Lost and Lassoed

Chapter 1

Teddy

Nothing said “Good morning” like the smell of stale cigarettes and spilled beer. Walking into the Devil’s Boot at night was one thing; honestly, it was one of my favorite things. But during the day, it was an assault on the senses. I could almost feel the ghosts of bad decisions clinging to my suede jacket (cream-­colored, vintage, covered in fringe, totally adorable yet badass).

So why was I walking into Wyoming’s dingiest dive bar at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning? Because my best friend had asked me to, and there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her.

Emmy Ryder and I had been friends since birth—­almost literally. My dad started working on her family’s ranch when I was only a few months old and Emmy was only a couple of months older than me. My first memory is of the two of us jumping over one of the narrower parts of the stream that cuts through Rebel Blue Ranch. We went back and forth over and over again until Emmy slipped and fell into the water. I can still hear the splash and the clattering of river rocks that accompanied it. Her ankle swelled up like a balloon almost immediately—­even at five or six, I knew that that was not what an ankle should look like. I helped her out of the stream, and she leaned on me the whole way home.

We’ve been leaning on each other ever since.

Her fiancé, Luke Brooks, was the owner of the Devil’s Boot. He’d inherited it from his dad a few years ago, and he was actually kicking ass as its proprietor. Brooks had a lot of dreams for the bar. His biggest one was installing a mechanical bull—­no, I’m not kidding—­which is why I was about to spend my Sunday sifting through boxes and sweeping up layers of thirty-­year-­old dust and grime and God knows what else to clear the way for it.

I didn’t mind, though. Plus, I kind of owed him, considering I’d kicked him out of his and Emmy’s bed last night so she and I could have a sleepover.

Emmy and Brooks were standing at the bar talking with their heads close together. I’d left their house earlier to grab us some coffees and give them some alone time, which they’d probably used to have sex in the shower—­horny little shits.

Sometimes I wanted to get a spray bottle so I could squirt them—­you know, the way you do with a cat or a dog when it’s misbehaving—­when their public displays of affection got a little too intense.

But Emmy and Brooks were made for each other, and I loved them both. A lot. I loved Emmy more, obviously, but Luke Brooks had grown on me over the past couple of years. It was a beautiful thing to watch your best friend be loved in the way you know she deserves.

“Coffee’s here,” I said, announcing my presence.

Emmy turned to me. “Oh, thank god, you’re a hero.” She was wearing the tank top I got her for her birthday—­it said luke pillows right across her boobs—­and a pair of black leggings.

It occurred to me that I was overdressed for a day of cleaning out the Devil’s Boot’s second floor—­Wranglers, black tank top, and the jacket, obviously. But I liked clothes, the way I felt when I put together an outfit I liked, and I really liked this one. Clothes were like armor, and armor would be needed if a certain older brother of Emmy’s was going to show up today.

Not Wes. I loved Wes.

I handed over her cup, which she took gratefully. She curled her fingers around it and took a sip. The diamond-­studded gold band that now adorned her left ring finger glinted in the light. She looked at the cardboard drink holder I was carrying. It had two more cups in it—­an iced brown sugar latte for me and a black coffee for Brooks.

Emmy arched a brow at me. “Funny,” she said, “I remember asking you to grab a cup for Gus, too.”

“Huh,” I said with a shrug. “Must’ve forgot.” Gus was Emmy’s oldest brother, Brooks’s best friend, and, most important, my archnemesis.

Small towns wove complicated webs.

It wasn’t that I hated Gus . . . well . . . actually, scratch that. I did kind of hate him. I don’t remember how it started (that’s a lie, but it’s not important). Mostly, I just always felt like he didn’t like me, so I didn’t like him, and then it spiraled into our being delightfully mean to each other all the time.

He was just so . . . grumpy. Men who are that good-­looking should not be allowed to be such assholes. It was false advertising.

And he was getting worse with age.

Emmy sighed. “How do we feel about trying to be nice today?” she asked.

“Not great,” I said. Brooks laughed from his spot at the bar. I walked over to him and handed him his cup. He lifted it in a “Cheers” motion.

“Thanks, Ted,” he said. “Gus won’t be here for a little bit, so you’ve got time to prep your verbal arsenal.”

“See?” I said, looking at Emmy. “He gets it.”

Emmy shot Brooks a pointed look, but he just winked at her. I watched her soften a little. “I just thought it would be nice if our best man and maid of honor didn’t hate each other,” she said. The words “maid of honor” sent a little pang through my sternum.

Of course, I was thrilled to be Emmy’s maid of honor. I was excited about her wedding, her life, everything. But sometimes, when the topic of the wedding came up, I got sad. Not inconsolable or anything, but it felt like my happiness for my best friend and my sadness for myself were both staking claim in my chest, punching each other as hard as they could to see who would get knocked out first.

It was a reminder that we were in different phases of our lives, and it scared me. Emmy had always needed me. We were each other’s number one. Now she had Brooks, and I was terrified that she wouldn’t need me the way she used to—­that she wouldn’t need me the way I needed her anymore.

“Then maybe Brooks should pick a best man that isn’t so hateable.” I shrugged and looked over at him. “She’s got two brothers, you know.”

All he did was smile and say “Noted.”

Emmy sighed and moved on. She tried to get Gus and me to get along a couple of times a month. It never worked, but I admired her persistence. My best friend never gave up. She directed my attention to a piece of paper on the bar where she and Brooks had laid out a checklist for the day. The goal was simple: Get all the trash out of the second floor and move anything that was to be saved to the basement.

Brooks and Gus would take the basement, which was okay with me because that place was straight out of a horror movie, and I wasn’t really in the mood to get possessed by a demon today. Unless it was a hot demon—­then I could be persuaded. Emmy and I would take the second floor. Brooks’s eventual plan was to put a smaller bar and new seating up there and remove some of the seating on the first floor to make room for the mechanical bull.

Once we were armed with garbage bags, gloves, and cleaning supplies, Emmy and I started toward the rickety stairs that led to the second floor of the Devil’s Boot. At that moment, the back door to the bar opened and Gus Ryder sauntered in. I could feel my blood pressure rising.

He was wearing a tight faded blue T-­shirt, gray joggers, and a Carhartt baseball cap. His dark brown hair was longer than I’d seen it in quite a while. Last year, he had started sporting a mustache instead of the short, neatly trimmed beard he’d adopted in his twenties. The mustache was still going strong, and even though I thought it looked good on him, the first thing out of my mouth was “Hey, pornstache. Nice of you to join us.”

“F*** off, Theodora,” he said without even glancing my way. His voice was bored. The way he said my full name made me grind my teeth.

“Did you steal that shirt out of Riley’s closet?” I asked, gesturing to his tight blue shirt. Riley was Gus’s six-­year-­old daughter, and the way his shirt was hugging his chest and biceps, it looked small enough to be hers.

“You know,” he said, finally throwing his emerald eyes toward me, “the way you’re ogling me is making me uncomfortable.”