Peaches (Saddlebrook Falls #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

RHETT

C igarette smoke curls around from the back patio to where I stand, digging my driver’s license out of my wallet. Spurs only opened a few months ago, but by the looks of the line forming behind me, it’s doing well. The fact there’s even a bouncer scanning IDs at all is telling—most bars around here don’t give two shits about who comes in, so long as they have money to burn. It’s probably the most “hip” thing to come to this part of Texas since . . . well, ever.

A grumble climbs my throat when I step through the door and see how packed it is—so much for trying to take the edge off. I’ve got half a mind to get back on my bike and ride the fuck out of here, but I promised Colt I’d meet him tonight. I haven’t seen him in months.

Dozens of people crowd the bar, shouting their drink orders over the blaring music. Chris Stapleton’s “White Horse” pounds through the speakers so hard I can feel it pulse against my chest. At least it’s not that hokey shit they’ve been playing on country radio lately.

I spot Colt at a high-top against the wall, his face shadowed beneath a wide-brimmed cowboy hat that looks new, eyes glued to a group of girls jumping around on the dusted dance floor. Their skin is a kaleidoscope of color from the dozens of neon lights hung on the far wall, like some sort of poor man’s art show, and Colt’s hooked in. A few have danced their skirts up their thighs and almost disappeared them altogether—his type to a tee.

“Don’t be a perv,” I mutter as I slide onto the leather stool opposite Colt.

His eyes bounce from the girls to me, his grin widening, and he reaches over the table for a one-armed hug. “Bennett,” he says warmly. “Always a party-pooper. Good to see you, man.”

I shake out of the embrace and straighten my jacket. “The fuck is this place?”

He gestures around with both tattooed hands as if presenting a gift. “Every country boy’s dream,” he declares. “Cheap beer and hot girls.”

I huff out an unamused laugh. “God, you’re dense.”

“Says the fella who walked out of the bar I last saw him in with not one but two hot girls on his arm.” He flips his pointer and middle fingers up for effect, then finishes off the dramatics with an eyebrow raise.

The memory of the two barrel racers we met at the Foxborough rodeo earlier this year sparks to life, and I force a shrug. “Nothing special.” It was the truth: nothing happened with either of them. A long afternoon in the heat led to cooling off with some ice-cold beers at a nearby saloon. We’d all had way too much to drink, and when we got to the parking lot, one of them started crying about missing home in Cheyenne. Her friend took that as a cue to shuffle them both into a cab. All that to say, drunk girls’ emotions could turn on a dime, and I tried not to make a habit of sleeping around, despite what Colt—and everyone else, really—seemed to think. I don’t care enough about it to correct him. “How you been?” I ask instead.

He leans back against the wall, bright eyes bouncing around the bar. Always on the hunt. I swear, the world could be ending, and this fucker would still be looking for the right girl to end it with. “Good, man. Got a cattle run to get through next week . . . Moving the herd out to the neighbor’s pasture down south.”

“Need help?” I don’t have a lot of experience with cattle, but Colt knows I’m good on a horse.

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Dad called in the cavalry—my uncles and cousins are coming in from San Antonio on Tuesday.”

“All right.” I nod. Colt’s dad has been running cattle for nearly forty years. He met my dad when they were both in their twenties. Back then the local bar scene was even smaller than it is today and stories of bar fights crossed county lines, turning them into the stuff of legends. Amos and Dad did a stint in jail together after taking on a biker club in Dallas. When they got out, they started an illegal gambling ring that Colt and his brothers still keep alive almost thirty years later.

I got in deep with it a few years back, and when Kasey found out, he cold-cocked me in the hay barn. That punch had felt like a train barreling into my face, and I remember spending the rest of those frosty pre-dawn hours seriously wondering how the fuck life had landed me there.

Needless to say, he’d threatened to tell the rest of the family if I didn’t quit. It took a while to pay Colt back what I owed, but I got it done with a few months’ worth of bar tips. I don’t think Kasey ever found out that Brooks was a part of it too, but that’s not my business.

Actually, I’m not certain Brooks ever really stopped.

“How’s the family?” Colt asks, and immediately my stomach tightens.

“Been better,” I say honestly. “Melody’s sick.”

Colt turns to face me. “Shit, how bad?”

“Not good. Doc says it’s cancer—Brooks is really torn up.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” I nod. Life at home has been chaotic these last couple of months. Melody’s cancer is complicated enough that it took a long time for anyone to realize what it was, so they got a late start on fighting it.

With Brooks so focused on her and the boys, Kasey and I are practically running things at both the ranch and Wild Coyote. Wells has stepped up a lot too, but he’s only home so much. Rodeo’s been keeping him busy as hell, and no one has the heart to ask him to slow down—not after all the shit he’s been through in the past year, losing his best friend and love for football in one fell swoop.

“I’m sorry,” Colt replies with a level of sincerity that’s rare coming from him. “Anything I can do to help?”

“We’re managing. But I appreciate it.”

He nods. “You know I’m there in a heartbeat, brother. If you ever need anything, just say the word.”

My chest constricts further, and I’m not sure how to respond. Thankfully, a waitress in a tight black tank top sidles up to the table. “What can I get you boys to drink?” she asks around a piece of gum.

“Men,” Colt corrects, flashing her a smile.

I cringe inwardly and point my chin at the bottle of beer he’s holding. “I’ll take one of those, please.”

“And two shots of your best whiskey,” Colt cuts in.

The waitress grins. “You got it.”

“That whiskey’s going on your tab,” I mutter to Colt as I prop my boots on the stool’s footrest.

He chuckles and takes a swig from his bottle.

Honestly, the anticipation of the burn from some whiskey nearly has my hands shaking. I told myself I wouldn’t have any of the hard stuff tonight—I still have to get my ass home later. But with everything going on, sometimes it’s the only thing that loosens the tension. My family’s a fucking mess right now, and I don’t know how to make it better.

Isn’t that always the damn case though?

I shove the thought away as the waitress returns, balancing a bottle of Bud and two shots of whiskey on her black tray’s glossy surface. She places the bottle and a shot in front of me before dropping the second shot for Colt. “Y’all need anything else? We got wings on special tonight.”

“No thanks, honey,” Colt says with a voice like velvet. “But feel free to join us when your shift’s over, yeah?”

She lets out a surprised giggle, twirling a strand of hair around her index finger. I suddenly realize how young she looks—can’t be much older than nineteen or twenty. “Tell me how I already know you’re bad news,” she purrs.

Colt makes a show of looking wounded. “Let me prove to you I’m not,” he volleys. And then he turns to me. “Rhett, please tell this sweet young lady how nice I can be.”

I bring my bottle up to my lips. “He can be nice,” I confirm, taking a sip and swallowing. “But he won’t be with you.”

Colt scoffs. The waitress laughs, her smile bright, and I wipe my mouth to hide my own. “You boys be good now, ya hear?” She sashays away, the empty tray tucked beneath her arm.

“Dude,” Colt whines beside me. “What the fuck?”

“That girl is way too young and . . . nice . . . for you to be fucking with. Leave her alone.”

He relents, throwing a hand up. “All right, all right.” He lifts his shot and waits for me to do the same before saying, “Cowboy up, Bennett.”

I relish the way the liquor heats my tongue and throat, welcoming the fire as it slides all the way down to my chest. Immediately, the pressure on my shoulders lifts.

I already want another one.

“We got a card game coming up. After we move the cattle. Ellis has been working on it for weeks—a lot of money on the table.”

Colt watches me intently, no doubt trying to see if it’s enough to bait me. I chuckle dryly. “You know I don’t fuck with that shit anymore.”

He grins. “Rhett, when I say there’s going to be a lot of money on the table, I mean a lot of fucking money. Our biggest night yet.”

Can’t help it—my curiosity is piqued. “How much?”

“Maybe half a mil.”

“Jesus,” I choke out. “How the hell do you have that kind of bread lined up?”

He shrugs, turning his focus back to the girls dancing out on the floor. “Ellis made some new friends in Cheyenne.”

“Ellis is going to get you all killed,” I bite out, keeping my voice low. Colt’s brother, the eldest of the Rustler brood, has been organizing these illegal card games since his father handed over the books a decade ago. “For fuck’s sake, Colt—you guys are taking this shit too far.”

I watch as Colt bristles. “Yeah, why do you think I’m asking for you to be there?” His eyes move back to me, burning with focus. “We need more people we can trust at the table. Figure it’s only right to have a Bennett there. For old times’ sake.”

Brooks must not be attending lately then. I shake my head in disbelief . . . but I can’t deny the old tug of recklessness. Kasey would put me in the ground himself if he knew I was even considering this. Our family gets enough heat as it is.

But little does he know I’ve gotten away with a lot more over the years. No one ever found out about my years-long stint pedaling pills so I could pay off some of Dad’s debt to society. I’m not sure anyone even knew he’d accrued a debt to begin with.

He made sure I knew though.

I blow out a frustrated breath and take a long pull from the Bud bottle.

“Oh shit,” Colt says, his focus now somewhere near the front door. “Dark hair, silver dress—just walked in.” I turn lazily to find the girl he’s talking about. “Dibs,” he’s quick to say, and I can’t help but smile.

She’s . . . fine. Definitely attractive, but not quite my type. “All yours.”

I glance at the girl behind her though, and my attention snares. Thick auburn hair frames her round face, only reaching the top edge of her bare collarbone. Her cheeks are flushed like she might be cold—or excited, maybe. She’s wearing a black dress with little bows on the straps, and I’m already imagining what it would be like to pull them loose. “Damn,” I whisper as my eyes trail down her body to her long, gorgeous legs.

Something about her feels familiar, but I’m not sure why. Fuck , I think. Have I met her somewhere? One of the disadvantages of my deep-seated love affair with whiskey is I don’t always remember nights when I’m looking to unravel parts of myself. Sometimes I unravel so far I leave important pieces behind—like my memory. It’s one of the many reasons I’m trying to hold back these days, from both booze and girls.

Colt and I both watch in a mutual transfixed silence as the girls navigate their way to the bar. I’m halfway off my stool, ready to buy them both a drink and invite them over, when the silver-clad one slides her hand up the back of some dude in a backward hat who sits belly-up to the bar’s counter.

“Dammit,” Colt mutters.

Another guy sitting next to the first one turns to look at the girl in the black dress, the one who has somehow stolen the breath from my lungs, and reaches out to hug her.

Yeah , I think. Dammit .