Ten seconds, twenty, pass as I wait for his scores. Ninety-one. Flopping my head back against the chair, I sigh heavily. At twenty-four, he’s a quickly rising star and at ten years his senior, my star is heading down. Second place in the first show of the season and I’m already tired.
“Riders, if you’re showing in roping, head into the arena,” a cracking voice announces over the speakers. I know I will do well in roping. My experience on the ranch makes me damn near an expert.
In my truck that evening, I head back toward Inspiration. On my passenger seat rests a new buckle for my collection, for winning the roping portion, but coming in second riding today won only prize money.
Pulling off the road and onto the dirt track leading toward the farmhouse, I bump along under the huge arch reading, “Colter Ranch,” the gates already swung open. It’s lonely here since Daddy and Mama left for Bozeman a few years back. Just me and the dogs, the ranch hands, and the horses.
“Hey Tank, Snapper.” I rub each of their fuzzy heads as I pass them on the porch, hearing them pad in through the door behind me. Tank’s closing in on his retirement of cattle wrangling too, at ten years old. Snapper runs in circles, his puppy energy too much to contain in his compact body, his oversized paws making him clumsy.
“Settle down,” I order with a snap, heading over to the pantry to fill their bowls before grabbing a beer from the fridge and sitting down on the couch. Exhausted, I fall asleep to the sounds of the dogs snoring at my feet before I even finish my beer.
Chapter 3
I Love this Bar
Duke
April 26th 10:27 pm
I toss a cardboard coaster onto the beat-up, dull wooden counter and set the open beer on it. Turning, I flip the TV off now that the rodeo is over. Cash put on a decent show tonight, but Miles edged him out again.
“Hey, Duke. Let me get a vodka-cran.” At her voice, my head whips around and a smile breaks out across her face. “Aw, come on, Duke, don’t frown at me like that.” She leans across the bar slightly, giving me a look down the front of her shirt, which I take full advantage of.
I raise a brow and ask, “Indie, what are you doing here? The bar is mine. You got everything else in the divorce. Why can’t I even have the bar?”
Her smile falls. My heart lurches at the face she makes; I’ve always hated when she was sad.
Seeing the tears running down her face the day she walked out broke my heart, just as surely as anything else that hadhappened up to that point. I was a bad husband, I know. I worked too much; I smiled too little. I never took her on the trip to Cancun she’d been asking for since we got married. We were never able to fill the house with the laughter and footsteps of children. All she wanted was to be a mother, and I couldn’t even give her that.
After a decade of fighting, fighting each other, and the inevitable, she left. It was the hardest day of my life. Not hard because she left, but the look on her face, the way her brow furrowed, and the tears welled up in her eyes. I wanted to hold her and make it better, fix it somehow. But I couldn’t; it was too late. It only took a few months for the divorce to go through. I gave her everything she wanted, and half of what she didn’t. I owed her too much for putting up with me for all those years.
All I asked for was the bar. Waylon’s is mine. I opened it at twenty-three, still wet behind the ears, with the little bit of money left after my father died. I’ve worked behind this counter ever since. I have no idea why she walked in here tonight. Small towns are rough for breakups, and in a town as small as Inspiration, I see Indie a few times a week. At the grocery store, at the church bake sale, and at the hardware store. But the bar is mine.
“Duke, don’t be like this. We were happy sometimes, right?”
“Indie, you know the answer. And it’s the reason you’re on your side of the bar and I’m on mine. What’s up?”
“Alright, alright.” She holds her hands up placatingly, an envelope clutched in one of them. “I’m getting married. I know things didn’t work with us, but I loved you. I didn’t want you to hear it from around town.” Extending her hand, she holds out the envelope withDuke Williamsscrawled in familiar handwriting across the front.
I look at her surprised. Everything about this surprises me. I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone. “You don’t…expect?—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I don’t expect you to come. You can, if you want, the invitation is here, but I don’t have any expectations of you, Duke. Not now.” Leaving the envelope on the counter, she walks out.
Swiping it right into the garbage, I grab the rag off my shoulder and start wiping everything down.
A while later, I lean down and pull it back out, shoving it in my pocket.
“Duke, man, how’s life treating you?” I hear the familiar voice as the old man with the dusty hat perched on his balding head claims a seat at the bar.
“What’s up, Sleepy? Not too bad, not too good. Saw your boy on the show tonight. Pulled a pretty decent score.” I’ve seen better from our hometown rodeo hero, but it wasn’t bad.
“Yeah, I was pretty happy with the score myself, but I wasn’t the one ridin’. Cash seemed pretty down about it even if he won roping.” He rolls his eyes. “Miles just had a better bull tonight. Goliath only pulled a forty-one. Torpedo scored a forty-six. Five extra points would have won Cash the buckle. Oh well. Let me get a beer.” He’s right, even though I know Cash will let it get to him. A forty-seven is a damn good score for a rider, but Goliath didn’t show well.
Twisting the top off his lager, I set it on the coaster. “He’ll get ‘em next time.”
“Damn right,” he responds, lifting his beer in salute.
Walking around my bar, I grab empty glasses and bottles from high top tables, the edges of the pool tables, and sitting on the half wall partially ringing the tiny scuffed-up dance floor. All the music at Waylon’s comes from an old jukebox that only plays old country and rock-n-roll and hasn’t been updated since 1998. It came with the place.
