Chapter 1

Henry

Red lights flashed in Henry's rearview mirror. Then came the impatient-sounding siren. Whoop. Whoop. Whoop.

They're playing our song, his best friend Eric used to say, 'cause they were stopped so often. The memory made Henry smile, but only for a second. This wasn't funny. He hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't been speeding. Well, not by much. And he was anxious to get to the ranch. The weather was fine and the day was a-wastin'. He'd promised Joshua he'd take Ranger out for a trail ride today. The horse needed some more saddle hours before he could be trusted with paying customers. Now this.

He pulled over. The cop got out of the black-and-gold Sheriff's Department SUV. It was Sheriff Preston himself. Of course it was. Henry gritted his teeth. At least he'd been pulled over on a country road and not in town. Still, if Henry knew Clyde's Corner, there'd sure as shit be someone who drove past and spread the word. By nightfall, the rumor mill would claim Henry had been caught drunk driving. Or with drugs. Or having hit-and-run a gaggle of orphans. Or whatever else the gossips felt like inventing today.

A bad reputation was like a deep, funky odor. Even when you'd taken the source out to the trash, the smell lingered.

The sheriff took his sweet time moseying over—just to be irritating. He finally sauntered up to the window, with his brimmed sheriff hat and mirrored shades. Preston was in decent shape for a guy in his, what, 40s? Not bad looking. Shame he was such an enormous burr under Henry's saddle.

"Your license and registration," Preston said flatly.

"You saw 'em just last week."

"License and registration," Preston barked, louder.

Henry huffed and took the registration from the glove compartment. He handed it over with his driver's license. Preston studied them as if he hadn't been busting Henry since that firecracker incident in tenth grade. As if Henry hadn't been driving this same dang red pickup truck for four years now. Henry tried to look bored.

Preston handed them back. "You were going six miles over the speed limit."

Six miles, huh? Well fuck you. Everyone does it. The old Henry would have said that. But today, Henry swallowed it down. "Sorry," he muttered.

Preston stuck his head in and took a good look around the inside of Henry's cab. But he didn't have an open beer—hell, it was only noon. Henry kept his hands on the wheel and his gaze straight ahead.

"Where you goin'?" Preston asked.

"To the Merc to grab lunch, then to Muddy River Ranch. Workin' today."

"Uh-huh. On a Sunday." Preston said it like he didn't believe it. As if Henry would have a reason to lie.

"Horses don't give a f—… a fig if it's Sunday."

Preston scratched his forehead with his thumb, which pushed back his brown hat a mite. "You know, seein' as how both your parents left town, I reckoned you might, too, Henry."

Henry's temper sparked. You'd love that, wouldn't you? Yeah, that would make the sheriff's goddamn year, getting rid of all the troublemaking Atkins. He shook his head. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I've got a job, and I'm rather partial to the fly fishin' in this area. I'm not goin' anywhere."

Preston's eyes narrowed. "Heard you'd been seen at the river some mornin's. If fishin' is really what you're doin' out there."

Henry just stared straight ahead. What the fuck else would he be doing standing in the middle of the river with a rod? Dealing drugs to the fish? If he wanted to get stoned, he could do it in his own damn trailer. Not to mention the fact that he didn't do that shit anymore. Not that Preston would ever believe that.

Preston's nose twitched. "You got a fishin' license?"

"Yeah, I gotta license. Full season. 'Spose you wanna see it."

Henry reached for his wallet again, but Preston took a step back. "No, I don't. I'm not Fish and Game. I do have something I want to say to you though. Henry Atkins."

Henry Atkins. Preston spit the name out as if it were a bite of potato salad that had gone off. "Ben and Joshua… They're good people."

"I know that."

Preston shook his head, his expression disgusted. "Don't know why they hired you on out there. Especially after what you done, telling the whole town about Ben doing that porn thing in Vegas. Guess they're a whole lot more forgivin' than I'd ever be."

He stared at Henry, as if expecting an answer.

"They needed someone," Henry said gruffly. "And Joshua says I'm good with the horses." And I applied for the job, hat in hand, and apologized for what I done. But the sheriff didn't need to know that. That was between him and Ben.

Preston leaned one arm on the window. "Just know that I'm watching you, son. You put one foot wrong—just one, Henry—and I'll be on you like flies on horseshit."

It took a bully to recognize a bully. Henry had both been a bully, and he'd been at the business end of the stick wielded by men far ornerier and more dangerous than Sheriff Preston. So he just smiled.

"Aw, get the hell out of my sight, Henry!" Preston banged a hand on the side of his truck and walked away.

"Thanks for the encouragement, sheriff. 'Preciate it," Henry said sarcastically. But Preston was too far away to hear.

Henry fumed all the way to town. He was still mad when he pulled up in front of the Mercantile—Clyde's Corner's only grocery store—and got out. Goddamn sheriff. Goddamn town. They probably'd all be happy if he just picked up and left. They sure hadn't shed any tears when his mom and dad went. But then, neither had Henry.

Trailer park trash. Hoodlum. Bad apple from a rotten tree. He'd heard it all. And yeah, maybe he'd been an angry kid, and an angry teen. And maybe he'd taken that anger out on others sometimes. But he was trying to be better.

His mom had finally found a backbone and escaped his dad—moving down to Florida to live with Aunt Karen in her big house after Uncle Bill died. Too bad she hadn't managed to find the courage to leave while Henry had been little, when he needed her to stand up against the abuse. After she'd left, his dad, claiming he was finally free, drove up to Alaska to work on a fishing boat, 'cause his favorite show was Deadliest Catch. He'd lasted about a hot minute before realizing it was too hard, and now he worked at a grocery store up there. Good fucking riddance to the old bastard. Henry still couldn't think about his old man without feeling sick.

Probably Preston figured Henry was like his old man. He'd been out to their trailer for DV calls more times than Henry could count. But Henry wasn't his father. No one around here understood just how much he was not like his father.

Last year, a whole bunch of impossible things happened at around the same time. His parents had up and left. Then Joshua Braintree had brought Ben Rivers back home to live and ranch with him—yep, two gay men cohabitating in Clyde's Corner. Then Eric Crassen, one of Henry's best friends, had gone on the straight-and-narrow, marrying Trix Stubben[JB1] , and running Big Basin Ranch like an upstanding citizen. Their other best friend, Mike Dawson, went to federal prison for car theft.

All these events had rocked Henry's world and made him realize two things. The first was that his life was not as hard-cooked as he'd always figured. His dad was gone, and with him, the pressure of having his old man watching his every move. Plus, if Joshua and Ben and Eric could change, and the town could accept them, maybe he could too. Maybe he didn't have to be that Henry Atkins forever. And the second thing he realized was that he could end up like Eric—or he could end up like Mike. And that was up to him.

He threw out his weeds, pills, and hard liquor. Cut the beer down to one or two at night. He'd stopped watching gay porn all the time. Well, except for checking Boys 2 Boys once a week for the new Devon video. After all, there was only so much good behavior a man could stomach. A fellow had needs.

But as far as Sheriff Preston or, hell, most of the town was concerned, Henry could sprout a halo and go around handing out loaves and fishes, and it wouldn't change their opinion. They were never gonna give him a break. So depressing.

Inside the Merc, the town's one and only grocery store, Henry picked up a sandwich from the deli fridge and a bag of chips. A small older lady kept peeking at him as she studied the cereals shelf.

It took Henry a minute to place her. Mrs. Rollingswell. He'd had her in tenth grade. For the love of bees, Henry, you're bright enough, you just don't try. Why do you think the good lord invented punctuation if not to be used? Throw in a comma or a period now and then. It won't kill you!

Lord. Maybe he could pretend he hadn't seen her.

He didn't glance at her as he went on past to the front of the store to the registers. He got in line at the register behind a young woman with a baby and a shopping basket. She had a brimmed sunhat on, but when she turned her head to cluck at the baby, Henry recognized her.

Lucy Carter. Oh.

Loopy Lucy, dumb as dirt. How had that even started? Oh yeah. She'd called him a stupid hick one day in middle school. A younger Henry could never let something like that go.

He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, willed away the prickle of nerves. He scanned her basket. It wasn't too much stuff. Bread, milk, oj, eggs, a half-dozen baby food jars. Was baby food expensive? He quietly took his wallet out and studied the contents. He'd gotten paid on Friday, so it wasn't empty. He knew about Lucy the way everyone in town knew about everyone else. She'd married Mark Teel, and he was a long-distance trucker. He probably made better money than Henry did by a mile. But that wasn't the point.

The lady at the register took her bags and left. Lucy stepped up and smiled at Mr. Ramsey. "Hey, Mr. Ramsey! How are you today?"

"Just fine, Lucy. My, Sammy sure is gettin' big."

"I know! He's growin' like a baby calf. Almost gettin' too heavy to carry. Ain't ya, punkin?"

Mr. Ramsey started scanning the items in Lucy's basket, and it was now or never. Henry stepped closer. Sweat prickled his back. "Hey. Um. I'd like to get that." He waved his wallet. "With this." He put his sandwich, chips, and drink on the counter.

Mr. Ramsey blinked at him, confused, but said, "Sure, Henry."

Lucy turned and stared, her eyes going wide when she recognized him. She opened her mouth to speak, closed, opened, as if she couldn't make up her mind how much hell to give him. But fear lurked in her eyes. Henry hated that he put that look there. She finally snapped. "Why?"

He swallowed. "Just wanna do somethin' nice."

"Why?" She asked again, harder now.

But the items had all been scanned, Henry's stuff included. Mr. Ramsey looked between them. "That'll be twenty-eight fifty."

Henry took out a twenty and a ten and handed it over. Lucy lifted her chin. "Don't need your charity, Henry Atkins."

"I know."

He took his small bag and her larger one and followed her out to the parking lot. She put the baby in a car seat while he stood there, awkward as a clown at a fancy dress party.

Finally she shut the door and turned to take her bag. She gave him an angry look. "I'm married, ya idjit."

"I know that." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Sorry for the things I said to ya in school. I wish I could take it back. That's all." He turned and walked away, relieved it was over. He could check one more name off his list. And maybe Lucy would still hate him, but he'd done his bit.

She pulled out, and Henry paused by his truck to tilt his face to the sun and take a few breaths. Okay. Everything was okay. Better than. It was a pure-D fine day, and he had a trail ride to look forward to—just him and Ranger. He'd put his lunch in the saddlebag and have it somewhere quiet. Maybe in the north meadow if them purple wildflowers were still blooming. Or maybe at the picnic spot by the stream.

He turned to find Mrs. Rollingswell hovering nearby, her mouth pursed in a determined fashion. She stepped toward him. "Hello, Henry."

Henry blinked. "Mrs. Rollingswell. Ma'am."

Ben and Joshua said ma'am to women. And he'd been trying to improve his manners. Henry shifted the small bag with his lunch to under his arm 'cause the bottle of iced tea inside was freezing his hand.

Mrs. Rollingswell straightened her spine. "There's, uh, somethin' I wanted to ask you, Henry. I hope you won't take offense."

The sheriff was still fresh in Henry's mind, and his irritation sparked. "What'd I do now?"

"Oh, no. It's nothing you've done. Except. Well…" She tittered nervously. "See, the Ladies Society has monthly meetings, and I'm in charge of guest speakers. We like to mix it up, you know. Something educational, life hacks, inspiration, home crafts, that sort of thing. Why, last year, we had a released felon come and talk to us about prison! That was sure-D interesting."

The bottle under Henry's arm was gonna crack, he was squeezing it so hard. "I ain't never been to prison," he snapped.

She looked taken aback. "Of course not, Henry. I never said— Oh, I'm makin' a muddle of this! What I meant to ask you, oh dear, was, well…."

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"It's just that… folks've noticed all the weight you lost. Why, just last week Mabeline Stubbens was talking about how fine you looked. You have a nice face, Henry Atkins! Especially now that you shaved that tumbleweed of a beard. Such striking blue eyes and all that black hair! But, as Mabe so colloquially put it, we're all bustin' a gut to know how you lost the pounds. And when we voted on next month's speaker—to have you come speak, or a rep from Debra's Dairy, or a woman to talk about the history of women's undergarments, why, you won hand's down!" She leaned forward to whisper. "Don't tell anyone, Henry, but it was unanimous."

He stared at her. A strange sensation he'd never felt before bloomed in his throat—like he'd swallowed a hard-boiled egg that was still piping hot. His eyes watered. Christ on a crutch, he was not gonna bawl outside the ever-lovin' Merc.

Mrs. Rollingswell picked at the sleeve of her cardigan. "I told 'em I wasn't sure you'd be willing. I know you must be busy, what with your new job at Joshua's place and all. But, gosh, I sure hope you'll come speak. So… will you, Henry?"

"Okay," Henry heard himself say, his voice unfamiliar and gruff. Then he nodded in case she didn't know the meaning of the word okay.

Mrs. Rollingswell broke into a huge smile. "You will? Oh, goodness! I'm so pleased. Thank you so much! It's always the third Thursday of the month at 6 p.m. So the next one is June twenty-fourth. And we always have a potluck, so come hungry!"

Henry was smiling when he got into his truck. The Ladies Society wanted him, Henry Atkins, to come speak! They'd even picked him out over other speakers, and professional ones too.

Why, if he could get the Ladies Society to accept that he'd turned over a new leaf, that was job done. 'Cause they sure enough set opinions in this town. And it wouldn't even matter that Sheriff Preston wanted him gone. He could picture himself on Main Street strolling right on past the sheriff with Mrs. Rollingswell on one arm and Mabeline Crassen Stubbens on the other. The sheriff would drop dead of shock right there!

Henry was so happy, he was halfway to the ranch before he realized that he'd promised to give a speech. A speech. About his weight-loss journey. Shit fire.

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