Chapter 9 Casanova Cowboy Confirmed
Chapter nine
Casanova Cowboy Confirmed
Cash
They always said this town had ears. Turns out it’s got a damn loud mouth too.
It starts small, just a sideways glance from Mrs. Caldwell at the feed store, the way she pretends not to know my name even though I hauled her fence posts last spring.
Then it’s Levi, handing me my coffee with a too-casual, “You seen the group chat this morning?” like he knows something I don’t.
I shake my head, and he just smirks. “Never mind. You’ll see. ”
At the time, I brush it off. A harmless tease, maybe. Just another morning in a town that thrives on stories.
But later, after everything at the store, when I finally open that damn group chat, it hits like a punch to the gut. The photo. The comments. The way they rip me to pieces without even bothering to ask the truth.
My hands shake around the phone, rage curling low and sharp.
They don’t see the man I’ve tried to become.
They don’t want to. Wilder Creek has its villains and saints picked out like fairground ribbons, and I’ve been wearing black since the day I could drive.
But I’m done being their cautionary tale.
Done letting a bunch of small-town mouths write my story in gossip and half-truths.. The caption reads: Casanova Cash rides again? and the comments are worse. Half the town’s weighing in like it’s open season. Some laughing. Some warning Avery to be careful. All of it poison.
I have a reputation in Wilder Creek. Always have.
Started back when I was seventeen and kissed the sheriff’s daughter under the bleachers during the Fourth of July dance.
Kept going through my twenties with a string of bar hookups and bad choices, most of which ended with lipstick smudged on my neck and my boots somewhere they shouldn’t be.
But I’m not that guy anymore. Haven’t been in a long time.
Doesn’t matter, though. Not in this town. Not now.
Because apparently, someone’s dredged up the past and dragged my name back through it. And they’re not just whispering about my bad-boy days. They’re talking about Avery.
By the time I get to the barn, Billy Mac is grinning like he just won the gossip rodeo. “You been busy, cowboy,” he says, waggling his brows. “Town can’t stop talking about you and the boss lady. Hayloft rumors are running hotter than the July sun.”
I shoot him a look sharp enough to skin a steer, but he just chuckles and ducks into the tack room.
Great.
I grab a pitchfork and head toward the stalls, needing to burn this irritation into something useful. The rhythm of work usually calms me, something about muscle memory and the smell of hay that drowns out the noise. Not today.
Today, every slam of a stall door feels like a warning shot. Every glance from the hands is a silent question they don’t have the guts to ask out loud.
And the worst part? I don’t know if Avery’s heard it yet.
I don’t know what she’ll think if she does.
She’s smart. She’s tough. But she’s also proud, and I know firsthand how much it hurts to be judged for someone else’s mistakes. Especially when they come gift-wrapped in town gossip and a nickname like Casanova Cash.
I stab the pitchfork into the hay, harder than necessary.
I don’t care what Wilder Creek thinks of me. Never have.
But I care what she thinks.
And for the first time in years, that scares the hell out of me.
I head to the general store for a few things, just an excuse to get off the ranch and breathe for a minute.
The truck ride over does little to clear my head, the cab stuffy with heat and the faint scent of leather and sweat.
When I push through the glass door, the bell overhead jingles like a starter pistol.
The store smells like cedar chips, dusty grain sacks, and the cloying sweetness of licorice ropes from the penny jar up front.
The old ceiling fan clicks with every slow rotation, a metronome ticking out the tension in my chest, and the worn linoleum underfoot gives just enough to make each step feel heavier than it should.
There’s an old ceiling fan creaking overhead, and country music crackles softly from a beat-up radio behind the counter.
My boots scuff the linoleum as I make my way down the first aisle, grabbing a few nails I don’t need and dog food I probably have plenty of, all while trying to shake the tension riding shotgun in my chest. Of course, I barely make it three feet inside before the trap snaps.
"Cash Bennett," drawls Melissa Harper, former rodeo queen and Wilder Creek’s most committed flirt. She struts toward me like she’s still in rhinestones and sash. "Heard you were back to your old tricks."
I roll my eyes, managing a tight smile. "Just here for nails and dog food, Mel. Not mischief."
"Shame," she purrs, placing a hand on my forearm. "That used to be your specialty."
I’m about to step away when a sharp intake of breath cuts through the air like a whip.
Avery.
She stands frozen at the end of the aisle, Emmy's tiny hand curled in hers, and in that moment, time stalls. Her eyes widen, not with surprise, but with a cold certainty that slices straight through me. My stomach drops, a flash of panic surging through me like wildfire.
All I can think is, please don’t believe what it looks like.
Not her. Not now. Not after everything we've started to build. It's not just the sight of Melissa’s hand on my arm, it’s everything I didn’t say fast enough, everything this town’s ever whispered.
Shame lances through me, hot and fast. I see the flicker in Avery’s eyes, that split second of betrayal, and something in my chest tightens to the point of pain.
Because this, this is exactly what I feared.
That my past would stand between us, smirking like a ghost with perfect timing, a half-full shopping basket swinging from her other arm. Her eyes land on Melissa’s hand, then flick to mine. For a beat, she doesn’t blink.
Shit.
I pull back instantly, guilt surging hotter than the Texas sun outside. "Avery—"
"Looks like y’all are having a good time," she says coolly, voice coated in something that burns.
Melissa, bless her oblivious heart, chuckles. "Didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just reminiscing."
Avery doesn’t respond. She just turns to Emmy with a practiced smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Come on, sweetheart. Let’s grab those popsicles."
They disappear around the corner, and I swear I feel the temperature in the store drop ten degrees.
I don’t chase her.
I know better than to make it worse right now.
But as Melissa hums and flutters off to the checkout like she didn’t just set a stick of dynamite in my morning, I realize something brutal
In Wilder Creek, reputation doesn’t fade, it festers.
And mine just caught fire again in Avery’s eyes.
The ranch feels different when I get back. Quieter. Like the wind’s holding its breath.
Avery’s not in the kitchen, not in the barn, not out walking Dusty with Emmy. She’s gone invisible, and it punches me square in the chest.
I spend the rest of the day pretending not to look for her, checking the barn, walking the trail past the creek, even circling the house twice under the guise of clearing tools. But she’s nowhere. Not in the garden, not with Emmy, not even on Dusty’s usual route.
The absence gnaws at me. It’s not just about finding her, it’s needing to know she’s still within reach.
By late afternoon, I find her on the far side of the pasture, sitting on the fence with her arms folded tight across her chest. The sun paints her in gold, but she might as well be carved from stone.
"You avoiding me?" I ask, keeping my voice light.
She doesn’t look at me. "Just getting some air."
"Want company?"
"Not really."
I lean against the post beside her, the silence thick as the Texas heat. "That thing at the store—"
"Don’t. It’s fine. You don’t owe me anything."
The words are too casual, too rehearsed. And they hit harder than any shout.
"I wasn’t flirting," I say. "Melissa’s just... Melissa."
"It’s not about her. It’s about you. About this place. About everyone thinking I’m just another name in your long, charming list."
Her voice trembles slightly, and I hate how true her words sound in the air.
"You’re not," I say, too fast. Too desperate.
She finally looks at me, and her eyes are clear but hard. Her jaw tightens, and she crosses her arms slowly, like she’s wrapping herself in armor. "Then maybe you should stop acting like you’ve got something to hide."
The space between us stretches wide.
And for the first time in days, I don’t know how to cross it.
I stay there, watching her watch the horizon like it might offer her a better answer than I ever could. And just like that, I’m back to a different fence line, years ago, barely sixteen, sitting beside my old man while he spit sunflower seeds and told me women were like horses.
They’ll bolt if you pull too hard, boy. And if you don’t hold the reins at all, they wander.' He laughed like it was wisdom, but all I felt was confusion, and a quiet wish to be nothing like him. I thought I’d buried that memory, but watching Avery now, I feel it crack open.
Because somewhere along the way, I stopped holding anything at all. And maybe that’s why she’s slipping through my fingers now. A gust of wind picks up, brushing her hair across her face, and still she doesn't move. That stubborn jaw set, those arms like armor.
I want to reach for her. Tell her she’s wrong. That it was never just a list, not with her. But the truth is, I don't know how to undo a reputation that's been carved into the walls of this town.
"Avery," I try again, softer this time. "You really believe that about me? That I’d drag you into something just to toss you aside?"
She exhales through her nose, sharp and tired. "I believe you’re a man who’s used to not needing anyone. And that makes it easy to forget when someone else does."
It guts me. Because she’s not wrong. I’ve spent years keeping people at arm’s length. Now that someone’s reached back, I don’t know how to hold on without hurting them.
So I let the silence speak for me.
And when she climbs down off that fence and walks away, I stay behind.
Because for the first time, my silence might say more than my words ever could.
The sun’s dipping low, staining the sky a bitter shade of orange, and I’m still standing in that same damn pasture like a fool.
The post I’m leaning on might as well be a confession booth, except I don’t know what sins to start with, only that Avery’s face is burned behind my eyes like afterimages from staring too long at the sun.
When I finally head back toward the barn, every step feels heavier. Dust clings to my boots. Regret clings tighter.
Levi’s waiting by the trough, tossing feed like it insulted his mother. He gives me a look, one of those unreadable ones he’s perfected over the years. Not judgment. Just… knowing.
“You look like someone kicked your dog,” he says.
“More like watched someone kick it and couldn’t do a damn thing.”
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to.
After a minute, he says, “She’s a firecracker, that one. Got more grit than most men I’ve worked with.”
“I know.”
“And you care. Which is your problem.”
I give him a sideways glance. “How’s that a problem?”
“Because it makes you stupid. Stupid for letting this town get to you over and over.”
I let out a humorless laugh, and he shrugs like he didn’t just gut me with a truth I didn’t want to hear.
Later, when I head up to the loft, everything about it feels different, like it remembers what happened here better than I do. The air is thick with old hay and something too close to longing.
I sit on the edge of the platform, staring down at the empty space below.
This should’ve been simple. One year of her proving herself, one year of me staying out of the way. But then she walked in wearing those damn boots like she was born in them, and everything shifted.
And now the town’s got its claws in us. Whispering. Twisting.
I scrub a hand down my face.
I didn’t expect to fall.
And I sure as hell didn’t expect to care this much that I might’ve already blown it.
Because in the quiet of the hayloft, with no one around to hear the truth, I finally admit it to myself, I hate what my name has become. Casanova Cash. The punchline. The warning label mothers whisper to daughters. I earned every bit of it, sure.
Thought it made me invincible. Thought I didn’t need anyone to see past it.
But deep down, I want to be more than the sum of my screwups. I want to be the man Avery looks at like he’s worth trusting.
The man Jack believed in when he handed me the keys to this place. And the man I started trying to become the night he died, when the weight of responsibility landed square on my chest, crushing every excuse I’d ever used to coast through life.
But that all changed that night. Standing by his hospital bed, hearing him rasp out one final wish for someone to take care of the place, and her, it gutted me.
Not just because he was the closest thing to a father I ever had. But because I realized how small my life had become. All swagger and no substance. No roots. No one who looked at me and saw more than a good time.
That night, I swore I'd be done chasing the easy way out. Quit the late nights, the one-time flings, the walls I built to keep people from seeing I didn’t think I was worth more.
I started working longer hours, showing up sober, trying, really trying, to become the kind of man who earned respect, not just attention.
But now, looking back at the mess it’s made and the woman I might lose because of it, all I feel is disgust. Not at them. At me.
If I could scrub it all clean, I would. Start fresh. Just be the man Avery sees when she lets her guard down, the one she could trust.
But I’m not sure Wilder Creek will ever let me be anything else.
And maybe that’s what I regret most of all.
Because I’ve spent years trying to outrun who I was, but this town, this damn town, won’t let me forget it. And now, it’s not just my name they’re dragging through the dirt. It’s hers too.
Well, screw that.
They want Casanova Cash? They can keep him. I’ve got better things to fight for now.
Starting with Avery.