Chapter 6
Boone
“I’m telling you, we should have climbed out the back window,” I say, taking a long pull from my beer. “Would’ve saved us from crouching behind hay bales like adolescent idiots.”
“There was no back window, Boone. I’ve been trying to tell you that,” Wyatt points out, his voice flat in that way that means he’s still wound tight from our close call with Mr. Thompson.
“There could have been a back window if someone had thought ahead.”
“Someone did think ahead,” Jesse says, grinning over his beer. “That someone brought tools and lumber and actually fixed Callie Thompson’s fence instead of letting her nail rotten wood together with a hammer.”
“Yeah, well, someone also nearly got us all shot by Hank Thompson when he decided to find why his daughter’s goat was raising hell so late at night,” I counter.
“We didn’t get shot, Boone,” Wyatt says.
“We didn’t get caught, Boone,” Jesse adds.
“We got lucky,” I finish.
We’re sitting in our usual booth at Baggy’s, the only decent bar within thirty miles that doesn’t water down their whiskey. The Friday night crowd is in full swing—cowboys, ranchers, and townspeople all mixing together in a haze of cigarette smoke and cold beer.
It’s been three days since the barn incident, and we still haven’t figured out what the hell we’re doing about Callie Thompson. We’ve managed to limit our contact with her, but the tension’s been killing us.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask, because someone needs to address the elephant in the room.
“What plan?” Wyatt asks.
“The plan for dealing with the fact that we’re all losing our minds over the same woman.”
“There’s no plan,” Jesse says. “Plans are for people who know what they’re doing.”
“Plans are for people who have their shit together,” Wyatt corrects.
“Too late for that,” I point out.
“We’re in uncharted territory,” Jesse says.
“Uncharted territory is just another problem that hasn’t happened yet.”
That’s when I see her.
Callie Thompson walks through the front door of the bar like she owns the place, her dark hair loose around her shoulders and wearing a ruffled blue dress that makes every man in the bar turn and stare.
She’s with her friends—Sarah from the bank and Katie from the diner—but she might as well be alone for all the attention I’m paying to anyone else.
“Well, shit,” Jesse mutters, following my gaze.
“What?” Wyatt asks, then spots Callie and goes silent.
She’s laughing at something Sarah said, her head thrown back and her face lit up. There’s something about her when she laughs that makes the whole room seem brighter, like someone just turned up the lights.
“We should leave,” Wyatt says, but he doesn’t move from the booth.
“We should definitely leave,” Jesse agrees, also not moving.
“We’re not leaving,” I say, standing up. “We were here first.”
“Boone,” Wyatt warns.
“What? I’m just going to say hi. Be neighborly.”
“You’re going to make trouble.”
“I’m always making trouble. That’s my super power as the youngest McCoy brother.”
“That’s your problem,” Wyatt corrects.
But I’m already walking toward her, weaving through the crowd of Friday night drinkers and weekend warriors. The band’s setting up on the small stage in the corner, tuning guitars and testing microphones with the kind of shrieking feedback that busts your eardrums.
Callie’s standing at the bar now, waiting for drinks, and hasn’t noticed us yet. I sidle up next to her, close enough to smell her perfume over the bar smell of beer and peanuts.
“Evening, Callie,” I say, leaning against the bar.
She turns, and for a second, I see something that might be relief in her eyes before her guard clicks into place.
“So. Fancy seeing you here,” she says, her lips pressed together hard.
“It’s Friday night. Where else would we be?”
“I don’t know. Home? Practicing your three-legged-race technique? Learning how to make decent chili?”
“Already perfected the three-legged-race technique. And our chili is already damn good.”
“No beans. Yuck,” she sniffs.
“Okay, miss chili expert.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s fighting a smile. “You’re modest, too.”
“Modesty’s overrated.”
The bartender sets down three beers for Callie and her friends, and she reaches for her wallet. But I beat her to it, tossing a few bills on the bar.
“I can buy my own drinks,” she says.
“I know you can. Doesn’t mean you have to.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just being friendly.”
“Since when are McCoys friendly to Thompsons?”
“Since about three days ago in a certain barn,” I say quietly.
Her cheeks flush pink, and she glances around to make sure no one’s listening. “We agreed we weren’t going to talk about that.”
“Did we? I don’t remember agreeing to anything.”
“We agreed to pretend it never happened.”
“That’s different than not talking about it.”
“How is that different?”
“Pretending means we’re actively ignoring it. Not talking about it means we’re just avoiding the subject.”
“You’re splitting hairs.”
“I’m being precise.”
The band launches into their first song, something with a steady beat that gets people moving toward the small dance floor. Callie picks up her beers, clearly planning to return to her friends.
“Dance with me,” I say.
“What?”
“Dance with me,” I say.
“Dance with us,” Jesse corrects, stepping forward.
“Dance with whoever you want,” Wyatt adds, trying to sound nonchalant while shouldering between us.
Callie looks at us for a long moment, fighting laughter. “One song,” she says to me, probably because I asked first. Or because I am the best-looking McCoy.
“One song,” I agree, offering her my hand.
But Jesse offers his hand at the same time. So does Wyatt. Three hands extend toward her like we’re the world’s most awkward assholes.
She takes mine, and I try not to look too smug as I lead her to the dance floor. Behind us, I hear Jesse say, “I’m next,” and Wyatt reply, “Like hell,” followed by what sounds like a brief scuffle.
“You know, I’m here with friends,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Your friends will survive without you for four minutes.”
“I don’t two-step.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“I don’t want to learn.”
“Liar.”
She looks at me for a long moment, weighing her options. I can see the exact moment she decides to throw caution to the wind.
“One song,” she says.
“One song,” I agree, offering her my hand.
The dance floor’s crowded but not packed, which gives us room to move without bumping into other couples. I lead her to a spot near the center and turn to face her.
“Okay,” I say, “basic two-step. It’s just quick-quick-slow-slow. Follow my lead.”
“That’s what you said about the three-legged race, and look how that turned out.”
“This is different. This is my specialty.”
I place my right hand on her waist and take her left hand in mine. She’s tense at first, clearly overthinking every step, but after a few measures she starts to relax.
“See?” I say, spinning her under my arm. “You’re a natural.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late for that.”
I spin her again, this time bringing her back against my chest for a beat before sending her out again. She shrieks with laughter, loud enough that several people turn to look.
“Hey! Warning next time!”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
The song shifts into a faster tempo, and I match it, spinning her until her hair and dress fly around her. She’s laughing so hard she can barely keep up with the steps.
That’s when Jesse appears beside us, tapping me on the shoulder. At the exact same moment, Wyatt appears on my other side, also reaching for my shoulder. Their hands collide above my shoulder blade.
“Mind if I cut in?” they say in unison, then glare at each other.
Fuck me.
“I was here first,” Jesse argues.
“I’m older,” Wyatt counters.
“I’m better looking,” Jesse shoots back.
“Bullshit,” I say.
While they’re arguing, they’re both trying to physically insert themselves between Callie and me. Jesse grabs her hand while Wyatt takes her waist, and for a moment, she’s being pulled in two directions like a wishbone.
“Guys!” she laughs, stumbling.
They let go immediately, both trying to steady her, which results in them both reaching for the same arm and pulling her in opposite directions again.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, stepping back.
Jesse uses the moment to sweep her into his arms properly, shooting Wyatt a triumphant look. Wyatt responds by “accidentally” backing into him mid-dip, causing Jesse to nearly drop Callie.
“Oops,” Wyatt says flatly. “Didn’t see you there.”
Jesse recovers, pulling Callie back up with a flourish, but now Wyatt’s standing so close that every time Jesse tries to spin her, she collides with him.
“Could you maybe not stand directly on the dance floor?” Jesse asks through gritted teeth.
“It’s a free country,” Wyatt replies.
Jesse attempts another dramatic dip, this time keeping one eye on Wyatt. But I’ve circled around behind him, and when he leans Callie back, I’m right there, grinning down at her upside-down face.
“Hey there,” I say.
Jesse jerks her back up so fast, she gasps. “Boone!”
“What? I’m just standing here.”
When the song ends and the slow one begins, all three of us move in. Jesse’s still got her in his arms, Wyatt steps forward with clear intent, and I’m not about to be left out.
“My turn,” Wyatt says.
“You had your turn,” Jesse lies.
“No one’s had a turn, you’ve been hogging her,” I point out.
We all step forward at once. Jesse won’t let go of her hand. Wyatt’s got her other hand. I’m trying to cut between them. We end up in this ridiculous group huddle with Callie in the middle, all of us trying to lead, none of us succeeding.
“This is—” Callie starts.
“Ridiculous,” Wyatt finishes.
“I was going to say hilarious, but ridiculous works too.”
She extracts herself from our weird group tangle, stepping back with her hands up. “You three need to figure this out. I’m returning to my friends.”
She walks away, leaving us standing there in the middle of the dance floor as a slow song plays, three grown men looking like idiots.