Hopeless （Chestnut Springs, #5）
Elsie Silver
For every single reader （and there are a
lot of you） who has messaged, emailed, or
commented begging for Beau’s book.
This one’s for you.
Reader Note
This book contains discussions of alcoholism, PTSD, and skin grafting/burns. It is my hope that I’ve handled these topics with the care they deserve.
1
Beau
I thought pissing my brother off and storming away would make me feel something.
I was wrong.
Even acting like a raging dick when I’m supposed to help a family friend move into their new house feels … bland.
As I walk down the main drag in Chestnut Springs, my fingers curl into my palms, nails digging against skin.
I don’t feel that either.
I only feel tired.
But not tired enough to sleep.
A train horn blares, and I freeze in place. For years, I’ve covered the way loud noises startle me, but it’s different this time.
You’d expect me to choose either fight or flight, but these days I brace.
Pause.
Wait for any emotion to hit. Fear, anxiety, disappointment.
But these days, I feel nothing.
I pivot on the corner of Rosewood and Elm to watch the train puff past. Chugging along. Back and forth. Point A to point B. Load. Unload. Wait overnight. Start over again.
“I am a train,” I murmur as I stare at the wheels crushing against the tracks.
I work all day on the ranch because I’m supposed to. I go through the motions. And I hate every second of it.
A woman pushes a baby in a stroller past me and shoots me a confused look. Her expression changes to surprise when she recognizes me. We might have attended high school together, but the same is true for anyone in this town born within a few years of each other.
“Oh, Beau! Sorry, didn’t recognize you for a second there.”
Probably because I haven’t cut my hair in months.
I don’t remember her name, so I plaster on a smile. “Not to worry. I’m blocking the crosswalk, aren’t I? Here … ” My arm stretches out to press the crossing button for her.
The woman I can’t remember shoots me a grateful grin, hefting a bag up on her shoulder while trying to keep hold of the stroller overflowing with an unnecessary amount of stuff. “Thanks! Nice to see you out and about. You had all of Chestnut Springs worried for a couple of weeks.”
My cheek twitches under the strain of keeping my mouth upturned. Yes, I was JTF2, Canada’s elite special ops force. Yes, I knowingly missed our transport out to save a prisoner of war. Yes, I was missing in action for weeks and was in rough shape when they found me.
I’m still in rough shape.
People love to talk about it.
You gave us quite a scare.
Try to catch your ride out next time, eh?
I bet you’re loving all this attention.
It’s when they think I’m not listening that the comments become less tongue-in-cheek and more dagger-in-back.
He looks like he’s gonna flip out any second.
Even the therapist couldn’t fix him.
What I call stupid, he calls heroic.
I know they all mean well, but the way they express their interest bugs me. Like my getting stuck in enemy territory on deployment has a single fucking thing to do with them. Like I scared people on purpose or just casually decided not to pick up a phone. Civilians can’t fathom the shit I’ve seen, the decisions I’ve been forced to make.
So I ignore them.
“Gotta love the small-town support,” is what I say, because I can’t say what I really think. Being the real me—the new me—would just make people uncomfortable.
“Well, you’ve got it in spades.” With a kind nod, she turns and crosses the street.
I blink away, not wanting to follow her but not knowing where I’m going either. The opposite direction, I think.
Which is when my eyes land on The Railspur, the best bar in Chestnut Springs.
It doesn’t matter that the sky is blue, and the sun is out on a beautiful summer afternoon. It doesn’t matter that I pissed my brother Rhett off. It doesn’t matter that a friend needs my help unloading furniture a couple of blocks away.
At this moment, the town bar looks like a damn good hole to hide in.
And a drink doesn’t sound too bad either.
“Gary, if you don’t slow down, I’m going to take your keys away.”
The ruddy-faced older man scoffs at Bailey’s warning as I pull up a stool a few down from him. I turn it so one elbow rests on the bar and I’m facing the door. It may be just another small-town bar, but the extensive updates give it an elevated sort of vibe that I like. Western decor fills the space, a wagon wheel chandelier hangs over polished wood floors, and mason jar glassware lends a rustic feel.