19. Bishop

At the sharprap on my door, I take a deep breath. It could be any of the ranch hands, but my gut tells me it's Porter.

My instincts prove right when I pull open the door to see him standing there. "Wade says you were looking for me?"

My stomach tightens. I wonder if I was too impulsive earlier, searching for him after we agreed to cool it for a bit. But he's never more than a stone's throw away in my thoughts, and the itch under my skin to be around him keeps growing.

"I just…wondered if you wanted to get out of here. Go into town and grab some dinner?" I look away because it's a reckless idea and he no doubt knows it too.

"Well, damn." His gaze presses in on me. "Has our boss-employee arrangement extended to sharing meals together?"

"Thought your knees deserved a break after today," I tease, reminding him of his promise offhandedly. "But forget I asked. You probably already ate."

"Actually, I didn't." He shifts from one foot to the other like he's nervous. "I like the idea of going into town."

"Is that why you have your guitar?" I motion to his case. "Were you planning a trip to Buck's again?"

He blinks. "I…don't rightly know. Just had the urge to reach for it since it's been a few days."

"Makes sense. Playing seems to ground you."

"It does." He bites his lower lip. "I'm starving. And a guy can always eat…boss."

"How about just Bishop and Porter? I've had enough boss this and boss that today to last me awhile." I breathe out. "I was thinking about the old village tavern."

His eyes light up. "That's still around?"

"Sure is. Doesn't attract the crowds it used to, which I like. A little dated, but it's quiet, and they have decent food."

The tavern is located in the older part of Laurel Springs. Hoping to attract more tourists and generate revenue for the town, the tavern had opened well before new businesses started cropping up in the center of town. The new storefronts worked as a draw for a little while, but there's nothing much else to do around here, unless you like hiking, camping, and pretty mountain views.

"Sounds good to me, S—Bishop."

I smile at him almost using his nickname for me, and fuck if I don't wish he still would. "I'll leave first to get a head start. You follow in a bit. Meet you there in say, twenty minutes?"

Porter agrees, then turns and heads toward the stables. I grab my keys and pad to my truck, hoping not to be detected by anyone. It's true that it's been quite a day, so a nice meal with an old friend sounds perfect to me. And Porter is the first person I thought of.

Twenty minutes later, I'm at a booth in the dimly lit space and have already ordered a beer.

As the seconds tick by, I consider that Porter might flake on me, but could I blame him? He might've thought it through and decided it wasn't such a good idea.

But when the wooden door creaks open and in walks Porter Dixon, some new dents in that chip on his shoulder, I breathe out in relief.

I act like his presence is a surprise and wave him over as he's ordering a beer at the bar. No one pays us any attention except for the owner, who still mans the bar and must be in his sixties by now.

Porter smirks at me. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Sure is." I wink. "Have a seat."

"Sounds good," he replies, settling across from me. "Sullivan Ranch worked me hard today. Probably still smell like manure."

I crack a smile. "Then we all do. Nobody said working a ranch was easy."

"Tell me about it," Porter says as his beer is served. "But I keep going back for more, year after year."

"That's 'cause it's in your blood."

Porter's lips turn down a moment, but then he lifts his drink. "Cheers to that!"

We clink glasses, then grow silent as we study our menus. We end up ordering burgers and fries with some wings for appetizers.

The conversation flows as we discuss our day on the ranch. It feels as comfortable with Porter as it always did, but also different. Either because we're adults now, or because we're done burning bridges. Or a combination of both.

Once we're served our food, the conversation turns to our childhood on the ranch. "Remember that time Wade came upon us skipping stones at the stream?" Porter wipes the wing sauce from his mouth, and I can't help watching him lick his lips.

"He'd just missed us being buck naked in the water." My cock stirs at the memory. As does my heart. "Christ, there were plenty of near misses like that. Shoulda pretended to take up fishing as a hobby and brought some rods with us."

"Oh, we definitely brought our rods. Let them think for us too." He huffs out a laugh, and it's contagious. "How long you reckon Wade's known about us?"

"Good question. Not much gets past him."

"Who knows how many secrets that man's got," Porter muses, and it reminds me how lucky we are to have him. And for so long.

"That's why I'm trying not to step on his toes when it comes to Randy. He knows the score. Addiction's no joke. I might be reaching, but that seems likely in Randy's case."

"Don't I know it," Porter mutters, and I frown because he's probably thinking about his father and how bad it got with him. He didn't talk about it often, but when he did, his pain was obvious. The truth is, Porter's a survivor, though he may not see it that way. It's one of the things I admire about him. Even if he can be a stubborn ass sometimes.

"So what's the deal with Randy, anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"What's underneath the simmering anger?" he asks around another sip of beer. "Seems he's had it out for me since I arrived on the ranch."

I wince. "For one, you seem to have a natural connection with Pixie. He loves her and would never intentionally harm her, but there's more tension between them now, which isn't fair to her."

"Makes sense." Porter stares off in the distance as if considering his own relationship with his father. "And what's the other?"

"Huh?"

"You said for one, so there's got to be more of an explanation than alcohol and envy fueling it."

"At this point I'm speculating." I shove a fry in my mouth and chew it as I gather my thoughts. "No way Randy would ever admit it out loud. Sour grapes and all."

"Admit what?"

"That he can't give Pixie the one thing she's always wanted—besides a sober father."

His eyebrows knit together. "A horse of her own?"

"Bingo! She loves competing—it's in her blood, same as her grandfather. Mom and Dad encouraged her to use Willow for the events this past spring, and she did well. But competitions require training and money. My parents considered offering her the mare since she's developed such a bond with Willow, but I talked them out of it. I know a proud man when I see one, and he seems to have a knack for holding grudges."

Porter averts his eyes, and I wonder if he can relate to Randy—at least in the stubbornness and holding grudges department.

"Randy would've crumbled under the upkeep fees and riding schedule. Now that Pixie's back in school and she's only around afterward and on the weekends, it takes some of the pressure off him. But the fact remains that Randy doesn't have the natural ability or temperament to train horses, let alone own one that competes. But he wishes he did. For Pixie."

"And here I show up at the ranch, and I'm allowed to work with a wild mustang," Porter replies absently, as if putting all the puzzle pieces together.

"He's not only jealous of your connection with Pixie, but of your innate skills."

"Well, damn, when you put it like that, I kinda feel sorry for the guy," Porter says. "But I'm also not gonna make excuses and stop being who I am just 'cause it gets under his skin."

"Would never expect you to." I drain my glass. "Plus, you've grown fond of Pixie. We all have and want the best for her."

Porter doesn't deny it, only says, "Probably should watch my back, though."

I grimace. Sure, the men argue and give each other shit, but this is different. "If he comes after you, puts his hands on you, I won't wait for Wade or my dad. I'll send him packing."

He shrugs. "Sometimes a good knock-down-drag-out is necessary. Been in my share of 'em."

I smirk. "Oh, I've heard enough stories to know you have."

He wipes his hands, then scoots out of the booth. "Gonna use the john."

While he's gone, the owner removes our empty plates. I motion toward the small makeshift stage, next to the jukebox with the Out of Order sign on it. "You still showcase live music?"

He frowns and looks away. "Not so often anymore."

Well, shit, that's a damn shame.

"I happen to know a guy here with a guitar." At least I hope he brought it. "Do you mind?"

"Have at it," he says over his shoulder as he shuffles away. "Would be a welcome change."

I'm grinning when Porter returns to the booth. "Uh-oh. What are you up to?"

"Still have your guitar with you?"

"Yeah, left it in my truck. Why?"

"I just got you a gig." I motion toward the stage. "It's not paid, but still, I'd love to hear you play again."

He bites his bottom lip, considering the idea, then sinks down in the booth. "Nah, I'm good."

"Aw, come on." I lean toward him. "I figure it's either you play a set, or you finally tell me why you skipped town all those years ago."

He thumps the table and stands. "No contest there. Be right back."

I laugh as I call after him, "I'll order us another round."

There're not many people in the bar when Porter drags a chair over to the stage. He plugs in the small speaker and the cable from the dusty mic stand, then starts plucking on the strings. A quick glance around tells me most are enjoying the familiar country ballad. Familiar song or not, hearing Porter play again is exciting, but this time is a bit different than in front of the fire and at Buck's. He looks serene, relaxed, which in turn makes the atmosphere feel cozy, like putting on a pair of warm, fuzzy socks.

Plus, I like watching him, how he shuts his eyes on certain notes and seems to tune out everything around him. The mic stand is sitting low to pick up the guitar, but when he starts humming, my eyes spring to his lips as his head moves, his knee jiggling in time with the refrain.

His lids closed, the humming turns to singing, and I couldn't look away even if I tried. His voice doesn't carry much over the guitar, and he likely prefers it that way, but damn if I don't hang on every single word. That deep, husky tone makes the hair rise on the nape of my neck.

When he finally opens his eyes, his gaze latches on to mine. It's like he's seeing me but looking right through me at the same time. Like he's living the song, feeling the touching words, which just so happen to be about long-lost lovers. Christ, if there was ever a moment when I could melt under someone's intense gaze, it's right here and now.

And suddenly I want to know more than anything why he never said goodbye.