So, when I spot Jack’s truck parked in the lot next to Ginger’s, a surge of confidence washes through me. It’s matched with temper too, but the longer I stare at it, the more I realize all of these feelings, these realizations, within me came to life the minute he stepped on my porch.
The minute he somehow entered my life.
5
JACK
“When’s your next gig?”
Pursing my lips, I take my time studying the beer Ginger just placed in front of me before glancing over to the man. His hair is red, his freckles coat every inch of his skin, and for a giant of a man, he moves with a surprising ease behind the bar. His smile is genuine, and his laugh tugs at the corners of my mouth when he lets it loose.
With a shrug, I lean back in my chair and think about the daunting prospect of returning home and facing the shitstorm I left behind, but I welcome his question. I’ve been in and out of here for the past week, mixing with locals and listening to the town gossip, but Ginger has steered clear of me. I just can’t figure out if it’s because he’s one of the few in town who actually like Tate or because he just doesn’t care to get to know me.
“Six months,” I finally answer.
His whistle sounds out and draws looks from a few other patrons in the bar. “That’s a long time without pay.”
“It is.” I nod like a man who has to worry about money would and nod in greeting at the man who slides onto the barstool beside me. It isn’t as dark and dank as most bars I’ve been in and the atmosphere is chill. The patrons mostly pretend to keep to themselves while listening to what everyone around them is saying, and from the few meals I’ve eaten here, the food is better than most bars I’ve visited.
“Where’s it at?”
“Back where I came from,” I reply, purposely being vague.
“And that isn’t a good thing?” he asks.
“Depends on who you ask,” I say with a snort as I take a long tug on my beer. Some days I miss the endless fields and the comforts of home, and other days, the responsibilities that come with my name are like lead weights.
“You gonna hang out here in Lone Star until you’ve got to get there?”
A noncommittal shrug is my answer.
“The boss lady still not hiring you?” He lifts a chin to the front of the bar as if the Knox Ranch is just outside.
“You know how it is.”
I let my finger run over the label on my bottle, thinking about how small towns really are funny things. All the people want you to do is gossip so they can side with you to your face and then bullshit about you behind your back because you spoke ill of one of their own.
Tate, however, seems to be the exception to that rule. I’ve heard the rumors of how people talked ill of her to her face as well as behind her back.
“She’s a mixed bag no one can quite figure out . . . so, I’d say yes, I know how it is . . . but I don’t. No one does, really.”
“So, people just hated her on arrival?” Sounds pretty damn ridiculous.
“Huh,” he says and twists his lips as if he’s gauging how much to say. “She’s never fit in here. She can don the Wranglers and Ariats, but looking the part and being it are two different things.” Ginger waves to customers walking in the door. “We’ll just say she didn’t make a good first impression, and after that, it went downhill.”
“What did she do?”
“Oh, I don’t like to gossip,” he says, but his eyes tell me he can’t wait to.
“I’ve never met a bartender who didn’t have a pulse on his town before,” I egg on.
A sheepish smile plays at his lips. “She was some kind of photographer. Fancy education. Wealthy family. Nose stuck up in the air at our blue jeans and boots while she wore her designer threads.”
“She wasn’t wearing her designer jeans when I met with her,” I say, having no idea why I’m defending her.
“Maybe that’s because she showed her true colors and was knocked down a peg.”
“Come again?”
He holds up a finger as he pours another drink and slides it across the bar to another customer before turning back to me. “She was into photography and was writing a travel blog or something like that. She decided to do a piece on Lone Star.”
“That bad?”
“That’s putting it nicely.”
“What was the problem?”
“She definitely has an eye for photography. The pictures they posted of hers were incredible. It made this town look way better than it really is—majestic even. But the article?” He shakes his head. “That article was the nail in her coffin before she even stepped foot in the grave, if you know what I mean. One sec.”
Ginger tends to a customer at the opposite end of the bar as I pull out my phone and search for the article. The Wi-Fi sucks, and it doesn’t download before he comes back. “I can’t remember the gist, but she tried to pull it off as if living here was a step back in time. And, honestly, she’s right. Sometimes it is like that, but the citizens here are a proud people and they didn’t take to it very kindly.”
“And the problem with that is what?” I ask. “Don’t most towns like to be described that way? Quaint and idyllic?”
“Yeah, but there was something about the way she phrased it . . . almost as if she were mocking us or looking down on us for choosing to live life like this.”
“So, basically one person made a comment that they were offended and the rest of the town jumped on board.” I snort, not surprised but still disappointed in people I don’t even know.
Ginger eyes me as if he can’t figure out if he likes me or hates me for the comment. “Something like that.”
“And there was no going back, right?” Growing up in a small town myself, I’ve seen it before. Shit, Tate could make all the apologies in the world, but once the tide turns, there is no turning them back. Sure, she might have phrased something wrong, but . . . Christ. “Everyone makes mistakes.”
“True.” He lets the word hang. “Personally, I didn’t find much fault in what she wrote, but I’m in the major minority. Add in her husband coming in here and buying that ranch right out from underneath the Destin twins, and no one really gave them much of a chance.”
“You mean a normal real estate transaction?”
“To outsiders, yes. But to those who live here, that there land had been their families for generations.”
“Then it would have been passed down to them in a will,” I argue with common sense. “If it was for sale, then it was up for anyone to take it.”
His smile says otherwise. “Fletcher came in here and paid way above the asking price for that land. Rumor has it he stalled the sale by greasing some of the realtors’ palms so they would hold off on taking the twins’ offer and then swooped in and stole the land right out from under them.”
Hence the bitterness. Why it was aimed at Tate and not the sellers of the property was beyond me. The old owners had every right to say no to Fletcher’s offer if they wanted to keep the property with local owners. Though, I know better than to point that out.