service. Their small Texas border town, Midnight Pass, had been overrun by the drug trade and it was high time someone did something about it. So really, Reese acknowledged to herself as Tabasco Burns set down a beer and a whiskey chaser in front of her, what was a little gossip compared to all that?
“You sure you want this? I can still fix you a white wine spritzer like you usually order. Won’t charge you for this.” Tabasco waved a hand over the beer and whiskey, like a magician who could make it all go away.
Reese thought longingly of chardonnay but shook her head. She needed to forget and a watered-down glass of wine wasn’t going to get her where she needed to go. It was the very reason she’d come to The Border Line for the evening. “I’m good, but thanks.”
Tabasco looked about to argue but only nodded instead, his grizzled features going soft as he stared at her across the scarred bar. “I am glad to see you. It’s been too long.”
She nodded and reached for the beer, unable to acknowledge him with anything more for fear the lump in her throat would turn too swiftly to tears.
Tabasco took a few more beats to look at her before he moved on. He knew his customers well and had a keen sense for when they needed an open ear or a blind eye.
With the same determination that had her calling a car and heading to The Border Line bar on a hot summer Tuesday, Reese took a sip of her beer. No time like the present. She’d numb the pain while facing the gossip and maybe give half the damn town something to talk about other than her father’s crimes and subsequent suicide.
She was done with being the perfect daughter in a family that seemed functionally unable to be halfway normal. Or what she had left of one.
Even if that meant she now had a life she’d worked hard for, a job that she loved teaching high school English and a small house on the opposite end of town from her parents, decorated to her exact specifications and bearing the stamps of her own self-sufficiency. A lawn mown each week by her own hand. Address stamps that had no one’s name on them but hers. And a Christmas tree in her garage she’d put up the past two seasons all on her own.
Who knew it could feel so damn good to pay a mortgage each month?
And it did feel good. She wasn’t a woman who drowned her sorrows—she’d always found the mental fortitude to deal with what life tossed her way, reading, thinking of her students and their future, or finding new interests to explore—but for some reason the little whisper that tantalized her earlier that day, suggesting a night away from her cares was in order, had taken root.
With that thought in mind, she reached for her drinks. Although she preferred wine, the beer went down smooth enough, a cool respite from the heat outside and the perpetually ashy, bitter taste that had coated her tongue for the better part of two months. She’d nearly convinced herself the whiskey would be as good, only to shoot the glass and nearly fall off her barstool in a choking fit.
“Hey there.” A large hand covered her back while another steadied her arm. She jumped at the contact, even as a line of fire coated her throat, burning away anything that had been there.
Wide warm circles smoothed over her back and Reese accepted the gentle touch as one last racking cough shook her shoulders. The worst behind her, she lifted her gaze off the scarred wood and straight into the deep green eyes of Hoyt Reynolds.
Compelling, mysterious eyes, she thought, as their edges crinkled with a gentle smile. “You okay?”
“Sure.” Her voice was still strained from the coughing. “Wrong pipe.”
Hoyt’s gaze shifted to the empty shot glass. “Wrong drink, I’d say.”
Right drink, wrong drinker, her conscious taunted, but she kept it to herself, pushing bravado into her tone as her voice grew stronger. “It’s what I wanted. And I think I’ll have another.”
The smile faded, replaced with something she didn’t want to think about.
Pity.
She’d seen the same expression on the town’s faces more than once in her life and she refused to get comfortable with it. This was her battle to fight and her long walk to take. She would get through this.
And still, something inside of her persisted. If she could only understand the reasons for her father’s choices maybe she could push aside the awful well of sadness and anger and fury that came from the fact that Russ Grantham had thought it was acceptable to torture and kill others. Maybe she could push past the frustration that once again, her life had been thrown into chaos by the choices of her family and somehow, see her way past the wreckage.
Only she hadn’t seen past anything. Not for one single minute in all the minutes that had come since the day her father kidnapped Annabelle Granger, a fellow police officer, for getting too close to the truth. The fact that he’d ultimately done the right thing and let Belle go hadn’t mattered.
Nor had the gun he’d placed to his head.
In the blink of an eye, Reese was right back to those days in high school when all the effort in the world to do the right thing and get good grades and act perfect still couldn’t make up for her older brother’s drug addiction. When the sound of her mother’s crying could be heard late at night, muffled softly from the living room in their small ranch house at the edge of town. When her father’s stiff back and broad shoulders set beneath a uniform that bore captain’s bars still couldn’t keep Jamie Grantham out of trouble.
“You sure about that?” Hoyt asked, effectively cutting into her memories far better than her first shot.
“I am.”
Hoyt let out a long sigh before taking the empty seat next to her. “Then I can’t let you do it alone.”
“I don’t—” She broke off as Hoyt waved down Tabasco, circling his fingers in the signal for another round.
Undeterred by her protest and big enough that she knew he’d be immovable once he sat down, Reese took the opportunity to look at him instead. She knew Hoyt Reynolds—they’d grown up in the same town—but she’d never spent much time with him beyond an occasional night out with mutual friends or enough to say hi at town functions. He was a loner by nature and had a grumpy, affectionately surly personality that had become somewhat legendary in the Pass.
Even without her personal connection—her father’s last potential victim, Belle Granger, was engaged to Hoyt’s brother, Tate—she’d have known Hoyt anywhere.
Everyone knew the Reynolds boys. The trio—along with their sister, Arden—ran Reynolds Station, one of the largest working beef ranches in the state. They’d run free as young men, but all had quickly settled down after their father’s poor business practices had come to light about a decade before. Hoyt had been away in the service—marines, she thought—but had eventually come back, joining his family in the work of restoring the Reynolds name.
In the time since, the four of them had worked diligently to reclaim their role in the beef industry, all while carving a new path into the twenty-first century. They used sustainable practices, methods that were as humane as possible and focused on quality over quantity. She’d even taken a few of her high school classes to the ranch on field trips, pleased with the opportunity to both show off hardworking members of their town and help her students understand there were many paths available to them for their life’s work.
She’d
