Scott Atwood was a persistent son of a bitch, and a talkative one at that. He found me in the stables about half an hour after Carly left and immediately struck up a conversation, like we were old buddies that hadn't seen each other in a while.

I don't know how exactly I ended up at the bar with him, but by the end of the evening we were drinking beer and doing shots.

"What's a guy like you doin' back here anyway? Surely you don't wanna shovel horse shit around the rest of your life," Scott joked, tipping his longneck back.

"I needed the money... didn't have much else lined up," I replied with a shrug, mimicking his movement and letting the bitter, malty taste wash down my throat.

I wasn't much of a drinker most days, but after staying away from alcohol altogether for the past few months... now that I was weaned off the pain meds, it was definitely good to knock back a few.

"I suppose you start missin' the ranch when you've been gone for a while," Scott shrugged. "My brother's the one that got it when my dad died... Carly's dad... I went off to college... all the good that did. I ended up right here anyway, raisin' a son before I was really grown up myself... I don't regret anythin', not even all the hell his mama gave me before she left. My kid's the best thing I ever did," he chuckled. "He's about your age actually, maybe a couple years younger... You're what? Thirty?" he shrugged.

"Yeah, thirty-one in a couple weeks," I nodded but didn't elaborate, silently mulling over his words.

"Ah, my boy - Dale, you might've met him already - turned twenty-eight last winter," Scott nodded. There was another pause during which we worked on our respective drinks. "What about you? D'you got any family around here?" Scott asked finally.

"Nah, nobody 'round here," I told him.

"Where are ya from?" Scott asked.

"Born and raised in Dallas... mostly... I bounced around a lot," I shrugged, not wanting to go into details about my roots, or lack thereof. My biological parents weren't the kind of people that should have had children. I never knew my biological father and I was nine years old when my mother was sentenced to five years in prison for assault. There was nobody else, so I went into foster care... and ended up aging out of it, thrown out onto the curb with nothing to my name but a world of trust issues.

I don't know what I would've become if it hadn't been for Steve Atwood. I can say we were ever close. I did my job and he gave me a paycheck as well as a roof over my head. We never had any real meaningful conversations, and yet he was the closest thing to a father figure I'd ever had.

How pathetic was that?

I tipped my beer back and tried not to think about it too much. I still hadn't fully gripped the fact that Steve was dead, that he'd been dead for over a year.

It was much later when Carly started texting me and I was considerably more intoxicated. Scott was off talking to a friend of his and it didn't look like he'd be coming back to the bar for a while.

I imagined her in Dallas, hanging out with her friends, thinking about me - nah, not me, the ranch. I tucked my phone away and downed the rest of my drink. I was done for the night... if I drank anymore I'd likely say - or write - something I'd regret in the morning.

I found Scott and told him I was taking off, and then went outside to call a cab.

It was another restless night; despite the alcohol, I still couldn't escape the nightmares that were plaguing me every single time I tried to shut my eyes. I was getting real damn tired of it all.

"You look like shit," Scott chuckled when he rolled into the driveway at around seven that morning. He was supposed to help me with some of the chores.

"So do you," I replied, his long strides matching mine as we started making our way towards the barn.

"Feelin' like it too," Scott answered, removing his old cowboy hat and running his fingers through his hair.

I had no trouble working hungover; I'd done greater tasks in far worse conditions. When Carly was dropped off in front of the main house near the end of the afternoon, I was just about ready to take a breather for a minute, so I made my way over.

"Hey," she smiled.

"Howdy," I replied, reaching for two very pink shopping bags from a store I'd never even heard of before.

"You don't have to do that," Carly told me quickly, but I was already maneuvering bags around so that I could pick up her suitcase too.

"Doesn't mean I won't," I told her stubbornly, leading the way towards the house and dropping her bags at the foot of the stairs.

She followed after me and dropped her purse on the little wooden table near the door; it landed with a thump, and I couldn't help but wonder what the hell she was carrying in there - a freaking dictionary?

"How was everythin'?" she asked, ignoring her bags and making her way towards the kitchen to grab something to drink. She poured us two glasses of sweet tea and handed me one. "How's Juno?" she asked.

"Everythin' was fine, Juno's fine," I reassured her.

"How are you? Not too hungover? I know my uncle and how he can get when he starts drinkin'..." she said with a sympathetic smile.

"I'm fine, felt good to go out," I shrugged.

"Yeah," Carly agreed, her red lips stretching into a warm smile.

She stood there in front of me for the longest moment, the silence between us filled with ridiculous tension. There was so much I wanted to say, and yet I couldn't find the courage or the words. She was close enough for me to reach out and touch her, and yet I didn't dare.

"Well, anyway," Carly finally said, looking down at her booted feet rather sheepishly. "Thanks for helpin' with my bags... and for takin' care of the place while I was gone," she added.

"Yeah, no problem, it's what I'm here for," I smiled.

I turned around to leave, my heart suddenly finding itself in a wrestling match with my brain... and the former was winning. I hesitated with my hand around the doorknob, then, perhaps because I had my back turned to her now, a sudden bout of courage made me spin around on my heels again and open my damn mouth, words spewing out that were totally out of my control.

"Listen, Carly," I began, digging my hands in the pockets of my jeans and forcing myself to meet her gaze, which proved to be a task and a half. "Do you wanna do somethin'? We could go grab dinner sometime... or somethin'... If you want..."

Before Carly had time to even react, the screen door slammed behind us and Scott Atwood came strolling into the house. Damn son of a bitch! His timing really couldn't have been more on point.

"Well I'll be takin' off now," he said gruffly, oblivious to the awkward tension between his niece and me, or the fact that Carly's cheeks were suddenly flushed red, like she'd been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to be doing.

I couldn't help the corners of my mouth from twitching up into a smirk.

"Right," Carly said, rushing to give her uncle a hug. Her voice was a few octaves too high. My smirk widened. "Thank you for helpin' me out with the ranch, I really appreciate it... you and Dale will have to stop by for dinner one of these days!" she added, clearing her throat.

"Anytime, darlin'... Nice drinkin' with ya John...," Scott replied, tipping his hat towards us and reaching out to shake my hand. "Watch out with this one, it's the silent types you've got to worry about," he added jokingly to Carly.

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," she replied with a nervous laugh, looking back at me.