Page 106 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

Wade comes up beside me. I rest a hand on his shoulder. “You good? Thought you two were finally getting on?”

He knows who I mean instantly. His eyes flick towards her, then back to me. “We’re fine.”

My eyebrow raises.

“Just got nothing to say,” he adds. “She ain’t my friend. She’s yours. There’s no need for me to be chatty with her.”

I am not entirely convinced, but with the way they bicker with each other, it wouldn’t surprise me if Maeve put him in his place after some sort of stroppy attitude.

Up ahead, Bryan’s already glued himself to Iris.

“So,” he drawls, putting on a voice that ain’t his. One tone or two tones deeper than usual. “London.”

Iris looks over at him slowly, and I can see her mind trying to work out Bryan. “So,” she shoots back. “Cowboys.”

“I could show you around.”

“I’m sure you could.”

She swings the truck door open, completely unbothered. “Ask me again when I’ve had a few more drinks, and then you might have a fighting chance.”

Bryan turns back to me, grinning like a damn fool. “I like her,” he says, like she isn’t standing right there.

Iris shakes her head, pulling herself into the back seat. Bryan follows like a man with absolutely no self-preservation instincts, and I cannot help but laugh.

I step into The Lone Coyote, anticipating the usual rocking of the floorboards, but as my feet breach the entrance, I stop. I place my weight on and off the floor, not feeling the rocking. I look up, confused; the place has been transformed in mere days. The hundred times I’ve come to know every sticky patch of floor from years of spilt drinks, which bar stools to avoid because they wobble too much, that’s all gone.

The Lone Coyote has had a complete makeover, still keeping true to the original vibe, just amped up. More neon signs are scattered across the bar’s back wall, all glowing bright and illuminating the booths and its fresh red upholstery. Blue and orange banners hang crookedly from the top of the bar. The bar itself has been replaced by a deeper wooden one, coming out a lot wider than its predecessor.

My eyes go over all the little details that have changed, from the license-plate-style toilet and exit signs, to the custom-made drink coasters scattered everywhere. Yet, despite all the changes, the jukebox remains firm in its usual place because no one would ever dare to move it. A true piece of this bar's history, long before it was The Lone Coyote.

It doesn’t take long before some city girl finds it, flickering through the library and settling on a song. “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” starts playing through the speakers and the whole bar comes alive, singing—well, more like shouting—along with the lyrics.

As though summoned, the Coyote girls are on the stage, stomping their feet in sync with each other, performing one of their popular routines. When the crowd rushes to the stage to watch, one of the girls takes a seat, legs dangling off the bar, and she grabs the nearest cowboy with a quick exchange that has the man nodding. She begins pouring whiskey onto her hat, and he opens wide, letting the liquid tunnel straight into his mouth. He places some cash in her hand, grinning like it's the best money he has ever spent.

A scream rips through the music, dragging my attention away from the cascade of men wanting their turn. In the far corner, a woman has been flung off the mechanical bull, her shiny cowboy boots in the air as she lies on her back. Her friends all have their phones out, filming the moment, laughing away. There’s a mixture of regulars and city folk waiting to see if they can last on the damn thing. Not my thing, that’s for sure. These thighs are made for horses, not bulls. Not a gene that I got from Wade.

The air hums with electric energy; masses of visitors have the place full, all alive with how good the vibes are. The girls have absolutely aced this event, and it wouldn’t surprise me if this manages to be one of the highest-earning fundraisers this town has ever put on.

I try to find one of the posters that have been plastered on the wall, searching for the name of the charity. I don’t know the name because I was too focused on my own shit. God, how fucking shit of me.

I spot one in seconds.

Texas Brothers for Men’s Mental Health.

Breaking the stigma.

I step closer, reading it again, trying to rack my mind as to why Naomi would choose this out of every charity she could’ve picked.

She’s a few feet away, clipboard in hand, directing workers where they need to be, keeping everything running smoothly. Her Type-A personality in full force tonight.

“Hey.” I touch her arm lightly, and she turns. “The charity,” I say, nodding toward the poster. “Men's mental health.”

“Yeah,” she lifts her shoulders in a small shrug.

“Why?”

She studies me for a second before answering. “Honestly, Colt, because of you.”