Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
I know the sheep don’t fix anything. I know the farm doesn’t fix anything. But they give me something to hold—something to do with my hands when my mind gets too loud. Something to playact for the world around me.
And most days, pretending is the only thing that keeps me standing.
…
By the time night rolls around, I’m fried.
My body aches from chasing down half a flock, my pride aches from handing Betty Bagley another wad of cash for her chewed-up flowerbeds, and the silence between Randy and me feels heavier than any argument we’ve ever had.
He didn’t bitch after this morning. Not once.
He worked beside me all day—quiet, efficient, and steady—but I could see the unspoken regret in his shoulders. The whole damn reason my older brother came to Red Bridge in the first place was to keep me from falling apart, and the thought of being the reason I might cuts deeper than any amount of broken barbwire and electric fence for him.
By the time I roll into The Country Club, I’m bone-tired. The place is boisterous with music from a bluegrass band playing live on stage. The sounds of fiddles sawing and banjos clicking spill across the whole bar and even outside into the parking lot, and the bar is packed like a tin of sardines. Couples line dance in the center, regulars loiter over by the pool tables engaging in their competitive games, and the sounds of the usual small-town gossip bounce off the walls.
I slip into the rhythm effortlessly, because that’s what I do.
I put on the easy grin, that mask I’ve gotten too good at. Laugh at the right moments, buy rounds, slap a few backs, and make Clay Harris and the rest of Red Bridge believe I’m fine.
Clay has insight—more than a few occasions of me blitzed to oblivion while I weave my sad tale and confront my demons head-on directly across from him—that no one else does, but he doesn’t press. He never does.
I’m on my second rocks glass of whiskey when the door opens, and in walks Bennett Bishop with Norah on his arm, and the one woman I gladly let linger in my head these days trailing behind them.
The arch of her back, the sound of her moans, the perfect pink of her pert nipples—yeah, they hang around rent-free.
At the sight of her, my pulse does something stupid. Even in this little bar, under too-dim lights, Breezy shines.
Clay slides me a fresh pour. “Another?”
I stare at the glass, the amber catching the light like temptation itself.
For a second, habit almost wins. That familiar itch to blur the edges, to let the world fade into background noise, has my fingers tapping toward the glass.
But then Breezy laughs, carrying over the noise of the bar and the music and straight into my ears, and another agent for changing the way I feel tips the scales. I won’t be numb, certainly. But I won’t feel any pain either.
Enough brooding. Enough drinking. I don’t want to forget tonight.
I shove the glass back toward Clay and shake my head. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”
And before I can second-guess it, I’m on my feet, crossing the room.
The crowd fades and the music buzzes as the Molene bluegrass band picks something fast and twangy. But all I can see is her, standing there in the middle of it all, magnetic as hell.
“Well, hello, Breezy Bishop,” I greet when I reach where she stands at a high-top table with Bennett and Norah. “Happy to see you’re still in Red Bridge.”
“Hi, Tad,” she replies, a secret smile on her lips like us pretending to be mere acquaintances in front of everyone else is her new favorite game. My new favorite is seeing her in my bed and making her come.
“Bennett. Norah.” I tip my head toward them, but my eyes never leave Breezy’s face. “Good seeing you all here tonight.”
I don’t know what Bennett says, but that’s probably because I’m one hundred percent focused on his sister.
“Band’s pretty lively, huh?” I say, nodding toward the stage where the bluegrass players are tearing through a fiddle run that could wake the dead.
Breezy shrugs. “They sound pretty good.”
“How about a dance?”
She blinks quickly, first at me and then at her brother and sister-in-law. “A dance?”
“Yeah,” I answer, a smile curling my lips up. “A dance.”
Her eyes narrow playfully. “Are you good at dancing?”
“I don’t know, but I’m hoping we’re about to find out.” I smirk and hold out my hand toward her. “C’mon, Breezy. I won’t bite, I promise.”
“It’s not the biting I’m worried about. It’s the stepping on my feet.”
I wink. “I won’t do that either.”
She hesitates just long enough to make me sweat, but when she slips her hand into mine, I celebrate the victory.
Her palm is warm, her fingers small but sure, and instantly, something in my chest unclenches. I lead us onto the dance floor, where boots shuffle and skirts sway, and the air smells like beer, wood, and dust.