The sky over Lovelace bruised purple as I eased into the Ropers’ parking lot. The neon beer sign in the window buzzed like a lazy hornet, throwing a pink smear across my windshield. I killed the engine and just sat there with my hands on the wheel, the truck ticking as it cooled.
I checked my phone again.
Nothing from Lilly.
I told myself she was busy atBloom & Vine, that Mondays ate people alive, that she’d text later with an update about setting up her doctor’s appointment , or to just say hi.
What I really wanted was a simple “Made the appointment” so I could breathe. I hated that I cared about timelines and dosage charts, but there it was—if she’d started the pills, we’d still have a couple of weeks to wait. The thought of that wait tightened my jaw.
The memory of Saturday flared bright enough to warm the cab. Her knees snugged behind my hips on Grace, chin on myshoulder as we cut down the trail to the lake. The way she’d laughed when the wind pulled her hair loose.
Lilly had opened up in small ways that felt big, and I’d surprised myself by meeting her there—saying more than I meant to about nights I don’t talk about, about the weight I carry and how it doesn’t always stay where I put it.
I wanted more of that. More of her. Skin and softness, sure, but also the quiet after—her breath on my chest told me I wasn’t just chasing heat.
I thumbed the phone screen once more, like maybe a message could be coaxed into existence.
Still empty.
Hope and frustration sawed against each other in my ribs. Part of me wanted to drive over to theBloom & Vineand find an excuse to step inside—buy eucalyptus I didn’t need, pretend I was there for Sunny. The other part told me to get a grip, quit hovering, let the day be what it was.
The phone slipped into my back pocket, and I stepped into the evening air with a deep breath. The heel of my boots sounded against the sidewalk. The air had that clean, high-country bite to it, which usually cleared my head whether I wanted it to or not.
I rolled my shoulders once and headed for the door, still half expecting my pocket to buzz, still not sure what I’d do if it did.
The scent of grilled meat and fried onions wrapped around me the second I stepped inside Ropers. Monday nights were quieter than weekends—just a handful of regulars scattered at the bar and a couple of ranch hands hunched over the pool table in the corner. Bruce had already claimed a booth by the window, a tall draft sweating in front of him.
“Bout time you showed,” he said, grinning as he pushed a second beer across the table toward me. “Figured you’d chicken out on letting me buy you dinner.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, sliding into the booth. The cold beer tasted like relief after the dry air outside.
The waitress brought menus, but Bruce waved her off. “Your ribeyes, medium rare, with loaded baked potatoes. He’ll take the same,” he said, jerking his thumb at me.
I just shook my head. “Guess I don’t get a choice.”
“Not when I’m paying, and I’m pretty sure of what you’re going to order anyway,” he shot back, eyes gleaming.
We swapped small talk until the food came, but I knew Bruce well enough to sense he had a story burning a hole in his pocket. Sure enough, halfway through his steak, he set his fork down and leaned back with the smug satisfaction of a man who’d just won a bet.
“Got those poachers the other day,” he said.
I raised a brow. “Yeah? Thought they were ghosts the way they kept slipping past everyone.”
“Not ghosts. Greedy bastards.” He grinned, clearly savoring the telling. “Turned out to be some hotshot guide from over in Big Sky. Charging his clients an arm and a leg, promising them trophies he had no right to deliver. Had them set up right on the wrong side of the line. I caught ‘em red-handed.”
I let out a low whistle. “Bet they weren’t too happy about it.”
Bruce’s grin widened. “Happy? Hell no. One of ‘em tried to argue they didn’t know. But I had GPS pins, trail cam photos, the whole works. Our team slapped fines on ‘em that’ll sting for a good long while. Guide’s license is getting reviewed, too. Serves him right.”
I cut into my steak, shaking my head. “You sound damn pleased with yourself.”
“I am,” he said without apology. “People think they can buy their way into a big rack, cut corners, cheat the land. Doesn’t sit right with me.”
I respected that about Bruce. He had a code, and he stuck to it. As he launched into more details—the number of rifles confiscated, the look on the clients’ faces—I found myself grinning along, not so much at the story but at the man’s satisfaction.
Still, my mind kept drifting between nods and bites of baked potato to a different kind of game, a different sort of risk. My thoughts landed on Lilly, and whether she was somewhere thinking of me, also.
Bruce’s voice pulled me back, but the echo of her laugh on our trail ride lingered in my head, sweeter than any victory over poachers.
