Page 64 of Eight Second Hearts

“Arizona,” I admit. “Hey, so this is weird, but I’m a journalist. Do you think it’d be okay if I took a photo of you and your booth in case I write an article on Steele?”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” Fable says. She steps back and poses. “How about like this?”

“Perfect,” I say, stepping back to get the whole booth in the picture. “Thank you so much, Fable. And I will take a jar of that honey.”

“Yay!” she says, clapping her hands together. “That’ll be ten dollars.”

I leave her booth with a promise to call her if I write the article at the phone number she gives me and a smile on my face.

“You like it here,” Beau comments.

“What makes you think that?” I ask, eyeing him.

His dimples dip in. “Just a hunch.” He gestures toward the old newspaper stands. They’re empty and look like they’ve been so for a while. “You know, we haven’t had a newspaper in years, not since Old Man Gary died.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just stating a fact.”

I look back at the stand, confused, before Ram appears in front of us, interrupting our walk, a bag in his hand. “Hey. Mom says she has it from here. Y’all ready to go track down Tripp?”

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the bag.

He looks down at it and grimaces. “Oh, this? Naomi got me for more of her moonshine. Terrible stuff, but she’s so happy when she sells it, I can’t say no. Pretty sure she gets the whole town that way.”

I laugh. “You know, that’s weirdly sweet of you.”

The Rusty Spur is at the end of the town, just past a large dance club called the Boot Skoot. Though it’s early in the day tobe drinking, it’s open and there are cars in the parking lot, but none of them are Tripp’s truck. Apparently, he’d parked it at the opposite side of town near the park. When we walk inside, the hole-in-the-wall bar isn’t much more impressive on the inside than it is out, the walls covered with weird stickers and ripped one dollar bills everyone seems to have taped there. Some of them have stuff written on them. Others look like they’ve been there for decades.

Tripp sits at the bar, his head on his folded arms. His eyes are closed, and he looks like he’s sleeping.

“’Bout time y’all got here,” the bartender says when he sees Beau and Ram. “Your boy came in here and downed almost a whole bottle of whiskey in ten minutes. He passed out about five minutes ago. Figured I’d leave him there until either of you two showed up or he woke up.”

“Thanks, Rick,” Ram says, slapping a hundred dollar bill on the bar. “Tip for your troubles.”

“Much appreciated,” he says, sliding the hundred away. “You three take care now.”

Ram and Beau each grab an arm and wrap it around their shoulders before they lift Tripp from the barstool. His eyes open from the movement and he groans as they move him away from the bar. Together, we make our way down the sidewalk, picking the street opposite the farmer’s market, but we can’t escape the looks of those we pass anyways. No one looks surprised, which makes me wonder how often Tripp gets black out drunk at the Rusty Spur.

The park comes into view, and I get a good look at the large bronze statue in the middle of it. It’s a large bull, a man riding it, his arm in the air in the proper position as the bull bucks.

Tripp’s head lolls. “You proud now, grandpa?” he mumbles to the statue. “You fuckin’ bastard.”

His head tips back and he slumps like a sack of potatoes, Beau and Ram having to adjust him to keep their hold. I glance from him to the statue as they go to help him into the backseat of the truck. The statue is larger than life, imposing, and though it’s in bronze, I know if it had color, those eyes would be bright blue and angry. I know that I’d see that exact same anger down through the entire bloodline.

After all, pain travels through families until someone is ready to feel it.

Chapter 40

Indie

Tripp is passed out cold in his room, dead to the world while he sleeps off the bottle of whiskey. Ram left a few minutes ago under the guise of helping his mom load up the market table and make sure she’s prepared for the blizzard that’s supposedly heading toward Wyoming this very moment. Beau and I are sitting on the couch, me with my laptop open as I type away an article about the cute town of Steele and its ability to birth famous people while Beau lounges behind me. Apparently, Valerie Decatur is even from here. I had no idea.

I finish the short paragraphs and close my laptop, sighing. “So what do we do now?” I ask, glancing over at Beau where he scratches with a knife on the back of his lighter. I can’t see what he’s doing from here.

He flashes a grin at me. “Are you finished working?”

Nodding, I sit back on the couch. “Yep. Figured I’d get that out real quick while it’s fresh in my mind.”

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