She whistled, setting her phone back on the receiver. “My word, Sullivan Keene. It’s been a long time since you’ve been home.”
She’d worked there for as long as Sullivan could remember and was well past retirement age. He smiled at her. “It’s been far too long.”
“Indeed,” Phillis said. “What can I do for you today?”
“Is the chief in?”
“He is,” Phillis reported. “Here, I’ll buzz you in. Go on back and see him. He’s in the same office.”
Seven years ago, Sullivan had spent a lot of time at the station. Not from getting in trouble. John Taylor, the chief of police, had taken him in at sixteen when Ronnie had declined to step up as Sullivan’s guardian due to his busy work schedule. Sullivan had lived with John until he headed off for college.
On his way down the hallway, Sullivan waved to a few cops looking his way. He finally stopped outside the corner office. “Still working too late, I see,” he said by way of greeting.
The chief’s head snapped up. “Well, well, so the gossip around town is actually right this time. You’re back?”
Sullivan nodded. “I am. Just for a month.”
John rose and came around the desk to give Sullivan a rough hug. “It’s damn good to see you.”
“You too,” Sullivan said, stepping out of the embrace. John and Sullivan talked often, and he always came to Denver whenever Sullivan had a game. He’d always been more of an uncle to Sullivan than Ronnie had even been. Even more of a father figure than Kurtis. “Listen, I can’t stay long. I’m meeting Hayes for drinks. Can we catch up over breakfast?” With the chief, it was always meeting over breakfast. His days were too busy for anything else.
John nodded. “There’s a great little place a block down called The Kitchen. Shoot me your schedule, and we’ll fit it in.”
“Will do.” Sullivan moved to the door then glanced back. “You know it’s a little after seven o’clock, right?”
The chief swatted at the air. “Work is work. Enjoy those drinks, Sullivan.”
Thoroughly dismissed, Sullivan shook his head with a laugh then headed back outside. He headed back down Main Street until he slowed in front of the bar with the KINKY SPURS signage. Suddenly, A kid ran toward him.
“Sully. Sully. Can I get an autograph?”
He’d never liked the nickname the media gave him, but felt rude correcting anyone who used it. “Hey, now, that would be my pleasure.” He accepted the pen and a notepad and went down to one knee. “What’s your name?”
“Dakota,” the kid said, beaming.
When he scribbled his signature, he took a guess and asked, “You look like you’ve got strong arms. Do you play baseball?”
Dakota’s grin widened. He gave a fierce nod. “I’m a pitcher too.”
Sullivan handed over the notebook along with the pen. “Keep at it, kid. You’ll be in the major leagues before you know it.”
“Yeah?” The kid’s eyes sparkled.
“Oh, yeah,” Sullivan said, rising. “All it takes is hard work and practice.” He smiled at the kid and then at his mother, who had joined them.
“Thank you so much,” she said, her hand pressed to her chest. “He’s such a fan of yours.”
Sullivan felt a world of guilt fall on his shoulders. He forced another smile before walking away. The last thing he should be to anyone was a role model. He entered the bar, finding a classic country western décor, only this one felt like the real deal, unlike the ones he’d seen on the East Coast. Wood paneling covered the walls, and tables were spread out between two stages, one holding the band’s equipment and the other supporting a mechanical bull. By that bull, he spotted his buddies, Hayes Taylor and Beckett Stone, sitting at a table with beers in front of them. Beckett was Hayes’ closest friend, and even though they were three years older, they’d welcomed Sullivan into their fold. He never forgot their kindness.
Before joining them, Sullivan said to the pretty brunette behind the bar with a name tag that read Megan, “I’ll take a Foxy Diva, if you’ve got one.” He remembered her from high school, but she’d never run in his circle of friends.
“Coming right up,” she said, turning away to fetch his drink.
When Sullivan headed for the table, he caught the attention of his friends. Both Hayes and Beckett had matching grins on their faces.
“Sully. Sully. Can I get your autograph?” Hayes smirked, waving his napkin.
Sullivan snorted. “I’d make you pay for an autograph.” A burst of laughter was followed by rough, manly hugs. When Sullivan took a seat next to Hayes, he said, “It’s good to see you both.”
Hayes twirled his beer bottle between his fingers. “We wondered when you were going to come for a visit.”
Sullivan felt shame roll over him. These men had been at his side when his father turned into a man Sullivan didn’t recognize. A man full of hatred and rage. “I should have come home sooner.”
“Seven years sooner,” Beckett remarked.
Sullivan let the dig go. He deserved that. He’d kept in touch over text and the odd phone call, but it wasn’t enough. “Yeah, man, definitely should have.” He glanced at Hayes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for Laurel’s funeral. There’s no excuse. I should have been here.” Hayes had lost his wife, and Sullivan still felt like an asshole for sending flowers instead of coming to her funeral. But he’d been a selfish prick, and only thought of how coming home would affect him.
Hayes cupped Sullivan’s shoulder, only warm affection on his face. “We all get why coming back here was hard for you. No one faults you for staying away.”
Yeah, because at that time, his father was still alive. Sullivan had been unable to face him. Hell, he wasn’t sure he could face him now if he were still alive.
Breaking into Sullivan’s thoughts, the bartender set his beer in front of him and gave the group a smile. “Let me know if you want seconds or some grub.”
“Thanks, Megan,” said Beckett. After she walked away from the table, he added, “That’s Nash Blackshaw’s wife.”
“You don’t say?” The Blackshaw name was a big one in River Rock, due to their cattle company—the very one Sullivan used to work at during his teenage summers—and Nash was the youngest Blackshaw brother. “I heard from Ronnie that they opened a dude ranch at the farm.”
Beckett nodded. “Yeah, they ran into some financial trouble when Mr. Blackshaw passed away, but the farm and ranch are strong.”
“Are you still working for them?” Sullivan asked then took a sip of his beer. Foxy Diva was crisp and fresh, reminding him a little of Clara.
Beckett shook his head. “I’m working for Nash now. We train and sell horses. He’s got a good thing going there.”
Sullivan swung his head toward Hayes, who smiled. “I help out when I can. You know how I love breaking horses with bad attitudes, but I’m back on the force now.”
News to Sullivan. He never knew Hayes had left his job as a cop. “You quit the force?”
Hayes looked like he had a story to tell, but he smiled it away. “Took a break for a while, but law enforcement is where I should be.”