Page 15 of Untamed Heart
My thin city mac wasn’t going to cut it here. Neither were these trainers. I sighed. Always the interloper.
Gradually the number of buildings increased on either side of the road, the traffic picking up from a handful of cars to a steady stream. As if in deference to the mountains beyond, everything was squat, the buildings made of wood or occasionally stone. The tallest features were the towering spruce trees, clumped together at intervals down the main street, a perpetual reminder of the winter season. A large family stood outside the Jackson Museum, a small blonde girl imitating the pose of the bronze cowboy statue, Slim, whilst someone took a picture. I’d done the same thing a lifetime ago, the photo now stored in the stack of oversized albums my mum treasured.
Memories slid over and around me at every turn until we arrived at the antler arch, just across the road from the Cowboy, Jackson’s infamous honkytonk bar. Lil and I had once gone there and monopolized the rodeo bull for an entire afternoon. I could hardly stand the next day.
I’d loved it.
The taxi driver slowed to a stop and I stared out at the main square, sudden overwhelm hitting me squarely in the chest. ‘Y’all set?’ he asked as I paid the fare, then we said our goodbyes and I stepped out onto the sidewalk. As the taxi drove away, stirring the cold air around me, with just a small roll-on at my feet and my handbag on my shoulder, what I felt was entirely different to what I’d expected.
How the hell had I got myself into this? I wasn’t free, I was alone. Had been alone for a long time, in fact. Swallowing back a sudden surge of emotion and shivering as my thin jacket failed to stand up to the mountain air, I opened my phone and tapped in the number I’d copied over from the ranch website. As it rang, butterflies stirred, fluttering madly in my gut. What if she said no?
‘Howdy, you’ve reached the Diamond Back. We’re likely roping some cows or out back somewhere, so just go ahead and leave a message. We’ll call you back after sundown.’
The sound of her voice, the deep, warm Wyoming twang shaping each word, made me want to smile, even as guilt jabbed me in the gut. I should’ve made more space for Lil in my life, but thanks to my obsession with good grades at school, uni and then work, I’d made space for nothing but my own ambition. My words froze in my throat. I couldn’t just announce my arrival on her voicemail. I hung up, unsure.
The Cowboy Bar beckoned, warmth and smiling faces visible inside even from where I was standing. But it was too full of tourists, who were likely to want to strike up a conversation, inevitably forcing me to explain why I was here and . . . I shook my head. A drink would be welcome, though; maybe I could stay one night here in town and then I’d pluck up the courage to call Lil or just turn up tomorrow. Not now. Not this full of jet lag and regret.
Practical brain taking over, I spent a short while checking in to the motel just up the main street, anticipating the need for sleep and requesting a late check-out. The room was surprisingly nice, with cosy touches and a vast, soft bed that part of me wanted to crawl right into. But the other part, the bigger part, felt too cold and alone to sit in a room by myself. So, back outside, I headed towards a smaller bar I’d seen just off the main street. There were no tourists outside, and as I took one of the only free seats at the bar, I realized I was one of the few people here not wearing a cowboy hat and shirt.
‘Whiskey sour,’ I ordered as the barman nodded at me, no friendly greeting, his tired eyes glancing over my clothes. Maybe it was the hard, London-honed look I gave him in response, but he made no comment and got to making the drink.
Rubbing my eyes, I glanced around. The vibe was understated but lively, all the tables in the main area taken, laughter and conversation buzzing, groups of people standing round the edges and the occasional glance at the stage where a band was setting up.
My drink appeared and I paid, the barman moving on without a word. The relief at avoiding small talk was almost as good as the first sip. The whiskey was deep and smoky, just how it should be. Swirling the contents for a moment, I employed the same fuck-it decision-making technique as I had on the tube – and downed it.
It burnt my throat, my eyes watering in response.
‘Another?’ the barman said, now eyeing me with interest as he dried a tumbler, both of us sensing where this was going.
‘Neat this time. Ice.’
The guy on the stool to my right turned for a moment, eyes narrowed as though he couldn’t quite make me out.
‘Rough day?’ he asked, his voice gravelled, his eyes beginning to glaze.
‘Yep,’ I replied, looking over to the barman and watching as he poured out a measure.
‘New in town?’
‘Nope,’ I said, taking the glass from the barman as he passed it over.
The barman glanced at the guy and they shared a look.
I turned towards the stage, keeping my back to them, and nursed the drink, watching the band prep. A small group in the corner, closest to the stage, burst into fits of laughter. The ringleader was telling a story – a good one, judging by their reactions. Only one of them wasn’t joining in, a small smile playing on his lips. Like everyone else, he was in standard-issue cowboy kit – bootcut blue jeans, a plaid button-down shirt and dark cowboy hat. But the way he wore them was . . . different. He was hot, model hot. Almost as though he’d heard my thoughts, he glanced up, revealing a face to match.
I looked away, refocusing on the band for a moment, but as I felt his eyes still on me, I knocked back the rest of the drink and turned to order another.
Out of nowhere, I was hit by thoughts of Kyle, replaying the moments he’d arrived home with that woman. The way my stomach had fallen away, a landslide of hopelessness giving way to a void. Hiding in the shadows whilst the truth blinded me, the intimate gestures between them, the key to his house already in her bag.
‘You want anything to eat?’ the barman said, raising his voice as the band started up. He pushed a glass of water next to my drink.
I shook my head, feeling the gentle spin of the room as I did so. Everything had become softened, edges removed from the sounds, my thoughts. As I listened to the music, people began to gather in front of the stage, and I tried as hard as I could to sink into a state of nothing.
Except, with every song about heartbreak and loss, which was most of them, a creeping anger began to grow. On the surface it was directed towards Kyle and every futile fucking feeling I’d had for him, but it grew to cover my job, even my dad for pushing me so hard to become the success he so desperately wanted me to be. But mainly it was directed at myself, for failing at all of it. So when the band took a break after their first set and a bunch of new people flooded the bar, I felt like a coiled cobra, ready to rip into the first thing that came close.
‘Say, you new here? The Cowboy Bar’s right round the corner.’ A new guy had hopped onto the stool to my right, the one on my left still free.
‘You don’t say,’ I replied, gripping my glass, my eyes fixed on the ice inside.
