Chapter 13
Logan
“You remember this place?” Mak holds the door open as I file into the Bale House behind my father and Jon.
“Vaguely.” I scan the barn board walls and mounted horns, the lengthy bar on the far end with open shelves of booze behind it. “Wasn’t it something else before?”
“Roseanne’s,” he confirms as the door shutters, sealing us in. “New owner’s smart. Did good things here.”
He’s gone country is what he’s done. Everywhere I look, there’s a nod to farming—horseshoes nailed to an archway, old-timey lanterns hanging from hooks. “It sure as shit’s busy.” Almost all the tables are taken, and all but two seats at the sizable bar have occupants.
“Weekends always are. They get bands in here.” He nods to the guitarist tuning his instrument by a bank of windows. “Plus, it’s Thanksgiving weekend. It’ll be rammed tonight.”
“Great.” Just what I needed.
Mak laughs. It’s an easy-going sound that I appreciate.
I’ve spent more time with the ranch hand than anyone else this week, mending old fences, building new ones, and clearing trees from the hundred-and-sixty-acre lot Jon and Sarah bought behind us.
I must have split, hauled, and stacked ten cords of wood.
It was grueling work, and I earned a dozen scratches and cuts from branches and wire, but I didn’t mind in the least.
We came in from the fields today to the smell of grilling burgers and the picnic tables set. It was the perfect day for a BBQ, my mother insisted. I had barely finished my last bite, intent on showering and relaxing, when Jon announced that “The boys are going out.”
My mother beamed.
The last place I want to be is in a crowded bar, and I was about to tell her as much, until I caught Holt Landry’s warning look. So, I shut my mouth fast, and here I am, moving through the jam-packed place to a corner where Jameson and Uncle Wyatt sit with half-finished pints.
“Good thing we came when we did. This place filled up fast.” My cousin gestures at the row of three small round tables butted together. “Not our usual but will this work?”
Their usual?
“It’s tight, but it’ll do.” My father clasps hands first with his brother-in-law, then with his nephew, before taking a seat on the end, leaving me baffled. Growing up, I don’t remember him ever doing much socially, let alone having a regular table at the local bar.
Jameson’s on his feet to slap my shoulder. “Hey, cuz. All good?”
“We’ll see. Gimme your seat, would ya?” I nod toward the one he just vacated, because there is no way I can relax in a place like this with my back to people.
Jameson frowns with confusion. “Uh … yeah, it’s all yours, man.”
He has no idea what it’s like to sit down to a bowl of porridge and have an asshole come up from behind to slice your face open with a smuggled razorblade. An inch to the right and the doc said I could have lost my eye.
“Thanks.” I wedge myself into the corner, the rickety chair creaking under my weight.
“Shawna!” he hollers at the blond strolling past with a tray of drinks, twirling his finger in the air.
She nods, capping it off with a grin.
“So, this is a thing? Coming here?” I ask.
“We aim for at least once a month, but now that they’re carrying my beer, I try to come in on Fridays.
This place is a fucking gold mine. I’d buy it in a heartbeat.
” Jameson eases in beside me, taking the opposite end from my father.
The others have already fallen into easy conversation. “So? How was the first week back?”
“Tiring,” I admit, feeling eyes on me but doing my best to ignore them. No doubt there are at least a few people who know the Landry history and can put two and two together about the stranger suddenly at their “regular” gathering.
“I heard you’re an animal with that axe.”
I snort. “Who told you that?”
He juts his chin toward Jon, who’s on his feet again, babbling about forgetting something in the truck, patting his pockets as he searches for his keys. “He says you worked really hard.”
“I’m not looking for his approval.” Jon learned that pretty quickly after he tried to correct how I was stretching mesh.
Jay and I spent a lot of time out in those fields as children, mending fences as punishment.
I hated it at the time, but when I was on the inside, I’d lie in bed, fondly remembering the smell of damp grass in spring and the bite of the wire against cold skin in the winter.
Jameson holds up his hands in a sign of surrender before leaning back, splaying his legs as he surveys the crowd. “You recognize anyone here?”
“I haven’t looked.” I follow his gaze now.
There’s a mix of everything from solo drinkers at the bar to elderly couples settling their bills, to families devouring their meals and friends enjoying dinner and drinks out.
None look familiar, but I shouldn’t be surprised.
I don’t look like the eighteen-year-old kid who went away.
A thought strikes me. “Are Jessica Whitley or her kids here?” Jameson must know her face.
“Huh?” He frowns and then does a quick scan. “Nope. Don’t see her. No idea what her kids look like, or if they’re even still around. Why?”
“No reason.” If she were, would my being here be considered restraining-order worthy to her father-in-law?
A gray-haired woman is hunched over her table in the far corner, whispering something to the man sitting across from her before stealing a glance my way.
Shit, that’s Mrs. Doyle. She taught me math. Was it grade ten or eleven? I can’t remember, but it’s obvious she remembers me.
“Here you go, fellas. One pitcher of the very fine locally brewed Barrow Ale.” The waitress—Shawna—sets the frothy-capped jug down, followed by enough empty glasses for everyone.
I’m about to ask for a Coke when she sets a bottle in front of me.
“And I was told the new guy would want a nonalcoholic option. I’m guessing you’re the new guy.
” Bright blue eyes smile down at me. She’s cute.
Youngish. Mid-twenties, if I had to guess, with deep dimples and a tiny diamond stud in her nostril.
“This is my cousin, Logan.” Jameson drops a hand on my shoulder again—he’s very touchy. “He just moved back home, and he’s gonna be coming out with us from now on, so get used to him.”
“Yeah?” She balances her tray holding two more pints for another table with little effort. “Where you comin’ from?”
“Kingston area,” I answer vaguely, hoping that’s the end of the conversation.
Her eyes widen with interest. “One of my best friends went to Queen’s. She tried to get me to visit. They have those thousand islands. I’ve heard they’re incredible. You ever been?”
“Nope. Didn’t make it there this time.”
“Well, there’s always next time, right?”
Jameson snorts into his beer before cutting in to change the subject. “Hey, so how’s my beer been moving?”
“Decent.” She nods. “Sold two pints and a pitcher so far today.”
He frowns. “But … you sold those to me.” His shoulders fall with dismay as the rest of our table bellows with laughter.
With a wink for Jameson and a parting smile for me, Shawna trots off to the next table, her hips swaying.
“It’s good beer!” Jameson laments, holding his glass out so Uncle Wyatt can top it up.
“It is good beer, son,” his father placates. “It’s why you’re my favorite.”
“Look who I found outside.” Jon returns from his trip to his truck with Jack in tow, earning another round of greetings.
“And I heard that.” Jack points an accusatory finger at his father before appropriating a chair from a nearby table and making room on the other side of his younger brother, across from me.
“I thought you had Olivia tonight,” Jameson shifts over to give him room.
“So did I,” Jack mutters, and leaves it at that. From what I’ve heard, the separation has been rocky, his ex-wife using their daughter against him at every turn. He juts his chin at me. “How’s it goin’?”
“It’s goin’.”
“Yeah. Same.” He grabs a spare glass and pours himself a drink.
“So, I couldn’t help but notice …” Jon saunters over to our side of the table then, a large Kraft paper bag in his grip. “Somethin’ was missing this week, while we were all so hard at work, and I had to rectify it fast.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out a sable-brown cowboy hat.
“A Smithbilt.” Mak nods with approval. “That’s a nice one too.”
“Made in my hometown.” Jon offers it to me, his chest puffing out with pride as if he cut the fabric with his own two hands.
“I … uh …” Fuck. Collecting the gift—because it’s obviously a gift—I mumble, “Thanks.” It’s soft within my grip.
“Beaver pelt,” Jack says, as if reading my mind. “I got one just like it.”
Is there no one in my family who hasn’t been influenced by Jon?
“Well! Go on!” Wyatt pushes, elbowing my side.
“You’re really going to make me do this in here?” I look around the table. “Isn’t that bad luck or something?”
“No, that’s breaking a mirror. Come on!” Dad pushes, a smug grin on his face. The bastard knows I hate this whole production.
They all stare at me expectantly.
Stifling my groan, I slip the stupid hat on.
The table erupts with cheers and loud applause, earning plenty of head turns—definitely not what I’m aiming for.
“All right, fuck off, all of you.” But I can’t help my smile as I hang it on a nearby coat hook.
“The first and last time that boy’s gonna wear that. I’d put money on it,” my dad says through a sip.
“I’ll take that wager. You just wait. Logan’ll see the light.” Satisfied, Jon retakes his seat, tapping his glass against my father’s in cheers, like they’ve achieved something.
A hint of jealousy burns inside my gut, even if I had no expectations for decent relationships with anyone.
“Hey, did you know Keegan is friends with Chandra?” Jameson asks his brother, pulling me back to this side of the table.
“Who?”
“That woman you hooked up with last time?”
“Oh. No. Why?”
“’Cause they’re both sitting at a table, spearing the back of your head with daggers.”
Jack curses. “Where?”
“Two tables behind us.”