Chapter Forty
How did I let these fools talk me into this again?
Cheyenne and Ruby decided to stay the night at Ironhorse to help Momma make sweet potato pies for tomorrow, which left me with a free evening.
One I intended to spend in my quiet cabin with a six-pack and ESPN.
But instead, I let Allen and Seth drag me into town, and I told myself I’d just stay for an hour.
The Soused Cow is already pulsing when we push through the doors.
The band’s in full swing, the bass rattling the ground.
The floor is sticky with spilled cocktails, and the crowd is crackling with holiday energy.
Half the county seems to be here. Everyone is home for Thanksgiving, and ranches are running on skeleton crews till Monday.
Everyone’s looking to have a good time.
I spot the Wildhaven Storm group instantly.
Bryce has a ring of wannabe cowboys and starry-eyed fangirls gathered around him like he’s a damn rock star. Cabe and Royce and Axle are packed in at the table, beers in hand. Charli and Harleigh are up near the stage, shaking their asses.
But I don’t see Shelby.
Or Matty.
I angle toward the table, and Allen and Seth peel off toward the bar.
Cabe sees me coming and starts waving me over. “Hey, Way!”
“Hey, bud.” I slide into an empty chair and bump fists with Royce and Axle.
The waitress appears like magic, and I order a beer, my eyes still scanning the room.
“Where’s everybody?” I ask.
Cabe’s grin is slow and knowing. “She’s not here, man.”
My stomach drops. “Not feeling up to going out?”
He shrugs. “Guess she was feeling just fine because she got all gussied up for her date.”
Date.
The word lands like the punch he intended.
“Date?” I repeat, even though I already know.
He leans back and slaps my shoulder. “Yep. Ol’ Dixon Fisher is wining and dining her as we speak.”
Fuck me.
Heat crawls up my neck, sharp and ugly.
Dixon. The nice farrier.
The guy who didn’t stand her up.
“That’s right,” Harleigh says, plopping into the chair beside Cabe. “I tried my damnedest to talk her into bringing him here, but they wanted to be alone.”
Alone.
The image hits me without mercy—Shelby dressed up, laughing, letting Dixon open doors for her, letting him touch her arm, maybe her waist. Maybe more. Letting him do all the things I should be doing to and for her.
“Uh-oh,” Charli says as she slides into Bryce’s side, his arm curling around her like it’s second nature as he continues his conversation with one of his admirers. “You look like you might get sick, Waylon. Where’s your friend? I’m sure she’d be more than happy to play nurse.”
I glare at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She tilts her head, eyes sharp. “The blonde you had your arm around two days ago.”
“Cheyenne.”
“Who?” Harleigh asks.
“Ruby’s aunt,” I say flatly.
Charli’s face twists. “Ew. You’re messing around with her aunt?”
“Fuck no,” I snap. “She’s just visiting to meet Ruby.”
“Meet her?” Charli squints. “She’s never met her?”
“No.
“These women,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.
Before I can say something that’ll get me murdered by the entire Storm clan, Cabe stands. “Come on, Way. Lemme wipe the floor with you at a game of pool.”
I let him pull me up.
The pool table’s crowded, but people move when Cabe and I approach. He racks the balls while I chalk my cue, my mind refusing to let up.
Dixon Fisher.
Why the fuck would she be out with him again? She clearly didn’t like the guy.
Maybe she changed her mind.
Maybe you pushed her right into his arms, asshole.
Shelby deserves better.
She deserves someone who won’t disappear when things get complicated. Someone who won’t show up with another woman hanging off his arm after blowing off their date.
God, I fucked that up.
Sure, I had my reasons. Valid reasons. But the fact remains that I’m the asshole who was already on thin ice with her.
“You gonna break, or you just gonna stand there, brooding?” Cabe asks.
“Break,” I say, leaning over the table.
I take the shot harder than I need to, the crack echoing through the bar as the balls scatter. Two sink.
“Nice,” Cabe says.
We play in silence for a few rounds, the noise of the bar pulsing around us. Every now and then, I feel someone looking at me—Charli and Harleigh.
“You love her?” Cabe asks suddenly, lining up his shot.
I snort. “It’s a little early for that question. Don’t you think?”
He sinks a ball without looking at me. “Or late.”
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” I mumble.
He leans against his pool stick, staring at me. “Don’t bullshit me. You’re a goner. Or at least, you’re halfway there, which might be worse.”
“Even if I do, she’s done,” I say.
Cabe straightens, studying me. “You think one mistake means you’re done?”
“One mistake?” I laugh, blowing out a breath. “Try a dozen of ’em.”
“Still doesn’t mean she’s done with you.”
I shake my head. “She doesn’t see it that way.”
“Then make her see it.”
“You didn’t see her face, Cabe. The way she looked at me when she saw Cheyenne. Like I’d gutted her.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Well, Shelby doesn’t make a habit of letting herself be gutted by people she’s done with.”
“You’re starting to sound like my old man,” I tell him as I sink another ball.
“God help me.”
We finish the game, Cabe pulling off the win.
I’m okay with it. But what I’m not okay with is Dixon winning.
Not because he’s a bad guy, but because he’s not.
Because if Shelby chooses him, she’ll be making the safe choice.
The wrong choice.
“We’re next.”
I look up to see Charli and Harleigh with cue sticks in their hands.
“Rack ’em up, boys.”
“I’m not sure I’m up for another game,” I say, draining the bottle in my hand. “I should probably head home.”
“Oh no, you don’t, cowboy,” Harleigh says. “You’re gonna stay and take your ass-kicking like a man.”
I groan as I take the plastic triangle dangling from her fingertip.
I rack the balls, and Harleigh lines up to break.
“Now, let’s get to the bottom of this missed date and long-lost aunt saga before your ass loses her to a man who picks at horses’ feet for a living.”
She hits the cue ball with more force than you’d think her tiny five-foot-six frame could muster, sending the balls in all directions before four drop into some pockets.
“And don’t try to hustle a hustler,” she says.
Damn.
We play, and by the end of the game, I’ve somehow managed to win over two out of four Storm sisters.
“So, what’s your next move?” Charli asks as she sinks the eight ball in the left-corner pocket.
“What do you suggest?”
She cuts her eyes to Harleigh and grins.
“Uh-oh,” Cabe mutters.
“We might have an idea.”