I fight back the tears of relief that burn behind my closed lids, and when I finally collect my thoughts, I realize Jack’s truck has stopped.
When I open my eyes, I find that we’re in a parking lot and he’s studying me, a ghost of a smile on his face.
“Sorry. I needed a minute,” I murmur as if what just happened wasn’t real.
“Take all the time you need.” He reaches out and squeezes my hand and keeps it there.
I shift in my seat to face him, my need to say this suddenly very important. “Thank you for doing that.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Knox.”
“But I do. I . . . before—” My sigh fills the cab of the truck as I try to put my thoughts into words, as I try to explain to him the things he probably questions. “I never liked to rock the boat. I never wanted to make waves before.”
“And now?”
“And now I’ll capsize the damn boat if I have to in order to stand up for myself.”
“So I’ve experienced.” His voice is quiet, almost hovering on admiration. “Why?”
It’s one word but it’s so loaded with curiosity that I’m not sure how to answer him.
“Because I gave everything up I’d ever known for him. My family. My security. The life I wanted to lead and, I don’t know . . . I lost who I was. The person I wanted to be. The person I was.” I twist my lips and look out the window toward the little boy with a balloon on his wrist being carried by his father, wondering how I ever let myself do that.
“You’ll find her. I’m certain of it.”
“I’ve learned from my mistakes. That I’m too proud to walk away, but at the same time, I’m petrified to take steps toward the life I thought I wanted.”
“You’re fearless, Tate.” He half laughs, half snorts. “Stubborn as hell but fearless.”
The veneration in his voice has me swallowing over the lump it formed in my throat while the last part has me laughing.
“Thanks. I guess.”
“I’m going to rely on you to keep being both.”
I turn back to him. “What do you mean?”
“This deal I’m working right now. It’s going to ruffle some feathers in town.” He hits his thumb against the steering wheel a couple of times as he looks around. “Rumors are that the Steely Brothers aren’t thrilled with the quality of the horses they’ve been getting from Hickman Ranch. I plan to woo them over our way.”
“The Steely Brothers as in—”
“Yes, as in the largest broker of barrel and bronco riding horses in the nation. We have quarter horses, and I intend to convince them ours are better than Hickman’s.”
“Oh.” Caution edges the sound as my insides slowly soar, the hopes I held back earlier this morning finding a leg to stand on.
“It’s nothing set in stone, but I sold one of the shareholders a ranch a ways back, and . . .”
“And what?” I ask, but he just shakes his head and laughs to clear the faraway look from his eyes.
“Nothing. I just wanted to let you know that things here in town might get worse before they get better.”
“It isn’t as if I’m not used to nasty, Jack.”
“Yeah, but we’re messing with one of their own here.”
“I understand. I’ll be ready for it.”
“Good. But you’re going to have to do the one thing you aren’t too fond of.”
“What’s that?”
“Open your ranch up to the Steelys. They’re going to want to inspect it. They’re going to want to see if it’s suitable for them to come and bring their studs during the month to be on standby for when the mares are ready. You’re going to have to let them in when you normally shut everyone out.”
I chew my lip and stare at him because that doesn’t sound like the protocol I remember Fletcher following. Studs don’t travel to mares, the mares travel to them, which is a big reason I have been so concerned about the cost.
“How did you finagle this?”
“Because I’m that good.” He flashes me a grin that could melt my panties right off, but I have a feeling it’s to distract me. I sense that Jack Sutton might have a little more clout and power than he says he does.
That begs the question, just who is he?
“Jack. This isn’t normal. I don’t understand why a big customer like Steely would take these measures when they are the ones in control.”
He leans over and gets close enough that I can smell the shampoo in his hair and see the flecks of gold in his irises. “Because I can sell anything when I believe in it . . . and I believe in you.”
My sigh fills the cab of the truck because, as much as that’s a believable response, it still doesn’t answer my question.
“Enough of this. C’mon.” He slides out of the truck without giving me a chance to respond, and I follow suit before he can come around to open the door for me.
“What are we doing?”
“Taking a time out.”
“A time out?” I ask.
“You have to celebrate even the small victories when they come, Knox.” He places his hand on the small of my back and directs me to the front of the shopping center. “And we just got a small victory.”
I let him lead me around the corner to where the old diner with crappy food and even worse service is, and I almost pull him to a stop and tell him that I refuse to eat there, but then I freeze. The diner is gone. In its place is what looks like a bar with a marquis that reads Axe’s with a three-dimensional axe as the apostrophe on the sign.
“It’s the new hot spot—if there is such a thing in this town.” He winks and ushers me to the door. “Work hard, play hard, right?”
“I have a million things to do at the ranch—”
“Stop thinking about work,” he says with another smile and another tug on my hand. “Just humor me.”
Next time.
It reminds me that I need to stop. That I need to make this the start of all of my next times.
It’s hard to think of this simple moment in time with Jack as a new beginning, as a the first step toward my next time—especially because nothing long-term is going to happen between Jack and me—but I have to start somewhere. I have to at least try.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” He raises his eyebrows and knocks me over with a shy grin that gives me pause.
“Yes. Okay.”
The whoop he rewards me with makes me laugh as he steps to open the front door for me.
The bar’s decor is industrial ranch house with iron pipes and dark wood. The bar is on one side and there are designated throwing alleys on the opposite side of it. It’s busier than I expected for a mid-afternoon, and a few Lone Star residents who are seated at tables glance our way when we enter. I exhale a breath when they turn back to their business instead of staring at us.
Within minutes, Jack has us on an open throwing lane.
“Who thought alcohol and axes were a good mix?” I ask as he stands beside me to try to show me the best technique to throw one.
“No clue, but if you don’t correct your shoulders, you’re going to give that man next to you a Mohawk.” I gasp in horror, but then he steps up behind me to give me more direction.