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I smother a smirk. It’s one of our best fuck-yous against the Hales. Rogan may be mayor, but we own the locals because Warren owns the main bar in town.

Warren shakes his head. “Asshole.”

I watch Rogan shake a few hands, then sneak out the back door like a snake in the grass. Anger burns deep in the pit of my stomach.

One day. One day he’ll get his.

“What’d we miss?”

I whip around at the sound of Ezra’s voice. He and Wells stand there, shit-eating grins on their faces.

“Rogan.” I roll my tense neck out on my shoulders.

Ezra’s brow lifts like he already knows what happened.

“Damn,” Wells complains. “We missed a fight.”

“You don’t need fights,” Warren says from behind the bar. “None of us need fights.”

Ezra dips his chin in agreement. The second youngest, born with brains most of us weren’t, Ezra’s always reliable for backup, but he never starts a fight. Usually that honor goes to me or River.

“C’mon, let’s get started.” Warren reaches for the vault door and swings it open. To his bartender, he calls out, “Keep an eye on things, Margo.”

We follow Warren through the heavy vault door and into our own hidden speakeasy. What we call the Parlor. A dimly lit room filled with dark wood, lanterns, and vintage western decor, it takes us back to the Wild West.

Our meeting spot for poker games, for business, for bullshit. On rare occasions, Warren rents it to locals for private parties and whiskey tastings.

Wells, Ezra, and I drop into mahogany leather chairs and couches, while Warren pulls out a bottle of whiskey and splashes the amber liquid into crystal glasses.

“Sorry we’re late.” Ezra groans as he kicks a boot up on his knee. “Had to close up the distillery, then Bugs got ahold of me.”

I give him a questioning look. “She okay?”

Emotion flickers across his face at the mention of his five-year-old daughter, Evangeline, but he tamps it down. “Girl gave me hell tonight. Three bedtime stories, and she still wasn’t out.”

Wells accepts a glass of whiskey from Warren. “What about Wyoma?” Ezra lives at the homestead with our aunt and uncle, who take care of Evangeline when he’s working.

“Bugs says only I get the voices right.” Ezra tries to sound annoyed but all he sounds is smitten. Damn sucker for the girl. We all are.

Ezra’s mustache twitches as he shoves his glasses up on his nose. “Heard we lost Kimmy.”

Warren hands him a glass and stares him down. “Heard right.”

Ezra gives Warren a look of disdain. “Couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.” He likes to boss just as much as Warren does.

“If I needed my little brother’s opinion, I’d have asked for it.” There’s a scoffing click in War’s throat as he shakes his head.

“What we need is a goddamn bartender,” Ezra complains. A thinker, methodical, anything out of alignment messes with his plan for the distillery. He hopes to be lead distiller any day now.

I roll my eyes as Ezra and Warren bicker like old men.

Wells flicks a quick look my way. “Think River will come down off his mountain?”

“He said he’d be here.” I remove my black Stetson and carefully place it on the whiskey barrel coffee table.

River pulls a few shifts for us at the distillery when we’re short-staffed, but he runs his tattoo shop, Bootlegger Ink, on Main Street.

As if on cue, the vault door swings open.