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“Hmm,” Mitch mused, nodding thoughtfully. “Quite a different purpose than What Gray had planned, that’s for sure.”
“Gray?” I echoed, taken aback.
“Gray was mighty interested in that land right before you bought it.”
Well, damn. The shock was surely evident on my face before I schooled it, trying to appear casual. “Really? I had no idea.”
“Yep, he had his sights set on expanding Red Downs Ranch, but Walker and Mason weren't too keen on the idea.” Mitch's gaze fixed on something distant, perhaps a memory or a bit of ranch gossip that had slipped through the cracks. “Overruled him on it. Caused quite the family stir.”
I felt my heartbeat quicken, a jolt of clarity electrifying my thoughts. So that was it—the reason behind Gray's stormy demeanor whenever our paths crossed. Unbidden, a scene flashed before my eyes: Gray, all brooding intensity and raw edges, working the land he loved with a passion that was almost palpable. And there I was, an unexpected interloper in his world of wide-open spaces and wild dreams.
“Interesting,” I managed, my voice a touch too casual now. The knowledge settled within me, a missing puzzle piece that made Gray's gruff attitude snap into sharper focus. It wasn't just about the land; it was about legacy, pride, and the gnawing frustration of being overruled.
“Nothing like a family feud to spice things up around here,” Mitch added with a chuckle, oblivious to the gears turning in my head.
“Seems that way,” I replied, my mind already spinning with the implications. I offered Mitch a wry smile, one that didn't quite reach my eyes. “Thanks for the insight, cowboy.”
“Anytime, darlin'.” With a tip of his hat, Mitch ambled off down the street, leaving me alone with my newfound understanding.
The pieces were falling into place, and with them, the realization that Gray Anderson was more than just a grumpy jerk. He was a man with a thwarted dream, and I was the unwitting wrench in his plans.
* * *
“Hey, girl!” Sutton's familiar voice called as she pulled into my driveway in her cherry-red pickup truck, the engine purring like a satisfied cat. She leaned over to push open the passenger door, a grin lighting up her gray eyes. “You ready to light the town up?”
“I’d love nothing more,” I said, climbing into the warm interior. Sutton's energy was infectious, her presence a bright spark in the dimming light.
The drive to the Dusty Barrel was short but filled with Sutton's chatter about the latest gossip and her plans for a new pastry at Campfire Bakery. I listened, content in the comfort of easy friendship, feeling the stress of my property begin to fade.
We parked under the neon glow of the bar's sign, the raucous sound of laughter and music spilling out into the night. Pushing through the doors, we were immediately enveloped in the rowdy atmosphere; the Dusty Barrel was alive with the spirit of a small town letting loose.
“Looks like it's gonna be a good night,” I mused, taking in the sea of cowboy hats and boots, the rhythmic clinking of glasses, and the occasional whoop that cut through the music and hum of conversations.
Sutton looped her arm through mine, leading us deeper into the heart of the bar. “Let's make some memories,” she declared, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
Weaving our way through the crowd, Sutton and I snagged a couple of vacant bar stools that offered us a perfect vantage point to both observe the revelry and join in. The bartender, a grizzled man with a handlebar mustache that curled up at the ends like it was privy to a secret joke, ambled over, wiping his hands on a cloth.
“Whatcha ladies havin' tonight?” he drawled, a knowing smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Two Dusty Sunsets,” Sutton chimed in before I could peruse the menu—a mix of tequila, orange juice, and grenadine that promised to be as fiery as the Whittier Falls skies at dusk. She knew me too well.
“Comin' right up.” He tipped his hat and set to work, the bottles flipping and spinning in his hands with a showman's flair.
“It’s one of the only cocktails they offer,” she said with a laugh.
The drinks arrived, glowing like molten gold topped with a splash of crimson, and we toasted to a night free from worries. The tang of citrus teased my tongue, the tequila warming my insides—familiar and thrilling all at once.
“Isn't this just what the doctor ordered?” Sutton said, her voice bubbling with delight as she sipped her drink. Her gray eyes sparkled brighter than the twinkle lights strung overhead.
“Absolutely,” I agreed, the corners of my mouth curving upwards effortlessly. This place had a way of seeping into your bones, making you feel alive with its unbridled energy. It was nothing like the bars in LA, and I loved that about it.
Conversations ebbed and flowed around us. We were soon drawn into a lively chat with a group of regulars, their accents thick with the slow drawl of the countryside.
“You’re the Blake girl, right? From the internet? Who bought the old Culver spread?” a woman with hair the color of sunset asked, her tone friendly but peppered with curiosity.
“Guilty as charged,” I replied, my eyes meeting hers. “I'm Eryn.”
Laughter rippled through the group as introductions were exchanged, and stories began to spill forth like water from a broken dam. There was talk of rodeos, cattle drives, and the time old Pete tried to ride a bull after one too many bourbons—a tale that had everyone hooting with laughter.
