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Scatterbrained, free-spirited, and a carnival of emotion. No one’s ever tried to tame Hassie. Not after what she’s been through. All of us try to keep that light inside burning. If anyone tries to put it out, they answer to us.

I shove the crate her way. “Brought you your whiskey.”

“Thanks, Cole.” Copper head dipping, she rummages around the bar to steal a cherry, pops it in her mouth, then casts sympathetic blue-green eyes my way. “How are you doing?”

Like everyone in town, she knows what tonight means. It’s the eighteenth anniversary of our parents’ death.

“Fine.”

Warren, back as stiff as the starched shirt he wears, narrows his gaze at her. “You didn’t ask me how I was.”

“You’re cool and unbothered,” Hassie snaps. “Like the asshole you are.”

I clear my throat, changing the subject. “We’re planning the launch party tonight.”

“Cool. Let me know how I can help.”

“Will do.”

I stiffen as a sudden hush goes through the bar. I can feel it. Tension. Warren’s attention drifts over my shoulder, and I twist on my barstool.

Rogan Hale, Tempest’s newly reelected mayor, swaggers through the bar, celebratory cigar tucked above his ear.

“Don’t look now,” Hassie mutters. “But we got an asshole of the finest variety.” Her face contorts in disgust.

Every muscle in my body locks. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

Warren arches a brow. “Victory lap.” He gives me a big-brother side-eye. “He’s here to rub it in. Don’t let him.”

Hassie spits the cherry stem out of her mouth, tied in a perfect knot, and bounces it off Warren’s broad chest. “I’m outta here before you go all alpha.”

“Front door,” he orders, but she ignores him, grabs up the crate of whiskey, and slips back behind the shadows of the vault.

“Fucking woman.” Warren blows out a deep breath, shoots back a shot of whiskey. When it comes to Hassie, he needs it.

I gesture for another drink. Nursing it would be smart, but I need an escape after today. Eyes still on Hale, I growl, “I hate that motherfucker so much.”

Warren snorts. “Looks like a flag threw up on him.”

I turn my head his way. “I know that damn election was rigged.”

I’m still bitter about it. Half the town hates Rogan’s guts. There’s no way he won fair and square. Now we’re stuck with him for four more years. No doubt he plans to make our lives miserable for every single one of them.

In Tempest, the Westons and the Hales are a local legend. A source of small-town gossip.

A bitter rivalry that’s lasted well over a century.

In 1910, the Hales and the Westons were two of the original homesteads of Tempest. Back then, the Westons were cattle ranchers. The Hales were our neighbors, living just over the hill and sharing a border with our land. We existed peacefully for a handful of years. In fact, the Hale founder built a general store and a trading post where they sold Weston beef.

That peace was shattered when Proctor Hale hit Bo Weston’s dog with his truck and left him to die on the side of the road. Incensed, Bo Weston surprised Proctor one night in his own home, marched him to our ranch, and forced him at shotgun-point to dig a grave and bury his dog.

From there, it snowballed. Hale stopped selling Weston beef at the general store. This bankrupted our family for a decade, until my great-great-great-grandfather, Hezekiah, started breeding bulls.

There were more occurrences over the years. Rivalries that happened through the generations. The great bull-napping of 1945 where Landon Hale stole a prized bull from the Weston ranch and sold it at auction.

Knox Weston cementing over a prized honey hole where the Hales fished in 1968.

It went on and on. Spiraled through the years. Became a source of local lore.