Daddy Make Me Beg

Chapter 4

From my front porch, all I could see were miles of raw land and restless sky. The storm hadn’t hit the ranch yet, but it was coming fast, sweeping over the black-tipped pines like a calvary charge. Somewhere below, the edge of town blinked with light, sparse and sleepy.

Blackwood wasn’t a focal point on any map. At least not for most people.

I leaned back in my rocking chair, boots crossed and a whiskey sweating in my hand. The wood groaned beneath me, keeping time with the wind. Behind me, the main house glowed warm, with big windows and high ceilings opening into rooms that sat empty except for me and a cattle dog who was spoiled enough to believe he owned the deed.

It was empty upstairs, anyway.

“Storm’s rolling in,” Ryder drawled behind me, stepping out with his own glass of something strong and brown, his badge catching the light at his hip and that easy grin that made people trust him without asking questions. “Do you think she’ll take the power out again?”

“Probably.”

“Your generator in good shape?”

I raised an eyebrow at him, a little annoyed he would think I’d be that careless. It’s not like I wanted what was in the basement to get out.

“Still working,” I said, taking a slow sip. “Better than yours, I’d bet.”

Ryder snorted, lowering himself into the other chair like he had all the time in the world. The storm lit up the horizon in front of us, a white flash that carved his face into something harder.

“Mine’s fine,” he said. “But if it dies, don’t think I won’t haul my ass over here. I know you’ve got a freezer full of steaks and enough whiskey stashed to survive the apocalypse.”

“You mean you’d finally admit you only keep me around for the food and liquor?” I shot back.

He grinned wolfishly. “That and your charming personality.”

The wind shoved at the porch, rattling the railing between us. For a second, I thought I heard something else under it, a faint bang, out of place in the storm. But Ryder kept talking, unconcerned, like he hadn’t noticed.

“Reckon half the town’s already at The Hollow,” he added, swirling his drink.

The sound carried again, faint but sure, and I knew it for exactly what it was. My grip tightened around the sweating glass, boots pressing harder into the boards as I forced myself to stay where I was. Ryder finally cut me a sidelong look.

“When exactly are you planning to deal with that? Or are you in one of your play-with-your-food phases?”

I smiled like I had no idea what he meant.

Like I hadn’t already spent half the afternoon deciding exactly how it would end.

Ryder rolled his eyes and scoffed, muttering something under his breath as he knocked back his drink. The porch light spilled over him, catching in the gold of his hair and turning him into something almost saintly. Angelic, even. Which worked out real well for the town sheriff. People looked at him and saw a lawman they could trust without question, because how could a man who looked like that do anything wrong?

I let my mouth curve around the rim of my glass, amused. Ryder’s halo was a very convenient mask for the things we got up to after dark.

The scrape came again, faint under the storm. I heard it clear as day…and so did Ryder.

He tipped his glass back, sighed like a man bored out of his mind, and set it down with a thunk.

“If we’re not gonna do anything about it tonight,” he said, “then I need to get laid. Jett said there’s a new waitress at The Hollow. Says she’s blonde and bitter and has thighs that could crack a man’s spine.”

I grinned into my glass. That sounded exactly like Jett, with the exception of…

“He say that last part or did you add it?”

He smirked at me, and I rolled my eyes.

Typical.

My gaze drifted past him, down to the scatter of lights in the valley. Blackwood, Montana wasn’t big. A couple of bars, a motel, a diner, a few random stores, a restaurant that tried too hard to be upscale and mostly failed, a church that doubled as an AA meeting spot on Wednesdays, a museum tourists traveled miles to see but usually left uneasy, and Ryder’s sheriff’s office—officially handling drunks and wandering cattle, unofficially making sure the worst things never made it onto a report.

Everyone knew everyone. And everyone had a theory about why I’d come back after so many years away…nostalgia, desperation, or a very early midlife crisis.

They were all a little right.

I inherited the ranch at twenty-one, after my old man died in a hunting accident no one liked to talk about. My mother had already been gone a few years by then, leaving behind a handful of rules about discipline, restraint, and what to do with certain impulses that ran a little too strong in the Hayes bloodline.

Five years later, after college and a stint at a Manhattan hedge fund that never quite fit, I came back and turned the place into one of the biggest outfits in the state. Cattle, bison, horses, and land…a lot of it.

As it had for the generations before me, the money followed.

More than anyone suspected.

Sterling Hayes, people liked to whisper. Rancher. Playboy. Occasional philanthropist when it suited him.

None of them knew me. Not really.

My mother had made sure of that.

The wind rattled the porch again, louder this time, and underneath it slipped that sound, soft but enough to wake the restless itch in my chest, the one always hungry to break free. I caged it, breathing through the urge.

Not yet.

Beside me, Ryder’s eyes flicked toward the house, then back to me. Green, piercing, and carrying the same need I felt gnawing at my ribs. He swallowed it down, too, but I saw it…because it lived in me the same as him.

“The Hollow?” he asked, gripping the wooden armrests of his chair like they could hold him back.

I rolled the whiskey slowly in my hand, weighing the thought. The bar would be full by now. Ranch hands blowing their checks, old-timers swapping lies, tourists hoping the place lived up to its reputation. Options for a good lay if I wanted one because the Hollow was the only good one for miles. Women fell easily for me. A smile here, a round of shots there, and someone would decide I was their bad decision for the evening.

They saw the charm and assumed that was the whole story.

The sound came again, like a nail dragged across wood. A harsh breath leaked out of me as I set the glass down. I needed something to distract me from the itch twisting tighter in my chest. “Let’s go.”

Ryder’s grin lit up with that reckless, predatory charm he wore like the badge on his uniform. He stood, his boots heavy on the boards. “Knew you’d come around.”

By the time we got to town, the wind had turned mean.

Blackwood wasn’t just one road, but it might as well have been tonight. The streets were empty and the storefronts dark, the storm keeping everyone inside. Only the parking lot at The Hollow told the truth. This town didn’t sleep through storms—it gathered under neon and whiskey, packed in tight like church on a Sunday.

I pulled into my usual spot in front of the bar, half on the curb, half in the road, and exactly where Babs told me not to park every time.

That never stopped me, though.

Ryder slammed his door at the same time I did, and we strolled toward the entrance. My eyes wandered down the street briefly, skimming over the oversized steer statue before returning to the building in front of us. The wind whipped around us, carrying the familiar mix that always clung to The Hollow after eight p.m., a blend of scorched grease, spilled beer, and the nighttime bravado that fell apart with the sun.

Thankfully, it wasn’t carrying that smell tonight. My basement was already full.

Ryder fell into step beside me, tugging his hat lower against the wind. “Nothing like the sweet perfume of grease and regret to let you know you’re home,” he muttered.

I snorted, pushing my hands into my pockets. “Careful. Talk like that, and Babs’ll spit in your beer before you take the first sip.”

He grinned, and I couldn’t help the twitch of mine in return. The Hollow had been ours for years, full of fights, booze, women, and the kinds of stories we’d carry for the rest of our lives.

The air inside was thick with whiskey fumes. Strings of half-lit Christmas lights sagged across the ceiling, their glow casting everything in the faint, seedy warmth of a dive bar that knew exactly what it was. The walls were a patchwork of beer signs, old rodeo posters, and handwritten IOUs Babs kept tacked up for the drama of it.

A mounted longhorn skull hung crooked above the jukebox, and the floor creaked with every step. The bar itself was heavy wood, scarred and stained from years of abuse. One leg was shorter than the rest, so it tilted slightly. Just enough that your drink always slid toward the edge if you weren’t paying attention.

There were only twelve stools at the bar, and every single one had a story.