18. Halle
HALLE
Grandpa Ben’s funeral was beautiful.
Everyone was cleaned up—finest Stetsons and all black, down to their boots. Once the preacher opened up the floor, the stories about Ben started flowing and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.
Watching a community come together to honor one of its pillars will do that.
I tried to talk to Cash—he looked rough—but he was surrounded by his cousins and other family, so I decided it was best not to make it known that he and I have been fooling around.
Because that’s what it is—just us fooling around.
Except that Rhett and Colt saw us kiss. I’ve been avoiding my brother for days to avoid the subject entirely, because it was clear Cash was just distraught, and I was the first thing he saw in a moment of need. It didn’t mean anything.
To avoid that conversation, I agreed to open The Bar for Aria and Matt for the evening so they could be there for the Thornwoods. I know Dad and Sloane will be there too.
It’s a cop out, but I’m sure Hank will thank me for it.
I get there an hour early to prepare for opening, since it’s already late in the day. Making sure the kegs are all full, garnishes are cut, and liquors stocked, I check my phone and see a couple of messages from Colt.
Colt:
Aria and Matt asked me to help you out tonight. You can’t escape me forever
Colt:
Let me know when you need me.
Me:
I’ll let you know if I need help.
He heart-reacts to the message, and I shove the phone into my pocket.
When I open the doors at 6 p.m. it doesn’t take long to get busy. By 7:30 p.m. the bar is damn-near slammed. Practically everyone from the funeral is here, still in their mourning black. Ben wasn’t a regular at The Bar, but he did love his beer. So most order the same kind of beer that he loved.
During a small lull that gives me a second to breathe, I wipe down the bar top again, the rag picking up rings of condensation and spilled whiskey.
Hank is going on about a story of Grandpa Ben and I smile to myself, knowing half of it’s probably bullshit.
Knowing Ben, he wouldn’t correct it, though.
That’s the kind of person he was. He didn’t care who someone else accused him of being because he knew who he was.
The door swings wide around 9 p.m., cool evening air rushing in.
Dawson and Makai prop Cash up between them, his boots dragging before he finds his balance.
Cash shrugs them off with a lopsided grin that doesn’t touch his eyes.
His black button-down from the service is already half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, one knee of his jeans streaked with dirt, probably from helping them at the grave site.
“Hey, Hal … He’s your problem now,” Dawson says, looking over at me. “I can’t do this shit tonight.”
Makai gives Cash one firm pat on the back as they help him onto a stool at the end of the bar and mutters something low before they slip out.
The door shuts with a solid thud, and Cash sways in his seat, scanning until his gaze finds me.
His face lights up in that wild, reckless way that always tugs at my chest.
“Halle!” he shouts, loud enough to turn heads across the bar. “There she is—my girl.”
I roll my eyes and scoff, moving down toward the end of the bar where Dawson left him. He has a lovesick smile on his face as watches me walk toward him.
“I am not your girl,” I seethe, grabbing him a cup and filling it up with tap water and shoving it toward him. “Drink this.”
“What is this?” he asks.
“Clear beer,” I say.
He chuckles. “I know what water looks like, Darlin’.”
I groan. “Then why did you ask, you dipshit. How much have you had to drink today?”
“The whole fucking brewery … Speaking of breweries … Can I have another beer?”
“No. Drink the water,” I say, before making my way over to help another customer.
His voice booms loudly as he tells anyone within earshot about Ben—how the old man taught him to rope at age six, how the ranch feels wrong without him.
Then, it circles back to me. “She’s the best part of this town. Ben knew it—hell, everyone knows it.”
I steer him toward a stool at the quieter end, my hand steady on his arm. His skin burns warm under my fingers, tension coiled tight. I slide a glass of water in front of him, again.
“I’ll take a whiskey now.”
“No, Cash, you’re cut off. All you’re getting is water. Sober the fuck up.”
Realizing that this is about to become a problem, I shoot off a text to Colt.
He responds immediately.
Me:
Colt. I need you now. Dawson and Makai dropped Cash off. He’s so fucking drunk. I can’t manage him and the bar.
Colt:
On my way. Might be forty minutes, though.
Fuck me.
It isn’t even thirty minutes after I get Cash seated and situated, and texted Colt, that I hear this asshole’s voice. “Round for the house! For Grandpa Ben!”
He’s standing again, swaying, using the bar’s edge to hold him up as he holds a beer in his other hand.
How the fuck did he get one of those?
“Cash Thornwood, you’re cut off. Drop that fucking beer. Now,” I say firmly.
“C’mon. Don’t be a bitch; let him have a beer!” someone shouts out.
Cash’s eyes narrow on the someone—Travis, a younger ranch hand who’s had one too many himself. “What’d you say?”
Travis lifts his hands. “Nothing, man—”
Cash swings fast. The crack of fist on jaw echoes, and chaos bursts out with chairs toppling and shouts rising. Travis stumbles back, blood on his lip.
I lunge between them, palms flat on Cash’s chest, pushing with all my strength, almost getting hit. “Stop it!” My heart pounds against my ribs. “Not in my fucking bar.”
He blinks at me, rage flickering into confusion. “Halle … everything’s spinning.”
I apologize to Travis, comp his tab, and promise the guys will handle it. A couple of older patrons pull Travis aside, calming the tension. No one wants real violence after burying Ben.
I turn back to Cash, now slumped against the bar, knuckles split and bleeding.
I grab a clean rag and wet it, to clean his knuckles off.
I can’t do this alone.
Grabbing my phone, I dial Colt, pressing it to my ear while keeping one eye on Cash, who’s swaying in the seat. He answers on the second ring.
“Where the fuck are you?!” I yell into the phone.
“Pulling in now.”
Colt strides in soon after, boots heavy on the floorboards. He’s changed since the funeral, but you can tell the day has exhausted him just as much as the rest of us. He spots Cash immediately and crosses over to talk to him.
“Hey, man, heard you’ve been having some fun without me. Why don’t we go hang out in the back, and I can find the good shit Aria hides.” Colt winks at me and loops an arm under Cash’s, trying to guide him toward the back room for some quiet.
Cash resists at first, then leans into him with a sloppy laugh. “Hell yeah; we need the good stuff. Colt, you see your sister? Halle. Right there. I love that woman—told the whole damn bar. I’ve always loved her.”
Colt’s shoulders stiffen.
Oh fuck … Here we go again …
I tense, ready for Colt to lay Cash’s drunk ass out.
Colt shoots me a glance—exasperated, protective. “Cash, come on. Not now. Let’s just go chill for a moment—just us guys. Halle is working.”
But Cash won’t stop. The words pour out, louder in his haze. “She’s it for me. It’s the truth, Colt. I’m messed up tonight, but I mean it. Love her. Always will.”
Colt’s jaw clenches tighter with every mention of me being the object of Cash’s drunken devotion.
He wrestles Cash toward the back, voice dropping low but edged.
“Cash, man, shut the fuck up. Enough about Halle; she’s my sister.
Please just shut up about it for five seconds.
Today’s been hell without you making it weird. ”
Cash mumbles something else as Colt hauls him to the back. Once he’s out of sight, I move into damage control, cleaning up the toppled chairs and broken glasses that got caught in the cross fire.
Not even ten minutes pass before Colt comes flying back up to the side of the bar, dragging a hand down his face. He looks at me, eye twitching.
“Take him home, Halle. Get him the fuck out of here now. I’ll close the bar down tonight. I can’t listen to another word of this. You handle him; I’ve got the rest.”
“Why can’t you just take him home?”
“Because he literally won’t shut up about you and I want to throw up in my mouth.”
“And you think I want to deal with the crazy lovesick man who’s grieving?” I whisper-shout as I serve someone a beer.
“Yes, because I ain’t doing it.” Colt looks back toward the office where Cash is, half-worried, half-annoyed, then turns to start cleaning glasses and taking over orders.
Grabbing my keys, I go back to the office and tell Cash we’re leaving. He smiles and tries to kiss me, but I dodge it, slinging his arm over my shoulders. “If you kiss me in this bar, in front of people, I’m going to punch you in the balls.”
“Can I kiss you when we get out of The Bar?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, his footing unsteady. But he follows, mumbling my name as we step into the cool night.
The drive to my place feels longer than it really is. Cash leans his head against the window, quiet for stretches, then breaking it with soft words about the service. He’s finally showing signs of sobering up.
I guide him inside the house, clicking the lights on one by one. He drops onto the couch with a groan. I grab him a water, ibuprofen from the kitchen, and a clean washcloth.
I check his knuckles out again—where there are still some bits of blood drying in cracks—then sit beside him and dab gently, the cloth turning pink.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” he mutters, watching with glassy eyes. Shadows linger under them, lines carved deeper by grief. The funeral broke something loose in him, and the whiskey rushed right in.
“I’m here because you’re a mess right now.”