Chapter 7
BLAKE
My boots stomp across the floor as a sad country song about a cowboy who loses everything drifts around me.
Cliché, but I’d expect nothing else at Timberline Bar on a Tuesday night.
Pine paneling covers the walls, darkened with age and decades of cigarette smoke.
A collection of antlers and old hunting photographs hangs crookedly above booths lining one of the walls.
The floor creaks under my boots as a waitress weaves through the room carrying a tray of drinks, burgers, and fries.
Behind the bar, rows of liquor bottles glow beneath the strings of warm white lights. Pool balls crack together from somewhere near the back, followed by a chorus of cheers and groans. The scent of grease, beer, and wood polish hangs in the air—a scent that is unique to Timberline.
Casually taking a seat at the bar, I rest my elbows on the deep wood counter, intertwine my fingers, and wait for the bartender.
The deep wooden bar is marred by thousands of tiny scratches collected over generations of bad decisions.
Sharp light from neon signs would normally annoy me, but I ignore them.
I don’t remember consciously deciding to come here, but after leaving Mama’s, all I knew was that I needed a drink and didn’t want to do it alone. So here I sit on a high-top stool, waiting to numb the ache inside me.
The bar isn’t so full that it’s overstimulating. There are just enough people that I can blend in and allow their chatter to tune out the voice of self-loathing in my head.
Ranchers fresh off work occupy a handful of tables. A couple sits in one of the corner booths, sharing a basket of deep-fried food. Two men argue over a game on the television mounted above the pool tables.
Nobody pays me much attention, and that’s exactly how I like it.
Near the back of the room, Bridger Reynolds occupies the largest booth despite only having one other person with him.
Tailored wool peacoat draped across the seat beside him, expensive watch flashing whenever he gestures, he somehow manages to look overdressed in a place built for denim and mud.
Even seated, he carries himself as if the room belongs to him.
People stop to shake his hand as they pass. Others simply nod and keep walking.
The mayor accepts both with the same practiced smile—the kind politicians perfect after years of pretending to like everyone.
I quickly look away before he notices me.
One run-in with the Reynolds family this week is more than enough.
The scrape of polished boots against the floor pulls my attention toward the end of the bar.
Well. Speak of the devil.
Bridger Reynolds strolls over with the easy confidence of a man who’s never been told no. A charcoal sport coat sits over a crisp button-down, and his expensive leather boots look as though they’ve never stepped in actual mud. His blond hair is neatly combed back, not a strand out of place.
He smiles. It’s the kind of smile politicians wear. Practiced and empty.
“Blake Jennings.”
“Mayor Reynolds.”
His mouth twitches. “You don't have to call me Mayor.”
“I know.” I take another sip of my drink, hoping he’ll go away.
He leans one elbow against the bar. “Word travels fast around here.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“I heard you were staying awhile.” He smirks.
“I heard you got elected.”
His smile widens just enough to look smug. “The town thought I was the right man for the job.”
I nod my head unenthusiastically. “I'm sure they did.”
His eyes sweep over me. Not lingering long enough to be obvious, but long enough for me to notice.
“You look different.”
I give him an annoyed smile. “I got older.”
He chuckles. “I suppose we all did.”
I take another sip of my drink.
“So,” he starts, “what brings you back?”
I shrug. “Family.”
His expression becomes unreadable. “Dangerous reason.”
Something about the way he says it makes me pause. “What do you mean?”
He taps two fingers against the bar. “Some ghosts are better left buried.”
Before I can ask what that's supposed to mean, he pushes away from the counter. “Enjoy your drink.”
He starts to walk away, then stops over his shoulder. “If you need anything while you're in Evergreen Falls,” his smile returns, “the mayor's office is always open.”
I watch him disappear toward the back of the bar. The offer sounds polite, but it doesn't feel that way.
"Blake Jennings,” a voice on the opposite side of the counter snaps me out of my head. “Heard you were back in town.”
I look up and find a man with his hands spread wide and resting on the bar. His dark hair is a stark contrast to his alabaster skin, but his smirk and warm eyes let me know I’m in good company.
Tilting my head, I give him a half smile. “How’s it going, Wes?”
“Can’t complain,” he shrugs and slings a rag over his shoulder. “What can I get you?”
I ramble off the first drink that comes to my mind. “Jack and Coke. Make it a double, please.”
“Can I see some ID?” he asks.
Raising my brows, I tease him. “I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or if I should be worried that you’re forgetting things in your old age.”
He plays at being offended. “Old age? I’m only in my forties.” Wes sobers his expression. “You know I have to ask.”
In my teenage years, I snuck in here more than once, but Wes always caught me.
“Yeah, yeah,” I return as I fish my license out of my purse and hand it over. He takes a quick peek and returns it to me.
As he makes my drink, he questions, “What have you been up to?”
Glancing down at my hands, I reply, “Oh, you know. This and that. What about you?”
“Well, Gary wanted to retire and travel the country in an RV with his wife, so I bought Timberline from him.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I shake my head at him. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks,” he says as he slides me a short glass. “Holler at me if you need anything else.”
“Will do.” I nod.
Wes taps the bar, then walks to the other end of the bar toward a group of men waving him down.
Staring down at the brown carbonated drink, I tilt my head back and down it like a shot. The sugar in the Coke does little to mask the steely bite of the alcohol.
I don’t know why I ordered whiskey. I don’t even like whiskey.
Walker’s and Mama’s words play on an endless loop in my mind, poking at an insecurity that I’ve gotten good at hiding.
Problem. Inconvenience. Overlooked. Worthless.
That’s me.
Rubbing my temples, I push the thought away. I can ruminate over the nuances of my childhood some other time. Preferably, when I’m back in New York.
“Wes, another drink, please,” I request as he walks by. “But something with gin this time. Surprise me.”
He nods and quickly hands me another glass.
Turning on my seat, I scan the rest of the bar and sip on my new drink. The low light illuminates just enough for me to see, but not enough to make out specific details.
Everything is in the same place.
The dart boards, worn billiard tables, and scattered seating. The wall of pictures of famous people who have stopped in for a quick drink. Even the random sets of antlers.
It’s almost like walking into a time capsule, but the view makes me smile.
“Jelly Bean!”
My head jerks to the side in shock. Turning to the voice, a wave of confusion stirs inside. The same gray eyes from the other day are playful rather than full of unexpected malice. Then again, after the way Grant looked at me at the diner, I could claim the gaiety is unexpected.
While I’m still trying to decide how to react, Grant plops down on the stool next to mine with a half-empty beer in hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already, Jelly Bean.” His lop-sided smile puts me at ease.
“I could never forget you, Grant,” I finally reply as I gently shove his shoulder. “But maybe we could forget that nickname.”
“I don’t see that happening any time soon.” Grant finishes off his beer, setting the glass on the bar top. “It’s good to see you.”
Deciding I’m not going to beat around the bush, I just go for it. “You didn’t seem so happy the other day at Main Street Diner.”
Grant tips his head from side to side. “I had a migraine.” I start to say something else, but he doesn’t let me get a word in. “I’m really happy you’re back,” he declares, lowering his voice and leaning in closer as his words slightly slur together.
“I—”
Grant’s eyes slide past me and narrow. He rises to his feet and engulfs me in a hug. I feel him kiss the top of my head, then he pulls back. “I’d better get going. See you around, Jelly Bean.”
He trudges away, grabs his jacket by the door, and leaves.
I sit there for a moment, confused as hell. Grant and I always had easy conversations. I never confided anything of great importance in him, but that entire interaction was awkward. And I don’t know why.
Maybe I really am what Mama says I am, but to more than just her…
Burden.
My smile falters.
Good-for-nothing.
My vision blurs.
Worthless.
My chest aches.
“Something wrong, mi Cielo?”
Shaking off my rumination, I blink away the fog and find exactly what I need right in front of me—a distraction. A very sexy distraction.
“Santi, hi!”
I’ll wait until later to analyze how he pulled me out of my head with just a few words and that smile. But I’ll let myself admire his ivory cowboy hat and those nice-fitting jeans.
I swear, Santiago looks like he was born in the saddle. His dark hair brushes the collar of his shirt beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, and his skin carries the warm bronze of a man who spends more time beneath the Wyoming sun than indoors.
“I was hoping I would run into you again,” he admits as he sits on the seat next to me.
I turn on the stool to face him. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that? Checking on your best friend’s daughter?”
“Not quite.” Santiago tenses for a moment as his eyes harden, but the intensity quickly dissipates. “We never got to finish our conversation.”
Strange but okay…
“No need. I know what type of vaquero you are.” I spin on my stool again, giving him my profile.