Boone finished cleaning up in the tack room after his trail ride with the smattering of folks who didn’t mind vacationing at a guest ranch in the brisk Northern California winter. He was officially off the clock for the night and was looking forward to a long, hot shower and getting to work on tracking down his shop’s buyer.
Elizabeth—with her real estate connections—had taken care of the sale and had retained the paperwork. Since she wasn’t exactly returning Boone’s texts inquiring about the buyer, he had to resort to plan B, which at the moment didn’t consist of much more than googling recent real estate transactions in Meadow Valley. He still wasn’t sure what he would do once he found whomever it was he was looking for. After all, he’d been so sure that getting out of Meadow Valley was what would finally bring him the ever-elusive happiness he’d been unable to find in his hometown. But right now, what other choice did he have other than to go back to his old life and start from square one?
“Looks like you’re moving around pretty good,” a voice crooned from behind as a hand firmly gripped his shoulder.
Boone spun to find Colt Morgan, despite his flannel, fleece, and vest, blowing into his palms and rubbing his hands together.
“Heading to Midtown for a warm-up and a poker game with Sam, Ben, and the firehouse chief. Don’t suppose you want to join us?” Colt asked tentatively.
“Who’s holding down the fort with the guests tonight?” Boone asked.
“Friday nights are the men’s night off. The significant others are on duty.” He winked. “And since you don’t seem to have a significant other these days, thought you might want to hop on board. But that still begs the question as to whether you might step foot into Midtown tonight.”
Boone huffed out a breath. Looked like his avoidance of Meadow Valley’s only source of nightlife hadn’t gone unnoticed by anyone. It wasn’t as if he’d been banned from the joint. He made an appearance every now and then when he was sure anyone other than a Walsh was tending bar. In the beginning, it was just easier not to cross Casey’s path than to figure out what he was supposed to do if he did. Then the practice simply turned into habit. Kind of like her reasoning for leaving town for car repairs and maintenance, even if she rarely did so.
“You know what, Morgan? I know your gesture is a courtesy gesture and that you’re expecting me to say no like I would have any other time you might have asked. But you’re right. I am moving around pretty good, and I had a hell of a day. I could use a warm-up. As for the game… You boys play for fun or what?”
Colt raised his brows. “There’s a twenty-five-dollar buy-in, which you can give me ahead of time. It’s low stakes, just a bunch of guys burning off steam. No cash changes hands at the tavern. Just chips. That way, Old Man Walsh turns a blind eye—as do the sheriff and his deputies. Hell, Mayor Cooper even buys in sometimes. But it’s all in good fun. Twenty-five bucks, no more or less, and everyone shakes hands at the end of the night no matter who cleans up.”
Boone grinned. A little extra cash in his pocket certainly wouldn’t hurt. And after his second massage session with Jean this week, he was feeling pretty damned good and pretty damned confident that he could stroll into Midtown Tavern and not have the night devolve into chaos simply because he and Casey Walsh were in the same room at the same time.
Granted, Jean had kept their second session strictly professional—no talk of their elevated status from estranged to possibly becoming friends—but Boone knew their earlier conversation hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. He knew that he and Casey could do this.
He held a hand out to Colt, and the two men shook.
“All right,” Colt began, holding out an empty palm. “Pay up, and then meet us there in an hour.”
Boone laughed and then pulled his wallet out of his pocket. “You’re lucky I have cash on me.” He handed Colt the money, which Colt folded in half and shoved in his own pocket.
“You’re the one who’s going to need luck tonight, Murphy. It might be a friendly game, but that doesn’t mean we’re going easy on the new guy.”
Boone offered his friend a little salute. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. I need to head home and shower. I’ll see you all there.”
Colt clapped him on the shoulder again. “Glad to have you join the group,” he said. “See you soon.”
Boone Murphy wasn’t a man of many outfits. In fact, the word outfit never actually graced his vocabulary. He found a pair of jeans he liked and bought three pairs. He found a thermal or a flannel in his size, and he bought whatever colors were available.
“Wear what you want and whatever makes you feel like you,” his father had always told him. It was his old man’s way of saying that he didn’t need to compare himself to Eli or Ash—that just being him was enough.
Now, though, as he stood in front of his small guestroom closet, staring at the sea of denim and plaid—and the tux that hadn’t yet made its way back to Carson City—he felt stuck.
He’d tried to change, though, hadn’t he? Sold his shop, got the hell out of Dodge, and almost very nearly but not quite made it down the aisle and off to a new life. Everything was supposed to be different. Instead, he was right back where he started—right back where he’d always been.
“Screw it,” he said, then pivoted toward the dresser opposite the foot of the bed, the one that held the rarely worn navy fisherman’s sweater—a sweater he once owned in two different colors—and pulled it from the drawer.
The wool was stiff as he pulled it over his head, and it stretched a bit over his arms. It smelled of cedar, which lined the inside of the drawer, but it also retained the faint earthy scent that reminded him of the last time he wore the garment or its counterpart, all those years ago.
“Keep doing the same old shit and get the same old result,” he mumbled to himself, then brushed his palms over the rough wool on his arms. Big changes hadn’t worked, so maybe it was time to make small, almost unnoticeable adjustments to see if he could tip the scales to—where? He wasn’t sure. Just somewhere else.
The tavern was already crowded by the time he pushed through the doors. The second he stepped foot onto the familiar wood floor and smelled the scent of stale beer that never quite washed out of the floors and tables, he was hit with an odd sense of déjà vu. It wasn’t as if he’d avoided the tavern altogether over the past decade, but it was as if his whole being knew that tonight was different from all the others.
Every tavern patron must have felt the same way because all eyes seemed to be on him, like he’d triggered some sort of buzzer that told everyone to stop what they were doing and look at the spectacle standing in the entryway.
Goddamn small towns. The man who’d thought he’d never leave had been clawing his way out of Meadow Valley for more years than he cared to count. And he’d made it out—made it almost two whole days. Now here he was, the main subject of town gossip and, apparently, tonight’s most anticipated entertainment.
“Evening, folks,” he offered, painting on a grin and offering the townsfolk a friendly salute. “Just here for a pint and a friendly game of cards. Appreciate the greeting.”
He caught sight of Colt, the Callahan brothers, and Chief Carter Bowen from the fire station at a round table clear on the other side of the tavern and took a deep breath before striding through the sea of onlookers to the relative safety of his companions. Only when he rounded the corner of the long rectangular bar did he see her—Casey Walsh—working the tap and charming every single customer in her periphery. He could tell by the patrons’ smiles and the way so many seemed to lean over the edge of the bar to talk to her.
Boone’s chest tightened, and for a second, he found it difficult to inhale, like he’d suddenly changed altitude. Instead of continuing on his path to his table, he found himself heading for the bar instead. He needed to rip off the bandage—to let the folks who seemed to be watching his every move see that Boone Murphy was just as welcome in Midtown Tavern as they were.
She didn’t see him at first as she finished pouring another draft and slid it across to Old Man Wolcott, proud owner of Meadow Valley’s longest-standing retail establishment, Meadow Valley Feed, Seeds, and Fertilizer—better known as the feed store. In fact, Casey Walsh seemed to be the only living and breathing human in the entire tavern who hadn’t taken notice of Boone’s entrance.
Wolcott scratched at the wisp of gray hair that stretched across his otherwise balding crown, gave a less than subtle nod in Boone’s direction—which was two occupied stools away—and then loudly cleared his throat.
“Are you okay, Amos?” Casey asked, brows furrowing.
He coughed loudly into his fist, but it sounded a lot more like Murphy! than it did your average, everyday cough.
Finally, Casey sent her gaze in Boone’s direction, and her eyes widened as they met his.
Amos Wolcott was still talking as she brushed her hands off on her apron and moved to where Boone stood at the bar.
She smiled nervously as she pulled a clean pint glass from underneath the bar.
“Come here often, cowboy?” she asked, then skimmed her teeth over her bottom lip.
“No,” he said matter-of-factly. “I can probably count on two hands how many times I’ve stepped inside your lovely establishment in the past ten or so years. But I’m trying something new tonight. I was hoping maybe you could tell me whether I made the right choice.”
She looked him up and down and nodded slowly.
“You look…nice, Boone. Real nice tonight.”
He chuckled. “I didn’t mean the clothes, but I guess this is a bit different from the norm.”
She tilted the empty glass under the tap and gave the lever a pull.
“Usually, when someone pays you a compliment, you respond with some form of gratitude,” she mused, brows raised.
He scratched the back of his neck and shook his head ruefully. “Right. I mean, thank you. You look—I mean you always look—”
“Ew, stop!” she interrupted, but she was smiling. “That’s not how compliments work. I’m not dishing ’em out just so I can get one back. You look good tonight. End of story. Here.” She closed the tap and pushed the glass over to his side of the bar.
“But I didn’t tell you what I wanted,” he said.
“Your favorite is whatever IPA is on tap as long as it’s from a local brewer, which all our tap beers are. We just tapped this one tonight.”
His brows furrowed. “How did you…” But he didn’t need to finish his question. “Word travels fast in a small town, huh? No matter how insignificant the word is.” Yet however the word had gotten to her over the years, she’d committed to memory something that he liked. Even when she hadn’t liked him.
“Don’t I know it,” she agreed. “And word tonight is that Carter is going for a three-week streak as far as mopping up the poker table with everyone else’s cash, so good luck.”
Boone raised his glass to her, then took a long swig, the familiar bitterness of the hops hitting his tongue.
She was right. It was exactly what he would have ordered if she’d rattled off a menu of what was on tap. But instead she’d simply known.
“Beautiful,” he finally said, finishing his earlier and interrupted thought. “You always look beautiful. And you shouldn’t have to compliment anyone to hear that in return. So in case you didn’t know it, now you do.”
Her mouth fell open, but she didn’t make a sound, so he raised his glass once more.
“Put this on my tab? I’ll settle up after I put Bowen in his place and mop up the table myself.”
Then he spun on his heel and made a beeline for his buddies as he felt all eyes on him once again. This being friends with Casey Walsh thing was going to be fun, especially if all it took to stun her to silence was telling her the truth.
“Evening, boys,” Boone said, pulling out the one empty chair at the table. “Let the games begin.”