Chapter 6
The end of Grace’s first week at the ranch comes around quickly, and she learns on Friday morning that everyone’s planning on going into town after dinner that evening.
“Second Saturday of every month, we get the morning off,” Forty explains, ladling pancake batter onto a butter-soaked griddle.
“So, on the second Friday, we do what cowboys do best.” He pauses, and Grace glances curiously over at him, pulling her attention from the sausage links sizzling on a cast iron in front of her.
Forty looks at her expectantly and then huffs.
“Come on, girl. You know the answer. We drink.”
Because she’s still taking it easy with her shoulder, Grace spends the day working alongside June.
Together, they tend to the other horses, but mostly—they do barn chores.
It’s a good thing Grace knows her way around a barn and all the maintenance that goes with it, because June doesn’t seem to be interested in offering any instruction.
Or having any sort of conversation, for that matter.
Grace takes it in stride. They work in silence, but they work hard, getting as much done as they can before dinner.
Around them, the rest of the hands are all in brighter spirits, smiling and joking more than usual.
There’s a buzz in the air, like the anticipation of getting to break free of the norm for an evening is its own sort of high.
In the last hour, June’s scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain right outside of one of the stables, sweat beading at her brow and chest lightly heaving with exertion.
After five minutes of observing this, Grace, already set with her own tasks and putting away her cleaning supplies, walks over.
Stains around a barn are a dime a dozen—putting that much elbow grease into trying to get rid of one is a battle not worth fighting.
But June seems to have a personal vendetta against this stain.
Grace grabs a bundle of steel wool from the cleaning-supply caddy next to June, then crouches down until she’s eye level with her. “Can I help you with this?”
June’s eyes flick upward, meeting hers. “I’ve got it.”
Grace nods, tilting her head. “Doesn’t really seem like you do.”
With a frustrated grunt, June sits back on her haunches, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the crook of her arm. With a quick, impatient once-over of Grace, she says, “You’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?”
“I’m just trying to help,” Grace counters. “You’re using soap and water—that’s not strong enough to penetrate a stain like that—”
“As I said,” June cuts her off. “I’ve got it.”
Grace stands, throwing up her hands. “Fine.” She tosses the steel wool back into the caddy and wipes her hands on her jeans.
“I need to go shower anyway.” Looking down at the stains left in the wake of her palms, Grace can’t help but regret not bringing—not owning—any nicer clothes than these.
Even her cleanest outfit is the same old boring jeans and T-shirt, and she doesn’t have any shoes besides her Red Wings.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” June replies, not looking at her.
Grace’s brow pulls together. “What?”
“No one showers. They’d rather maximize the time spent drinking.”
Skeptical, Grace plants a hand on her hip. “Really? They just go to the bar smelling like sweat and horse shit?”
A humorless chuckle echoes from where June is hunched over the spot, scrubbing away. “Welcome to Halcyon,” is all she says in response.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
With this information, Grace decides to take advantage of the free half hour before dinner once she’s done what she can to help Forty. Exhaustion has been creeping into her eyes and body for days at this point; a catnap before a fun evening on the town will do her good.
Thirty minutes seems to pass like seconds, and suddenly, the murmuring of voices and clinking of dinnerware wakes her.
She sits up in her bunk, slightly disoriented, to see everyone sitting at the table, digging into their meals.
Forty looks up and gives her a bright smile when he notices she’s awake.
“Morning, sunshine. Didn’t want to interrupt your nap, but dinner’s ready. ”
Raymond is already tipping a bowl back into his mouth, scraping the final remnants of his meal with a spoon. He sighs once he’s gulped it all down at impressive speed, then looks to Grace. “And you better hurry up. The bus leaves in twenty.”
“And by bus,” Mikey cuts in, “he means Forty’s truck.”
“She knows what I mean,” Raymond says.
“Nobody ever knows what you mean,” Caleb counters, his voice muffled by the dinner roll stuffed into his mouth.
Grace grabs a bowl, settles down into the seat Raymond vacates, and is about to tuck into her meal when she does a quick survey of the table.
A sinking feeling settles in her gut. Everyone looks…
clean. It occurs to her then that she’s picking up on the scent of aftershave and cologne and maybe even a little bit of hair spray.
Alec’s doing, if the stiff coif of his hair is any indication. They look polished, like they’ve—
“You guys showered?”
Forty looks at her like she’s sprouted a second head. “We do that every now and again. Especially when we’re going out in public.”
“Gotta look presentable for the ladies,” Pierce adds.
Bryan barks out a laugh. “What ladies, exactly, P?”
“The pretty ones at the bar,” Pierce says.
“You know all the ladies at the bar, darlin’,” a female voice coos.
Grace’s eyes flit to June, finding her with her hair done, makeup on, and a nice, new-looking hat fitted snugly atop her curls.
Grace’s throat tightens at the sight, twin flames of anger and hurt flaring up in her gut.
“They’re all either married, old enough to be your mama, or they charge by the hour. ”
“There could be tourists,” Pierce grumbles. “People passing through.”
No one seems convinced, and the conversation pivots to who is responsible for buying the first round.
An argument breaks out between Mikey and Alec, who both are convinced the other lost at pool the previous month and therefore should be liable, but Grace isn’t listening.
She’s too distracted by the anxiety starting to fester in her stomach.
She doesn’t want to be obvious, doesn’t want to give June even a sliver of satisfaction by looking down at what she’s wearing.
Soon enough, everyone is buzzing, ready to get on the road. They all vie for spots in front of the full-length mirror, pushing one another around for a moment to look at themselves and fuss with their hair, despite every one of them grabbing a hat on their way out the door.
Grace doesn’t have time to shower. That much is painfully obvious.
Instead, she does what she can, changing into a pair of jeans that don’t reek and tugging on a T-shirt that has less noticeable pit stains than the rest. She doesn’t even want to look in the mirror, certain she’ll be disappointed and annoyed with herself for being so gullible, but God only knows the state of her hair right now.
Sure enough, it’s sticking out in just about every direction.
By some small miracle, the universe mercifully throws her a bone and she’s able to tame it into a somewhat presentable ponytail.
She pulls on her boots, looks around the room, and hopes none of them call attention to the fact that she’s going to look like a hitchhiker they picked up along the way.
Caleb, the last of them in the bunkhouse, urges her with frantic hands to grab her things and get to the truck.
“Let’s go, Grace,” he says. “Whiskey ain’t gonna drink itself. ”
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
At sundown, an overcrowded truck full of ranch hands rolls up to Moe Willie’s Tavern.
A crooning country song blares loud enough to be heard from the parking lot as they tumble out of the cab in droves, hollering like a pack of wolves kept inside for too long.
They cascade toward the entrance like a chaotic wave, a freckled man with a rust-colored beard hanging all the way down to his collarbones nodding them in.
The walls are bedecked in neon and old Clint Eastwood movie posters.
A trio of pool tables sits near the back, illuminated in fluorescence by dusty beer lamps.
The group crowds up to the long bar, and the smell of cigarettes, sweat, and tequila invades Grace’s nostrils.
There’s an energy that comes over the place as they all move inward. Something like a shock wave—like their presence alone is sending reverberations of unease across the entire room. A stocky red-faced man appears behind the bar with a bus tub and heaves a deep sigh upon spotting them.
“Moe, Moe, Moe,” Raymond practically croons, leaning his forearms onto the bar. “You don’t look very happy to see us.”
Moe lets loose another sigh, tossing a rag over his shoulder. He reaches for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s with one hand and starts setting up a row of soap-stained shot glasses with the other. “Oughta shut this place down on the second Friday of the month,” he grumbles.
“You say that every month, Moe,” Caleb retorts from farther down the bar. With an encompassing sweep of his hand, he adds, “And yet.”
Moe points at Caleb, eyes narrowing. “The only reason I don’t is because y’all drink more in one night than my regulars do in a week. But I swear to God, Caleb, you go anywhere near the pool tables tonight, I’m calling the sheriff. Don’t even look at them.”
The group laughs, playfully shoving Caleb, who has gone red as a strawberry. Grace smiles awkwardly, unaware of the reason behind the ribbing.
Mikey notices and leans down toward her ear to say, “He got a little carried away with a gal on one of the pool tables last month. Thought he was being inconspicuous, but he was also seven shots deep. I’ll let your imagination paint the rest of that picture.”
Grace grimaces. “Gross.”