“Six months,” I finally answer.

  His whistle sounds out and draws looks from a few other patrons in the bar. “That’s a long time without pay.”

  “It is.” I nod like a man who has to worry about money would and nod in greeting at the man who slides onto the barstool beside me. It isn’t as dark and dank as most bars I’ve been in and the atmosphere is chill. The patrons mostly pretend to keep to themselves while listening to what everyone around them is saying, and from the few meals I’ve eaten here, the food is better than most bars I’ve visited.

  “Where’s it at?”

  “Back where I came from,” I reply, purposely being vague.

  “And that isn’t a good thing?” he asks.

  “Depends on who you ask,” I say with a snort as I take a long tug on my beer. Some days I miss the endless fields and the comforts of home, and other days, the responsibilities that come with my name are like lead weights.

  “You gonna hang out here in Lone Star until you’ve got to get there?”

  A noncommittal shrug is my answer.

  “The boss lady still not hiring you?” He lifts a chin to the front of the bar as if the Knox Ranch is just outside.

  “You know how it is.”

  I let my finger run over the label on my bottle, thinking about how small towns really are funny things. All the people want you to do is gossip so they can side with you to your face and then bullshit about you behind your back because you spoke ill of one of their own.

  Tate, however, seems to be the exception to that rule. I’ve heard the rumors of how people talked ill of her to her face as well as behind her back.

  “She’s a mixed bag no one can quite figure out . . . so, I’d say yes, I know how it is . . . but I don’t. No one does, really.”

  “So, people just hated her on arrival?” Sounds pretty damn ridiculous.

  “Huh,” he says and twists his lips as if he’s gauging how much to say. “She’s never fit in here. She can don the Wranglers and Ariats, but looking the part and being it are two different things.” Ginger waves to customers walking in the door. “We’ll just say she didn’t make a good first impression, and after that, it went downhill.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Oh, I don’t like to gossip,” he says, but his eyes tell me he can’t wait to.

  “I’ve never met a bartender who didn’t have a pulse on his town before,” I egg on.

  A sheepish smile plays at his lips. “She was some kind of photographer. Fancy education. Wealthy family. Nose stuck up in the air at our blue jeans and boots while she wore her designer threads.”

  “She wasn’t wearing her designer jeans when I met with her,” I say, having no idea why I’m defending her.

  “Maybe that’s because she showed her true colors and was knocked down a peg.”

  “Come again?”

  He holds up a finger as he pours another drink and slides it across the bar to another customer before turning back to me. “She was into photography and was writing a travel blog or something like that. She decided to do a piece on Lone Star.”

  “That bad?”

  “That’s putting it nicely.”

  “What was the problem?”

  “She definitely has an eye for photography. The pictures they posted of hers were incredible. It made this town look way better than it really is—majestic even. But the article?” He shakes his head. “That article was the nail in her coffin before she even stepped foot in the grave, if you know what I mean. One sec.”

  Ginger tends to a customer at the opposite end of the bar as I pull out my phone and search for the article. The Wi-Fi sucks, and it doesn’t download before he comes back. “I can’t remember the gist, but she tried to pull it off as if living here was a step back in time. And, honestly, she’s right. Sometimes it is like that, but the citizens here are a proud people and they didn’t take to it very kindly.”

  “And the problem with that is what?” I ask. “Don’t most towns like to be described that way? Quaint and idyllic?”

  “Yeah, but there was something about the way she phrased it . . . almost as if she were mocking us or looking down on us for choosing to live life like this.”

  “So, basically one person made a comment that they were offended and the rest of the town jumped on board.” I snort, not surprised but still disappointed in people I don’t even know.

  Ginger eyes me as if he can’t figure out if he likes me or hates me for the comment. “Something like that.”

  “And there was no going back, right?” Growing up in a small town myself, I’ve seen it before. Shit, Tate could make all the apologies in the world, but once the tide turns, there is no turning them back. Sure, she might have phrased something wrong, but . . . Christ. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “True.” He lets the word hang. “Personally, I didn’t find much fault in what she wrote, but I’m in the major minority. Add in her husband coming in here and buying that ranch right out from underneath the Destin twins, and no one really gave them much of a chance.”

  “You mean a normal real estate transaction?”

  “To outsiders, yes. But to those who live here, that there land had been their families for generations.”

  “Then it would have been passed down to them in a will,” I argue with common sense. “If it was for sale, then it was up for anyone to take it.”

  His smile says otherwise. “Fletcher came in here and paid way above the asking price for that land. Rumor has it he stalled the sale by greasing some of the realtors’ palms so they would hold off on taking the twins’ offer and then swooped in and stole the land right out from under them.”

  Hence the bitterness. Why it was aimed at Tate and not the sellers of the property was beyond me. The old owners had every right to say no to Fletcher’s offer if they wanted to keep the property with local owners. Though, I know better than to point that out.

  “Is that rumor or is that truth?”

  The opening and closing of his mouth says he doesn’t exactly know.

  “That isn’t her fault.”

  “No, not when you look at it in pieces, but when you look at the whole, it is something a lot of people won’t overlook. She stopped coming into town after that article. People went to her at the ranch—hair, nails, shopping—hell, who knows what else. But she made it known that she thought she was better than the rest of us and that was the start.”

  “Surely, there were other reasons.”

  Like maybe she knew how much you all hated her and didn’t want to deal with it?

  “Well, when you’re paying extra for people to tend to you and buying new cars and trailers while also maxing out accounts and never making payments on them, people don’t take too kindly to you.”

  “So, she’s shit at running the finances?” I ask, trying to see where he’s going with this.

  “Nah, it was Fletcher who was doing that. Her good-for-nothing husband who dealt with the accounts, but she had to have known what he was doing, which makes her just as bad.”

  I tuck my tongue in my cheek, lean back on my stool, look around the bar, glancing between the couples at tables with their young kids, the businessmen in their slacks and cowboy boots, and the men on their lunch breaks between transporting livestock.

  I understand these people and the simplicity of working with your hands on the land. The way someone looks at you when you walk in somewhere with cow shit still stuck on the heel of your boot, not because you forgot but because you were too damn exhausted to remember to wipe it off.

  If what Ginger says is true, I’d probably hate her too.

  Then again, I can also relate to Tate, and I’m not sure if I own it or reject it.

  “So, is that why her ranch is in dire need of help?” I ask. “No one likes her enough to work for her?”

  “That ranch is a mess because her husband didn’t know his ass from a hole in his head. He was shit at picking studs to breed. Like absolute shit.” He throws his towel down and wipes the bar top. “He had a good enough head to keep the place above water, sell what needed to be sold, but that was about it. One of the horses he sold died. Another was quite sick. People don’t take kindly to spending hard-earned cash on damaged goods.”

  I chew the inside of my lip as I glance at the images that finally pop up on my phone. Ginger’s right. Knox did make this place look majestic. I don’t know shit about photography, but the lighting and angles and what-the-fuck-ever other terms photographers use make Lone Star look like a little piece of lost America. Turbulent skies over idyllic pastures and symbols of time gone by: red-white-and-blue flags, Radio Flyer wagons, cowboy boots, and apple pie.

  I pull my focus from my phone and force it back to Ginger.

  “People are saying she’s to blame for the horses’ deaths?”

  “Nah. But a ranch that produces sick foals doesn’t exactly win any recommendations.”

  I take a slow draw on the neck of my bottle and nod. “True.”

  “I’m assuming that’s why she brought you here. You any good with breeding and such?”

  Another slow nod as I think of home. Of the endless acres filled with livestock and my duties in overseeing it all.

  “I can hold my own.”

  “She see your references?” he asks.

  “You vetting her employees for her now?” I counter. No one needs to know shit about me. Not who I am. Not where I come from. Not shit.

  Ginger’s chuckle is more miffed than amused. “Nah. Just curious. You seem like you might be worth your salt.”

  His eyes say he feels differently, but I’m not offended in the least. I don’t have to prove myself to anyone in this town.

  “Why can’t she keep anyone on staff?” I ask.

  He chuckles, his eyes flitting around the room before coming back to meet mine. “Supposedly, he paid ranch hands double what everyone else would.”

  Seems there was a lot of paying too much for things on Fletcher’s part.

  “He being her husband?”

  Ginger nods. “Some say it was so they’d keep quiet about the things going on there. Most did, so no one really knows for sure. After he died, I guess she went into a rage over something and fired them all. She’s tried hiring others, but they don’t stay for long because she won’t pay what he was and other places pay more. Something like that.”

  “Is that your official Lone Star warning that I should steer clear?”

  “That’s for you to decide, man. If you like a challenge”—he throws his hands up— “then be my guest.”

  So many rumors. I’m sure some are warranted while others . . . not so much.

  Tatum was all defiance and defeat mixed with uncertainty and obstinance when I’d met her, so I’d put the split at fifty-fifty.

  “But if you’re going to stay, I suggest you keep to your six-month stint.”

  “Why’s that?” I glance up at the television where a baseball game is underway—the Austin Aces against the Los Angeles Dodgers.

  “This isn’t the life she wants. I give her one more season before she cashes out while she can and makes a new life for herself.”

  “The six-month time frame was my doing. Not hers. I have other obligations I need to fulfill.” I clear my throat to make a point. “And who says this isn’t the life she wants?”

  Ginger chuckles as he serves a beer down the line to a man who looks like he doesn’t need another drink. “You’ve spoken with her, right? Hostile. Nasty.”

  “Determined?”

  “Don’t look now,” Ginger says, “but you just stood up for her.”

  I shrug as I take a long pull on my beer.

  “Five-plus years is a long time not to turn a piece of land, a business like hers—with a goddamn derby horse on it, no less—into a successful breeding operation,” he muses.

  “For most of that time, it wasn’t her running it, though,” I argue on her behalf while keeping the little tidbit he just dropped tucked away.

  She has a derby horse? Why isn’t she breeding it?

  He slides a beer across the bar to his server and gives me a wink. “You learn how to read people standing behind a bar,” he says.

  “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “One more thing. No one in this town wants their name affiliated with failure.” He leans close and lowers his voice for dramatic effect. Jesus fucking Christ, does he ever shut up? “Nobody likes a long shot, man, and the Knox Ranch is the long shot. No. People around here like the sure thing.”

  I chuckle in response to this small-town bullshit nonsense. Fucking hell, it’s no wonder the poor woman is struggling.

  They like the sure thing.

  Running my thumb over the Coors Light label, I give the subtlest shake of my head, wondering how much of what he said holds any weight.

  “I have a hundred of those beers you’re holding that say you can’t salvage what’s left of that ranch,” he says and wipes his hand on the rag tucked in the side of his waistband. “I’m all about defying convention, but you can’t do that when you don’t know the ropes. And she sure as shit doesn’t know the ropes. Hell, she’d do best if she took the offer she was given a while back to sell it so she can go live that hoity-toity life it seems she was born to lead. Give us back our land and . . .”

  And by the rest of the heads turning, I can guess who just walked in the door—the woman who’s been the bar owner’s main topic of conversation for the past god knows how many minutes.

  I don’t turn around. Instead, I let the silence eat up the space until all that’s left is the sounds from the televisions around us.

  “Well played, Jack.” Tatum’s voice rings through the bar.

  “Can’t fault me for seeing if you actually pay attention to criticism.” I chuckle more to irritate her than anything and am quite surprised that she did.

  “Tell me one reason why I should hire you.”

  I run my tongue along the inside of my cheek and take my time responding. “Because I’m exactly what you need. I’m your sure thing.” I turn around on my barstool slowly.

  And there she is.

  I ignore the punch in my gut that seeing her again delivers. Her hands are on her hips, and there’s that fire I admire in the jut of her chin. There’s clear determination in her stance as a bar full of townspeople watch her and listen to her every word.

  “That didn’t answer my question.” Those storm-cloud-colored eyes of hers lock onto mine with the lift of one of her eyebrows. “Sure things rarely pan out.”

  “Then you shouldn’t hire me,” I say with an indifferent shrug. There are only seconds for me to decide how to play this before I fall into the same trap Tatum did when she moved here—the one that leaves me hated in town because of misperception. “Besides, I’ve been warned about the ranch . . . about you. No skin off my nose to walk away.”

  “I didn’t figure you for a quitter,” she murmurs with disdain.

  “You want me. You don’t want me.” My chuckle hums through the uncomfortable silence in the bar. “Indecision seems to be a real problem of yours. That, and your temper. No wonder you can’t seem to keep a single person on staff. I’m not your husband. I won’t kowtow to a woman like he did. You need to learn some manners, Ms. Knox.”

  “Manners get you nowhere.”

  “Neither do demands.”

  Yet, there is something about the pride in the set of her chin, the humiliation edging the gray of her eyes, and the harsh bob of her throat as if she’s wondering if she should stand her ground or turn and run that gives me pause. Her even being here despite the crazy rumors about her almost has me admiring her strength. She has to know what they all think of her, and yet, here she is, full of false bravado, insecurity, and determination.

  It’s those things that should tell me to run the other way like the goddamn wind, but they are the same reasons I didn’t keep driving after I convinced myself that I’d somewhat fulfilled my promise to my father.

  “Well?” she asks, one eyebrow arching as her chin quivers. Vulnerability laced with obstinance. “You still think you’re the right person to get the ranch up and running to speed? You still think we can run a better breeding program than Hickman Ranch like you claimed we could?”

  Ah, she came to play. Throwing in Hickman while everyone listens puts me on the spot. The embellishment of my words and pitting me against the other successful ranch on the opposite side of town is nothing more than a challenge. Her throwing it down in a bar full of people gives me no other option than to say yes.

  If I turn it down, then I’ll be labeled as a man who doesn’t hold to his word, which might be even worse than how they’d labeled her.

  Does she even realize that she just put an even bigger target on the ranch’s back?

  “I’m a glutton for punishment,” I mutter as I throw a ten on the bar top for Ginger and rise from my stool. “Outside.” It’s all I say to Tatum, and she bristles from my command as I stride past her and head out the front door.

  As I walk into the bright sunshine of the parking lot, I debate how long it’ll take her to follow me.

  Not if.

  I know she will.

  She needs me too much. Not just on the ranch but also as an ally in this fucked-up town full of quaint charm and rampant rumors.

  Right on cue, the door shuts and the sound of her feet on the pavement echoes off the concrete buildings around us before stopping behind me.

  I give her a minute to stew and to figure out everything in the world she’s fucking angry at so she can direct it at me. She needs to have one more reason to push me away, and I need to give myself one last chance to walk the hell away while I can.

  “Well played, Knox. Well played,” I murmur her own words back to her.

  “You’re not the only one who needed to make a point.”