Page 39 of Savage Heart

I’ve learned this the hard way. Men have no problem hitting on me—at Sweetgrass Market when I’m grocery shopping, at the Broken Spur when I’m out with Vera and Kell, or even when Linc goes to the bathroom at Hog Heaven and I’m alone at the table. I rarely stop at Deja Brew anymore because for some reason the coffee shop is a place where men always make a move. If their eyes linger a beat too long and their mouths tighten when I catch them looking, I know what’s coming next.

In the past, I’d think, Maybe this guy is different. The guy would sit down and offer to buy me a drink but stop flirting if someone important to him came in and saw who he was talking to. Or the texts would come late at night if he’d had enough whiskey.

But sit with me in daylight at a restaurant? Claim me in a town where Lincoln’s name still gets spoken like a prayer?

Not happening.

Ironwood is a fishbowl. Which is why, when Vera drags me out to the rodeo, or Jackson Hole, or better yet, six hours away to Cheyenne—when I can just be a stranger—I let myself forget.

Vera calls them dalliances, like it’s cute and harmless. She nudges me with her shoulder, telling me I deserve to have fun.

She’s not wrong.

But it still feels like a transgression.

Not against Lincoln. Not anymore.

For the longest time I lived with the guilt that I survived that night and he didn’t . . . I still do. But I’ve stopped believing that I owe Lincoln my loneliness.

I lost faith in love a long time ago, so the transgression is against the girl I used to be. The one who thought my heart had finally found a safe place.

I keep things shallow. Names exchanged or not, it doesn’t matter. I accept a free club soda with lime. Offer a smile that doesn’t carry history. And I enjoy hands touching my skin, reminding me that I’m still here, still wanted in some small way.

Which makes me feel like I really am just like my mom at my core . . . and that takes me down another spiral.

From the time I brought Linc home, I promised him and myself that despite how things may look on the outside, history would not repeat itself. I brought him to Little Lark Trailer Park like Mom had with me, but he would have a much different life here than I’d had. I wouldn’t have vodka in every nook and cranny. Men wouldn’t come in and out of our home like a revolving door. And I’d show my son every day how much I love him, so much that he’d never doubt it.

I’ve kept those promises. But sometimes the loneliness sweeps in, and I ache . . . and give in to a night of momentary intimacy.

Vera snaps her fingers in front of me, and I blink.

“Come on. We’re going,” she says.

I sigh, but I grab my purse, and we walk down the street to the Broken Spur. Music blares as Vera and I push through the doors, bass thudding so hard it rattles the place. It’s packed, and the air smells like spilled whiskey, sweat, and perfume.

Vera grins at me. “This is exactly what you need,” she yells in my ear.

“We’ll see,” I shout back, but I’m smiling despite myself.

She hooks her arm through mine and pulls me toward the bar. I feel a little looser already.

Vera gets a vodka soda. I order a club soda with lime, my go-to drink for any occasion.

She points at me. “One of these days, I’ll talk you into a fun beverage.”

I clink her glass. “I happen to find a citrusy club soda delightful.”

She rolls her eyes. “To bad decisions,” she says.

“Or no decisions at all,” I add and take a long drink.

Vera can tease me about not drinking all she wants, but there’s no way I’d ever go down that path. The only night I ever drank changed my life in a profound way. And I don’t need more reasons to worry that I’m like my mother.

We don’t stand still long. The music shifts to something fast, and Vera drags me onto the dance floor, and we start to move.

“Oh, look!” Vera says. “Dalton’s here.”

I look back and see him with a couple of the guys I’ve seen at the ranch. He looks exhausted, but when his eyes land on me, he smiles. He weaves through the crowd and stops in front of us.