Page 25 of Lassoed Love

Imogen, unsure of what to say, stutters, “I wasn’t sure of anything. I thought maybe it was best if you could see him in person—” I cut her off, my anger surfacing, “He’s obviously not fucking well, Imogen, and probably hasn’t been for a while. You could have fucking told me—I would have come back straight away.”He’s no world’s No.1 Dad—but he’s my fucking father, my blood.

Imogen, now triggered by my confrontation, starts to raise her voice. “Don’t you dare fucking blame me, Isla.... You left—it was your decision. Don’t put the blame on me for not noticing something sooner when it’s you who hasn’t been here to be with your dad in the first place.”

My blood boils at her words, and just as I’m about to retort, the same burly man from before butts into the conversation, “Good luck dealing with that. Sounds like a real piece of work. Bet he’s a burden, just like he was to your poor mother. You’re better off staying away.”

My fury reaches its boiling point, and without a second thought, my hand shoots out, delivering a resonant slap across the man’s face. The now abrupt silence of the pub amplifies the echo of my action. In that suspended moment, a voice pierces through the stillness,demanding, “What the fuck is going on here?”

My heart skips a beat as I freeze, instantly recognizing the deep drawl from behind me. Goosebumps crawl up my skin.

12

The Loose Lasso is pumping tonight, which has become the norm for a Saturday night here in Wattle Creek. The town hasn’t always been this lively, especially during the evenings. It’s more of a recent thing over the years, a change I still quite haven’t gotten used to.

I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Yet, somehow, I let my best mate, Harrison, convince me and a couple of other guys, Tom, Jackson—who I’ve met once or twice before—and Michael, Harrison’s younger brother, to come out tonight for a few drinks. The whole idea of socialising in crowded places has never been my scene, but Harrison insisted it would be good for a change.

It’d been a long and hard week, dealing with the influx of stock, needing to send shipments out to our local retailers and outside the town. The responsibilities on the farm are relentless, a never-ending cycle of hard work that keeps me occupied day in and day out.

We aren’t that well known by any means, but we are known to produce some fresh produce, and the local townies have been munching off our humble harvest. The farm life has its own rhythm,a quiet and steady existence that I’ve grown accustomed to.

I hate shit like this.Always have. I’d had my fair share of partying back in the day. When I was in high school, it was all we would do on a Friday or Saturday night. Getting drunk with the boys and usually a few chicks and just running amuck... Those were simpler times, times I’ve left far behind.

That was years ago. I’m not the same person I was before. Usually, they say people age and change for the better. I, on the other hand, have not. The weight of responsibilities and time has moulded me into a quieter, more contemplative version of myself.

I know what people must think of me, but quite frankly,I don’t give a fuck.

Keeping to myself these days has kept me out of people’s business, and in a small town like ours, there is bullshit left, right, and centre.

So here I am, seated at a booth in one of the corners of the Loose Lasso.

The dim lights cast a warm glow on the worn wooden table, and the low hum of conversations mixes with the distant sound of country music. I’m nursing a single beer, an anomaly in a sea of guys who’ve already downed a few rounds. Pacing myself, not my usual scene.

Harrison, boisterous as ever, slaps me on the back. “Xav, my man! I’m so glad you came. Thought you might need a breather.”

I grunt in response, not much for words, especially in a place like this. The guys around the table share a few laughs, clearly at ease with the noisy camaraderie. Tom’s lanky frame leans in, a sly grin playingon his face. “Xav, mate, good to see you out and about. You should ditch the farm more often. Duchess the only female you socialise with or what? Apart from your Ma, of course.”

I shoot Tom a sharp glare, my stoic expression saying more than words ever could. Without uttering a sound, I shake my head and take a deliberate sip of my beer, emphasising my disinterest in the conversation.

The guys pick up their banter, the volume rising as the night progresses. Harrison, with a boisterous laugh, nudges me. “Mate, you checking out the ladies tonight?”

I remain silent, my eyes scanning the room. The dim lights cast a flattering glow on the women scattered across the pub. The guys, however, continue with their crass commentary, assessing the women with the subtlety of a freight train.

“Look at that one by the bar, bro,” chimes in Michael, a bit too loud. “The blonde one. Legs for days!”

Tom adds with a wolfish grin, “And did you see that other redhead by the pool table? Farrrk me.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, choosing to focus on the rhythmic clinking of glasses and the distant twang of country music.

My gaze lingers on the group at the bar, and I can’t help but notice the details. Long brown hair cascading down, a short red dress—accentuating her never ending curves—paired with brown western boots. My eyes trace her form, taking in the sight before the recognition sets in—Isla Thompson. Unmistakably standing out even in the dim light. Imogen and Claire, the other two from the trio,accompany her.

Well, fuck me.

Curiosity piqued, I take another sip of my beer, not entirely sure why Isla Thompson in a place like this is something that bothers me. As I continue observing, I can’t help but notice Isla’s animated expressions, her laughter cutting through the ambient noise.

Irritation settles in as I watch Isla at the bar with the girls. She’s engrossed in conversation with the bartender, and it’s evident that he’s flirting with her—no subtlety about it. Bloody wanker. Though I’m not entirely sure why it bothers me as much as it does. Whatever it is, I can’t deny the annoyance building up within me as I observe the scene.

Watching Claire scribble something on a paper and hand it back to the bartender adds another layer of curiosity to the mix. I narrow my eyes and squint, as if I have supersonic eyesight that’ll allow me to see from all the way over here.What the hell is going on over there? Why do I care?Really, Xavier.

I notice Imogen and Claire, Isla’s best friends since high school, are with her.Doesn’t Claire live in the city?I may not get out ‘n all, but I do remember her leaving town years ago. Part of me warms at the thought that they’ve remained friends since high school. Unlike myself and my mates. Not that I give a fuck. I’ve seen Trent around here and there, but not for a while now. Kieran, fuck who knows where that bloke ended up. He's definitely not in Wattle Creek anymore. Probably for the best.

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