Page 62 of Unruly

His voice booms loudly as he tells anyone within earshot about Ben—how the old man taught him to rope at age six, how the ranch feels wrong without him.

Then, it circles back to me. “She’s the best part of this town. Ben knew it—hell, everyone knows it.”

I steer him toward a stool at the quieter end, my hand steady on his arm. His skin burns warm under my fingers, tension coiled tight. I slide a glass of water in front of him, again.

“I’ll take a whiskey now.”

“No, Cash, you’re cut off. All you’re getting is water. Sober the fuck up.”

Realizing that this is about to become a problem, I shoot off a text to Colt.

He responds immediately.

Me:

Colt. I need you now. Dawson and Makai dropped Cash off. He’s so fucking drunk. I can’t manage him and the bar.

Colt:

On my way. Might be forty minutes, though.

Fuck me.

It isn’t even thirty minutes after I get Cash seated and situated, and texted Colt, that I hear this asshole’s voice. “Round for the house! For Grandpa Ben!”

He’s standing again, swaying, using the bar’s edge to hold him up as he holds a beer in his other hand.

How the fuck did he get one of those?

“Cash Thornwood, you’re cut off. Drop that fucking beer. Now,” I say firmly.

“C’mon. Don’t be a bitch; let him have a beer!” someone shouts out.

Cash’s eyes narrow on the someone—Travis, a younger ranch hand who’s had one too many himself. “What’d you say?”

Travis lifts his hands. “Nothing, man⁠—”

Cash swings fast. The crack of fist on jaw echoes, and chaos bursts out with chairs toppling and shouts rising. Travis stumbles back, blood on his lip.

I lunge between them, palms flat on Cash’s chest, pushing with all my strength, almost getting hit. “Stop it!” My heart pounds against my ribs. “Not in my fucking bar.”

He blinks at me, rage flickering into confusion. “Halle … everything’s spinning.”

I apologize to Travis, comp his tab, and promise the guys will handle it. A couple of older patrons pull Travis aside, calming the tension. No one wants real violence after burying Ben.

I turn back to Cash, now slumped against the bar, knuckles split and bleeding.

I grab a clean rag and wet it, to clean his knuckles off.

I can’t do this alone.

Grabbing my phone, I dial Colt, pressing it to my ear while keeping one eye on Cash, who’s swaying in the seat. He answers on the second ring.

“Where the fuck are you?!” I yell into the phone.

“Pulling in now.”

Colt strides in soon after, boots heavy on the floorboards. He’s changed since the funeral, but you can tell the day has exhausted him just as much as the rest of us. He spots Cash immediately and crosses over to talk to him.