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“She’s happy—really happy.”
Bowen waited, standing silently at the threshold of the feed room. He wasn’t a touchy-feely guy, but he wasn’t the type to leave his ranch hands to flounder when they were low either.
“Seeing her this way…” I continued. “Makes me think of Dad. Makes me think that I’m…like him.”
“You’re not,” Bowen said, firm and without hesitation. “That’s the alcohol talking.”
I studied the empty beer bottle in my hand, scraping at the label with my thumbnail.
“Love ‘em and leave ‘em has always been my motto, right? Everyone knows that.”
Bowen frowned.
“It’s not the same thing. Women speak highly of you, Beau. You part with them on good terms and you don’t toy with their hearts. You don’t break them the way your father broke you and your mama.”
Deep down, I saw the truth of what Bowen said. I couldn’t bring myself to believe it yet though. He nudged a discarded bottle with the toe of his boot.
“There’s no chance you’re thinkin’ straight right now. Your brain is pickled.”
I waved him off.
“Don’t worry about it, Bowen. I’ll be back to business as usual in the morning. Hangover be damned.”
Bowen pressed his lips into a thin line, studying me with his solemn dark eyes.
“All right,” he said at last. “I’ll leave you to it.”
After he was gone, I tipped my head back. My eyelids grew heavy and I let them slip closed, hoping to find some relief in the bliss of sleep.
“Beau?”
The faint, familiar voice made my head snap up. The world spun and twisted, and a fierce throbbing pounded at my temples. None of that mattered when I saw the figure standing at the door of the feed room.
Rory looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes, and her hair twisted up into a messy bun. She’d traded her overalls for a pair of yellow-and-blue plaid pajama pants, sloppily tucked into her boots. A raincoat was wrapped shut tightly around her frame.
She didn’t look pleased to see me.
Chapter Eight
Rory
I hugged my arms around my middle, partly to keep warm against the chilly night, and partly to brace myself at seeing Beau again. Why did my stomach always get tangled up with butterflies whenever he was around?
“I—I didn’t know you were coming,” Beau said.
I glanced back at Bowen who gave me a nod of encouragement.
“Well,” I replied. “Bowen called. He said you were…upset about something and needed to talk to me.”
I left out the part where it was nearly midnight when the phone woke me. I decided not to mention the way my heart raced, or the knot of dread in my chest, wondering if Beau was hurt again, if something had happened to him…
Beau’s gaze shifted past my shoulder at Bowen who shrugged, unabashed.
“I didn’t ask him to do that,” Beau said.
Suddenly, he seemed to realize where he was, slouched on the floor of the feed room, long legs sprawled out in front of him, his skin flushed from alcohol, and beer bottles strewn around him in a halo of debris. He cleared his throat and ran his hand through his hair.
“It must be really late. You didn’t have to come all the way out here. I’m just—”
