"He brought himself," she says. "I just didn't stop him."
Wyatt grins at me. "Good enough. First round's on the house, neighbor. Welcome to Silver Ridge."
Remy is already at the bar.
Silas is already at a table.
Maisie is already asking Wyatt about the mechanical bull.
I stand in the middle of Whiskey River Bar and Grill and feel it. For the first time since arriving in Texas, I feel like maybe I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
The night settles into exactly the kind of easy rhythm that Whiskey River seems purpose built for.
Maisie seats herself between Remy and Silas at the long table and proceeds to charm every person within a ten foot radius without appearing to try.
Jolene is indeed here with two grandchildren who immediately absorb Maisie into their orbit like she's always been part of it.
Pearl Bishop, who is seventy-eight years old, tiny, and apparently afraid of absolutely nothing, stops at our table to look me over with sharp eyes and declare that I have a good face before moving on without further explanation.
I decide to take it as a compliment.
The band is good. Really good. The fiddle player in particular does something in the middle of a song that makes the whole room lean in slightly without realizing it. I'm on my second drink, a bourbon that Wyatt recommended without being asked,and I'm starting to understand why this place is the center of Silver Ridge's social universe.
It's warm in every sense of the word.
Laney is at the far end of the table talking to June Calloway, who owns the bakery and has the calm, steady energy of someone who has heard everything and judges nothing. Laney is relaxed in a way I don't see on the ranch. Laughing more easily. Leaning back in her chair with her boots propped on the empty seat beside her.
I'm not watching her.
I'm watching the band.
The band happens to be in the same general direction.
Remy reappears from wherever he disappeared to and drops into the seat beside me with a fresh drink and the satisfied expression of a man whose evening is going exactly as planned.
"Good night," he says.
"Good night," I agree.
He follows my gaze toward the band. Then slightly past the band. Then back to me with a grin that I would very much like to wipe off his face.
"The band is great," I say preemptively.
"Real talented," Remy agrees.
I take a drink of my bourbon.
It's around nine o'clock when she appears. I don't catch her name because the band is between songs and there's a lot of ambient noise and she introduces herself to me very close and fast in the way that suggests the ambient noise might be intentional. She's pretty, confident, and leaning against the table edge at an angle that makes her intentions fairly clear.
She asks about the ranch. She asks how I'm settling in. She tells me Silver Ridge has apparently decided I'm "ruggedly handsome," which feels deeply suspicious considering I spent most of yesterday covered in mud and horse feed.
She touches my arm twice in the first three minutes of conversation and laughs at something I say that wasn't particularly funny.
I'm polite. I'm friendly. I'm also aware, with a peripheral vision that has apparently developed strong opinions, of exactly where Laney is at every moment of this conversation.
She has stopped talking to June.
She is looking at her drink with the focused attention of someone who is absolutely not watching what's happening at my end of the table.
