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I walked into a seedy little dive that served rotgut whiskey and catered to two-bit whores. I wasn’t proud of it, but I had spent more than my share of time in the little alcove. There had been a time, after I turned twenty-one, when this place was my second home. I drank and fucked myself into oblivion, trying—and failing—to ease the pain that consumed me. I hadn’t been here in years, but still it stood, a haven for the melancholy, the outcasts—the people like me.
I sat down at the bar next to an old geezer in a blue-and-yellow plaid flannel shirt and a hunting cap.
A bartender who looked like he’d seen damn near a century strolled up to me. “What’ll it be?”
I cleared my throat. “Whiskey, straight.”
He poured me a drink from a bottle I’d never seen or heard of.
I downed a shot, burning my throat. Yep, rotgut. But I was in a rotgut kind of mood. I pushed my glass to the edge of the bar and signaled the bartender for another.
The old geezer next to me turned toward me. “Troubles, son?”
I shook my head in the low chuckle. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“You need an ear? I got nowhere else to go.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Mike.”
I shook his hand. “Talon.”
“Talon, like a bird’s claw?”
I nodded. “That’s the one.”
“Mighty unusual name.”
Not the first time someone had commented about my name. “My mother liked it. My dad wanted to name me John. That’s my middle name.” I took a sip of my drink. I’d take this one a bit more slowly.
“That’s some real crap you’re drinking,” Mike said.
“So?”
“So, you look like the kind of guy who can afford the good stuff.”
“Why do you say that?”
Mike looked down. “Those ostrich cowboy boots, for one.”
I let out a huff. “Maybe I like the crap.”
“If you say so. Me, I love to taste that good stuff once in a while.”
I took another sip. Mike looked tired. Old and tired. “What you do, Mike?”
“Worked construction all my life. I’m retired now. My wife passed away year ago, so it’s just me and my dog. What about you?”
“I’m a rancher.”
“That can be a hard life,” he said.
I laughed. Yeah, for most, ranching was hard. For the Steels? Not so much. We were lucky. Great-Grandpa Steel had started out with nothing, and between him and Grandpa, they built an empire, adding the peach and apple orchard to the already thriving beef ranch. Dad had built the winery, and he and Ryan had created another empire.
Not that we didn’t work hard. We did, Jonah and Ryan especially. They were known to put in twelve-hour days. But money was never a worry.
No, my ranch wasn’t the source of my problem.
“We do okay,” I said.
“Then what’s eatin’ at you, boy?”
