck of a bourbon. Slowly, he lifted it, and a beep filled the silence.
He drew a stiff inhale. “They gettin’ that ranch all spiffed up?”
“Yep. The big day’s Saturday.”
I shifted in discomfort as he lifted my rye whiskey next. He seemed to move in slow motion—why was he taking so long? I wished he’d hurry so I could hightail it.
But there was a long pause.
And no beep.
Bill cleared his throat.
I chanced a glance, tipping my gaze to his face to see what the hold up was. He stood there, his old blue eyes staring straight into mine. He clutched the bottle in his wrinkled fist, a sad look clouding his expression. I immediately looked away, heat rising up my neck.
Bill wasn’t one to make conversation, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t watching. He was plenty in tune with the people in our tiny community. Every soul in Comfort came for his groceries. Every truck stopped for his gas. Every drunk filtered in and out of his shop just before closing time.
I thought I could shop without scrutiny, but clearly, I was wrong.
Shame coiled in my gut. What would Laurel think of me?
I’d take any thought over that one right now.
I opened my mouth, but no words came. So I shut it and let my gaze fall back to the counter top. My swallow hurt my throat as feelings pulled against every muscle in my neck.
His tone grew as soft as his smoker rasp would allow. “Jesse.” I looked up in time to see him shake his head. “Another drunk around here would do wonders for business, but…” He looked to my basket. “You sure you wanna do this?”
I stared at him, incapable of responding.
He continued. “How long you been sober?”
Heat lifted into my cheeks, and dammit I knew they were turning red—a trait I hated. My voice scraped. “Four years.”
“That’s a lot of time to throw away.”
I shook my head. “I just…need something to get me to Monday.”
“Is this ‘cause of the wedding?”
My inhale hurt as I shrugged. “I guess so.” But it was so much more. Yeah, Tag’s wedding, but also the season—spring took her away from me and Cade’s smile looked a little more like hers every day. “I can hardly breathe.”
“This right here won’t help that. You’ll just wake up tomorrow with another problem.” Bill set the rye back in my basket. “Listen, I’ve got too much respect for you and everyone else out at Meadowbrook to not say something. You’re good people. And this stuff hurts good people.”
I nodded, feeling childish and wishing I could come up with something to say. “Yeah” was the only thing that came out.
I didn’t always feel tortured like this. In many ways, I’d been doing great. Hell, I’d been an exemplary widower, moving through life just fine. But if I’d learned anything about grief in the last six years, it was this: it doesn’t always make sense.
Grief moved like a shadow—mostly under my feet until the sun began to fall.
Never far, always waiting.
“Hope you’ll forgive me for overstepping.”
“I—I haven’t—” My voice choked off, but he patiently waited. “I’m afraid of what might happen when I go home.”
He scratched his bristly chin, considering me for a few long moments. “Just let yourself hurt. Ain’t no shame in that. Nothing to be scared of either.”
Easy for him to say.
“You didn’t ask for my two cents, but since I’m on a roll, I’ll tell you what to do. Go home. Hug that boy of yours. Remember everything about her that you possibly can. It’ll burn like fire, but tomorrow you won’t regret a thing.”
He removed the bottle of bourbon from the plastic bag and set it back in the basket. “I’ll make you a deal. If you leave these two bottles here”—he reached around me to pluck something out of a cup on the counter—“I’ll give you this.”
Between his fingers, he pinched a tiny plastic tube of local honey. Cade called them honey sticks, and he absolutely loved them.
My son.
I reached out, taking the stick. Heat pulled behind my eyes and my jaw clenched.
Cade was the only reason I’d held on all this time. The only reason I kept fighting when I was so damn tired and would rather drink myself into a stupor. Bill knew I needed the reminder.
He gave me a slow, sad smile. “That’s on the house.”
“Thank you.”
His words sounded like a grandfather’s. A gentle, loving chide as he jutted his chin toward the exit. “Get outta here.”
I gave him a single nod, fisting the honey in my hand.
“Night, Jesse.”
The soft brush of doorbells ushered me into the night.
After an abnormally cool Texas spring, the mid-day temperature spike blindsided me. The button-up flannel made sense in the morning hours, but now it smothered my skin’s ability to breathe. The heavy fabric clung to my triceps as I coiled the rope in my hand.
Pores on my neck prickled—maybe more from agitation than the heat.
The way we were cleaning up around this place, you’d think the president of the United States was coming to Meadowbrook Ranch. But no. We were tidying up the tack room for a wedding. As if the bridal party was going to be in the dusty barn, browsing bridles and slinging ropes.
My sour attitude wasn’t fair. I knew it, but I was too exhausted to give a shit.
After last night, my eyes felt puffy, my limbs sagged, and my throat ached.
I’d gotten half the hours of sleep I typically did, and, as much as I appreciated Bill’s advice, I’d prefer an alcohol hangover versus an emotional one any day of the week.
I was practically the walking dead this afternoon.
I hated that my current fog of grief fell directly over Tag’s wedding—made me a sorry excuse for a best man—but this weekend had brewed up the perfect storm.
When your soulmate was six feet under, weddings stopped being a happy event.
All the ceremony talk and reception preparations kept landing like wire bristles, forcing open all the wounds I’d almost healed.
Plus, April was hard every year.
When I realized how tough this weekend would be, I told myself I’d be okay. That I would do better than I expected. My inner pep-talk was something along the lines of “nothing is as bad as you fear it might be.”
Bullshit.
It was worse.
But I needed to get my head out of my problems, and at least try to focus on Cade, my ten-year-old son.
He had gotten home from school just a little while ago, and had been lost in quiet thought ever since.
He stood a few paces away at about four feet, five inches tall.
Underneath his cowboy hat was a headful of hair in bad need of a trim.
His hands sorted and untangled bridles with a dexterity that could only come from living and breathing horses and equipment.
When a bit snagged leather, he gave it a frustrated tug.
Gathering strength, I sucked in a deep breath. Getting Cade to talk to me felt like pulling teeth some days. “Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?”
He paused a second before slipping a bridle over the appropriate peg, hands gentler now. “There’s nothing,” he mumbled.
“I think the tack would disagree with you.”
No response.
“You’ve barely said a word since you got home from school.”
He gave a half-hearted shrug and sidestepped away, moving to organize the halters.
“Cade.”
He stopped.
“Son. Look at me.”