Page 1 of Peaches

CHAPTERONE

RHETT

Cigarette smoke curls around from the back patio to where I stand, digging my driver’s license out of my wallet. Spurs only opened a few months ago, but by the looks of the line forming behind me, it’s doing well. The fact there’s even a bouncer scanning IDs at all is telling—most bars around here don’t give two shits about who comes in, so long as they have money to burn. It’s probably the most “hip” thing to come to this part of Texas since . . . well, ever.

A grumble climbs my throat when I step through the door and see how packed it is—so much for trying to take the edge off. I’ve got half a mind to get back on my bike and ride the fuck out of here, but I promised Colt I’d meet him tonight. I haven’t seen him in months.

Dozens of people crowd the bar, shouting their drink orders over the blaring music. Chris Stapleton’s “White Horse”pounds through the speakers so hard I can feel it pulse against my chest. At least it’s not that hokey shit they’ve been playing on country radio lately.

I spot Colt at a high-top against the wall, his face shadowed beneath a wide-brimmed cowboy hat that looks new, eyes glued to a group of girls jumping around on the dusted dance floor. Their skin is a kaleidoscope of color from the dozens of neon lights hung on the far wall, like some sort of poor man’s art show, and Colt’s hooked in. A few have danced their skirts up their thighs and almost disappeared them altogether—his type to a tee.

“Don’t be a perv,” I mutter as I slide onto the leather stool opposite Colt.

His eyes bounce from the girls to me, his grin widening, and he reaches over the table for a one-armed hug. “Bennett,” he says warmly. “Always a party-pooper. Good to see you, man.”

I shake out of the embrace and straighten my jacket. “The fuck is this place?”

He gestures around with both tattooed hands as if presenting a gift. “Every country boy’s dream,” he declares. “Cheap beer and hot girls.”

I huff out an unamused laugh. “God, you’re dense.”

“Says the fella who walked out of the bar I last saw him in with not one buttwohot girls on his arm.” He flips his pointer and middle fingers up for effect, then finishes off the dramatics with an eyebrow raise.

The memory of the two barrel racers we met at the Foxborough rodeo earlier this year sparks to life, and I force a shrug. “Nothing special.” It was the truth: nothing happened with either of them. A long afternoon in the heat led to cooling off with some ice-cold beers at a nearby saloon. We’d all had way too much to drink, and when we got to the parking lot, one of them started crying about missing home in Cheyenne. Her friend took that as a cue to shuffle them both into a cab. All that to say, drunk girls’ emotions could turn on a dime, and I tried not to make a habit of sleeping around, despite what Colt—and everyone else, really—seemed to think. I don’t care enough about it to correct him. “How you been?” I ask instead.

He leans back against the wall, bright eyes bouncing around the bar. Always on the hunt. I swear, the world could be ending, and this fucker would still be looking for the right girl to end it with. “Good, man. Got a cattle run to get through next week . . . Moving the herd out to the neighbor’s pasture down south.”

“Need help?” I don’t have a lot of experience with cattle, but Colt knows I’m good on a horse.

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Dad called in the cavalry—my uncles and cousins are coming in from San Antonio on Tuesday.”

“All right.” I nod. Colt’s dad has been running cattle for nearly forty years. He met my dad when they were both in their twenties. Back then the local bar scene was even smaller than it is today and stories of bar fights crossed county lines, turning them into the stuff of legends. Amos and Dad did a stint in jail together after taking on a biker club in Dallas. When they got out, they started an illegal gambling ring that Colt and his brothers still keep alive almost thirty years later.

I got in deep with it a few years back, and when Kasey found out, he cold-cocked me in the hay barn. That punch had felt like a train barreling into my face, and I remember spending the rest of those frosty pre-dawn hours seriously wondering how the fuck life had landed me there.

Needless to say, he’d threatened to tell the rest of the family if I didn’t quit. It took a while to pay Colt back what I owed, but I got it done with a few months’ worth of bar tips. I don’t think Kasey ever found out that Brooks was a part of it too, but that’s not my business.

Actually, I’m not certain Brooks ever really stopped.

“How’s the family?” Colt asks, and immediately my stomach tightens.

“Been better,” I say honestly. “Melody’s sick.”

Colt turns to face me. “Shit, how bad?”

“Not good. Doc says it’s cancer—Brooks is really torn up.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” I nod. Life at home has been chaotic these last couple of months. Melody’s cancer is complicated enough that it took a long time for anyone to realize what it was, so they got a late start on fighting it.

With Brooks so focused on her and the boys, Kasey and I are practically running things at both the ranch and Wild Coyote. Wells has stepped up a lot too, but he’s only home so much. Rodeo’s been keeping him busy as hell, and no one has the heart to ask him to slow down—not after all the shit he’s been through in the past year, losing his best friend and love for football in one fell swoop.

“I’m sorry,” Colt replies with a level of sincerity that’s rare coming from him. “Anything I can do to help?”

“We’re managing. But I appreciate it.”

He nods. “You know I’m there in a heartbeat, brother. If you ever need anything, just say the word.”

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