Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“Is that why you have your guitar?” I motion to his case. “Were you planning a trip to Buck’s again?”
He blinks. “I…don’t rightly know. Just had the urge to reach for it since it’s been a few days.”
“Makes sense. Playing seems to ground you.”
“It does.” He bites his lower lip. “I’m starving. And a guy can always eat…boss.”
“How about just Bishop and Porter? I’ve had enough boss this and boss that today to last me awhile.” I breathe out. “I was thinking about the old village tavern.”
His eyes light up. “That’s still around?”
“Sure is. Doesn’t attract the crowds it used to, which I like. A little dated, but it’s quiet, and they have decent food.”
The tavern is located in the older part of Laurel Springs. Hoping to attract more tourists and generate revenue for the town, the tavern had opened well before new businesses started cropping up in the center of town. The new storefronts worked as a draw for a little while, but there’s nothing much else to do around here, unless you like hiking, camping, and pretty mountain views.
“Sounds good to me, S—Bishop.”
I smile at him almost using his nickname for me, and fuck if I don’t wish he still would. “I’ll leave first to get a head start. You follow in a bit. Meet you there in say, twenty minutes?”
Porter agrees, then turns and heads toward the stables. I grab my keys and pad to my truck, hoping not to be detected by anyone. It’s true that it’s been quite a day, so a nice meal with an old friend sounds perfect to me. And Porter is the first person I thought of.
Twenty minutes later, I’m at a booth in the dimly lit space and have already ordered a beer.
As the seconds tick by, I consider that Porter might flake on me, but could I blame him? He might’ve thought it through and decided it wasn’t such a good idea.
But when the wooden door creaks open and in walks Porter Dixon, some new dents in that chip on his shoulder, I breathe out in relief.
I act like his presence is a surprise and wave him over as he’s ordering a beer at the bar. No one pays us any attention except for the owner, who still mans the bar and must be in his sixties by now.
Porter smirks at me. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Sure is.” I wink. “Have a seat.”
“Sounds good,” he replies, settling across from me. “Sullivan Ranch worked me hard today. Probably still smell like manure.”
I crack a smile. “Then we all do. Nobody said working a ranch was easy.”
“Tell me about it,” Porter says as his beer is served. “But I keep going back for more, year after year.”
“That’s ’cause it’s in your blood.”
Porter’s lips turn down a moment, but then he lifts his drink. “Cheers to that!”
We clink glasses, then grow silent as we study our menus. We end up ordering burgers and fries with some wings for appetizers.
The conversation flows as we discuss our day on the ranch. It feels as comfortable with Porter as it always did, but also different. Either because we’re adults now, or because we’re done burning bridges. Or a combination of both.
Once we’re served our food, the conversation turns to our childhood on the ranch. “Remember that time Wade came upon us skipping stones at the stream?” Porter wipes the wing sauce from his mouth, and I can’t help watching him lick his lips.
“He’d just missed us being buck naked in the water.” My cock stirs at the memory. As does my heart. “Christ, there were plenty of near misses like that. Shoulda pretended to take up fishing as a hobby and brought some rods with us.”
“Oh, we definitely brought our rods. Let them think for us too.” He huffs out a laugh, and it’s contagious. “How long you reckon Wade’s known about us?”
“Good question. Not much gets past him.”
“Who knows how many secrets that man’s got,” Porter muses, and it reminds me how lucky we are to have him. And for so long.
“That’s why I’m trying not to step on his toes when it comes to Randy. He knows the score. Addiction’s no joke. I might be reaching, but that seems likely in Randy’s case.”
“Don’t I know it,” Porter mutters, and I frown because he’s probably thinking about his father and how bad it got with him. He didn’t talk about it often, but when he did, his pain was obvious. The truth is, Porter’s a survivor, though he may not see it that way. It’s one of the things I admire about him. Even if he can be a stubborn ass sometimes.
“So what’s the deal with Randy, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s underneath the simmering anger?” he asks around another sip of beer. “Seems he’s had it out for me since I arrived on the ranch.”