Page 7 of Promised to the Cowboy

“Thank you.”

“She spent her life drifting from one place to another. Never willing to stay still long enough to build anything.”

“My mother built plenty.”

“Sentiment isn’t the same as achievement.”

I grip the edge of the bar. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes.” His voice doesn’t change. “I’ll transfer fifty thousand into your account if you attend the dinner.”

My stomach churns. He’s offered me money before, but never this much. “I don’t want your money.”

“Everyone wants my money.”

“Not everyone,” I say quietly. “I don’t.”

Silence.

“You’ll come back eventually. You’re my heir, Evangeline.”

I think about every fundraiser, every awards dinner, every smiling photograph where I stood beside him while strangers complimented what a devoted father he was.

Every time I told myself maybe this one would be different. Maybe afterward we’d have dinner. Maybe he’d ask how I was.

He never did.

And I suddenly accept that there is no other version of this story. There never was.

“I’m not coming back.”

“Don’t be childish.”

“I’m done,Father.”

I end the call before he can answer. For a long moment, I sit there staring at my phone.

The Honey Pot hums around me. Glasses clink. Someone laughs too loudly.

The whole world keeps moving as though mine hasn’t just changed lanes.

I open my contacts. My thumb hovers over his name.Block caller.One tap. That’s all it would take.

I press it. The screen asks if I’m sure. For the first time, I don’t hesitate.

The name disappears.

I let out a shaky breath. No more waiting. No more hoping. No more wondering if today might finally be the day he decides to be my father. That little girl doesn’t get to live inside me anymore. She’s waited long enough.

I slide my phone back into my pocket.

I won’t fall apart in public. That’s a rule. But I had rules the night I met Gabriel, and look at how that went.

The jukebox switches over to something with a steel guitar in it, slow and old, a song about a man who let a good thing leave.

“Okay,” I say out loud to the napkin, to Emmett’s back, to my mother’s ring, to the whole ridiculous situation. “Okay.”

I leave too much money on the table. Fold the napkin into my pocket—proof I came this far. On the way out, Emmett catches my eye at the door. Lifts his chin once, the way you’d send a horse out of the chute.