Author's Note: YOU GUYS! Seriously, I'll keep this short, but I just wanted to thank you all for the overwhelming response to this story! You are all so wonderful. I'll try to get to thanking everyone I can personally today. To those I can't: thank you so so so much, your input means so much! This story has been such a blast to write and to see that people actually like it? Well, that's just the icing on the cake. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Oh & if you want some extra drabbles, etc. check out my Tumblr - URL on my profile.

And as always, Ivory: you make this story that much better by adding your awesome beta skills! Thank you, dear! From the very bottom of my heart!

Summary: There are also three types of people in Dawson, Texas: those who are trying to flee, those who embrace their small town fate, and the Mellarks. Mellark Ranch; largest cattle ranch South of Dallas, employer of ranch hand, Katniss Everdeen, and home of Ohio State Buckeye running back, Peeta Mellark. And Peeta Mellark is coming home today.

Lone Star State of Mine
Chapter Three: Dirt Road Anthem

"I'm hittin' Easy Street on mud tires."

Southern Saturday nights.

Friday nights are nice. You look at them like an open book to the rest of your weekend. You get off work and you know you have two whole days before you have to look back. But Friday nights are rushed. You don't have all day to plan for them like you do Saturday. You either have to make a quick change once you get home or just go looking the way you are. Plus you're still not completely de-stressed so the start of your night usually isn't as relaxed as you'd want it to be. You have to knock a few drinks back first. And Sunday nights? Well, they might as well be another work night because you can't do much with them. On top of that you have this heavy pit in your stomach just knowing that you're about to kiss your weekend goodbye and do it all over again.

But Saturday nights? Saturday nights are no-holds-barred, last call, full throttle kind of fun. Saturday nights anywhere are treasured, but Southern Saturday nights are practically weekly holidays to those who spend their entire week working toward them. The list of possibilities is endless and makes them that much more appealing. You could spend your night closing down the local drink hole playing pool, shutting the bull, or winning the newest suitor over to take home. You could head off the beaten trail with just your heart's desire, a blanket, and a bottle of Boone's Farm. You could find yourself and several others in some un-expecting farmer's acres throwing back Keystone and blasting country radio.

Or, in true Southern cliché fashion, you could put on your favorite pearl snap shirt and boots to head down to the local honky-tonk. Country music, dancing, and beer; favorites both north and south of the Mason-Dixon, but an absolute staple on a good Southern Saturday night. And where better to find all of those things than at a honky-tonk? Even those who don't thrive in such a loud and outgoing atmosphere still find themselves at such a place at least several times a year, most of those times being during the summer.

Those like me.

"Everyone's going to Panem tonight, you going?" Gale asks, tossing another load of hay into the trailer.

I openly groan, not bothering to respond. He should know my answer. I may make an occasional appearance there, but that certainly doesn't mean I enjoy it. My plans for this Saturday evening are quite simple: curl up on much couch to channel surf, and only leave my post when I run out of beer or need to use the bathroom. I am dedicated to this cause. I continue to work, letting the silence consume our chores once more.

"Oh come on, Catnip." Gale grins, he's always been amused at my lack of social abilities. I find nothing about this amusing.

"I'd rather groom Buttercup." I deadpan, racking a pile around my feet.

That seems to quiet him for a moment, but I doubt it'll last. If there's one thing Gale and I have in common it's our stubborn nature. We're both headstrong and when we're in sync it works well. When we're at odds bar the doors. Fortunately most of the time we're not at odds and if we are it lasts no longer than several hours. We make a good team and we're not stupid. They aren't many out there that would put up with us – we've got to keep each other around.

The sun beats down and I can feel the heat through my threadbare t-shirt. It's the first tell-tale signs of summer; the humidity is rising and the sun seems to have taken a step closer to the earth. The cattle can feel it too, they're becoming lazier and herding is a bit harder. Not to mention we now have newborns to deal with and the calves are usually like pre-teens: you tell them to do one thing and they do the opposite.

"Madge is supposed to be there." Gale says, breaking the silence once more.

Sometimes I think Gale can't stand silence because we hardly ever have it for long. I tend to be more relaxed in silence. The silence is an old friend, one that's stood by me through it all. Silence was the one thing I could look forward to once my sister fell asleep at night after our father died. Silence was the one friend I had once my mother all but lost it after realizing he wasn't coming home. Silence was certainly better than those alternatives. But much like silence, Gale has been there through it all as well. And for that I tolerate, and even enjoy, his constant need for conversation.

"Is that a good or bad thing?" I ask, stopping my haul long enough to wipe a drop of sweat slowly sliding down my temple.

Gale shrugs, "We're friends. And this is Dawson, do I have a choice?"

No, I guess he doesn't. It's not like he could truly avoid her for long. Although he's been doing a pretty fair job of it for where we live. They'd broken up nearly three months ago and he's maybe run into twice. That's saying something. Personally I never disliked Madge, but she certainly wasn't who I'd thought Gale would decide to fall head over heels with. She was a bit…different. And the mayor's daughter. That alone was enough to get tongues wagging; the mayor's daughter with the Mellark's ranch hand. God, it sounded like an awful Danielle Steele novel. We just needed Fabio for the cover art.

But Gale was happy: truly, genuinely, almost giddy happy. And because of that I never wanted it to end. But unfortunately it did. Gale didn't really say much about the break up and since I don't really speak to Madge I'm not too sure what happened. I know she broke up with him - he told me that much. And then went on to mumble something about how they were just going to be friends. I didn't buy it for a second, but said nothing. He swallowed that hurt like he did every other one: with a strong jaw and hard heart.

Gale didn't talk about his woes much, but I knew they dug down deep in him. A drunk driver killed his father only a year before mine, when he was fifteen years old. I'm not even sure he missed more than one day of school or his part-time work out here at the ranch. Mr. Mellark tried to tell him over and over that he could take all the time he needed. He didn't listen and showed up for the early morning milking the next day. He needed to support his family and he wasn't going to do that sitting around in his own pity. I understood that. Gale was the oldest, that alone held a lot of pressure, but I'm not sure Gale ever allowed himself to fully grieve.

Not that I'm one to talk.

"I'll go tonight." I speak up again, feeling the sudden need to be there in case Gale needs a shelter. Not that he would ever admit to needing such a thing, but that's the beauty of our friendship. Nothing needs to be said.

"You sure? You're going to miss America's Most Wanted." Gale smirks, tossing another pile of hay into the trailer.

I shoot him a quick glare before shrugging, "I'll survive. Never know, might find one of last week's at Panem tonight. Collect some reward money."

He smiles as he tosses his pitchfork in the trailer, "Come on, the animals aren't going to feed themselves. Jump on, I'll drive."

He says that like there would be some kind of argument. He always drives the tractor over toward the stalls. He also always tells me to jump on with the announcement of him driving. Sometimes I truly believe he just likes to hear himself talk. Fortunately, I don't mind it either.

I toss my own pitchfork in the trailer and climb up, taking a seat on one of the old wooden beams built up around the edges. Gale climbs into the seat of the old tractor before looking back at me.

"Push you around the dance floor tonight?" He gives a knowing grin.

"Don't hold your breath."

His laugh intermingles with the roar of the tractor starting up and we're off, making the slow drive across the ranch toward the stable of horses. Feeding is one of the easiest chores, but it's the one that takes the longest and obviously needs to be done every day. Loading the hay, moving the hay, spreading it around the stalls. Repeat. If one isn't diligent about their time they could easily spend an entire day doing such an easy task.

I've been a part of the Mellark ranch for nearly three years and it still takes my breath away just how vast and beautiful the place can be. Most of the time I'm too busy with any given chore to notice, but there are these rare moments when all I can do is sit back and admire the view. And now is one of those moments; the melancholy hum of the tractor lulling me into a peaceful state, the summer breeze pushing the fly-aways from my braid out of my face, and the sun resting over me like a winter time blanket.

The rolling hills push against the row of trees at the very end of my eyes' view. The slow-moving cattle graze in the pastures without a care in the world. I can see the paths winding and turning throughout the property. Trails that have been made from years of trucks, four wheelers, horses, and tractors making their own way to their destinations. Trails that I know like the back of my own hand.

My head turns toward the north point of Mellark Ranch, away from where the tractor is heading, and I see the familiar fire red that I immediately associate with one thing and one thing only: Peeta Mellark's favorite work truck. It's a piece of junk. It's a 1983 Ford F-350 and meant for hard labor. The windshield is cracked from a freak hailstorm we had several summers ago. The back bumper has been tied onto the frame. The frame itself is beginning to rust. The right headlight is busted out – very few know what from and those that know don't talk about it. No one wants to ever see that side of Mrs. Mellark again.

But Peeta insists on using it whenever he's home and Mr. Mellark refuses to buy new for that reason, Lord knows they can afford to. Mr. Mellark once told me that only his son could find the beauty in a hunk of junk like that one. He believes Peeta has a knack for the finding the beauty in just about anything.

I find myself believing that too.

Peeta is out fixing a slack piece in the fence. Even over the low hum of the tractor I can faintly hear the music blaring from his truck's stereo. I imagine he's humming along, I've noticed him doing that before as he works. Not that we work together all that often. But he'll be off key, like always, and it'll be low enough that you only catch parts of it. And that's only if you're really listening.

He's hard at work, a default setting for all of us here, and his arms flex as he pulls the wire tight. We are a decent distance away, but not far enough that I don't notice the contour of his bicep muscles or the way some of his curls are starting to stick to the nape of his neck. His grey t-shirt has darkened in places with sweat and his work jeans have spots of dirt smeared into their light colored wash. He looks like something out of a goddamn country music video.

My jaw clenches and I look away, but apparently not soon enough because Gale has taken an opportunity to turn and look at him and I know he's noticed. My eyes meet his, but I find I can't look at him for too long. I look away again, acting as though I'm just admiring the familiar terrain. I don't dare look back at Peeta, now fearing I'll have an audience. Instead I glance over at Gale again; he's gone back to keeping his eyes on the path. Not that it's truly necessary. We're going maybe five miles and hour and he knows these paths just as well I as I do, if not better.

The rest of the short ride is a storm in my mind that I'm working to keep at bay. I try to fool myself into thinking that I don't know brought up this sudden twist. I lift up my hand to play with the end of my braid that's resting over my left shoulder and twist the coarse pieces through my fingers. I wrinkle my nose slightly, feeling the familiar dull sting of minor sunburn. The first of the season, it's always expected at some point. My eyes dart from one end of the ranch to another, avoiding the one place they want to travel to the most until we're about to reach our destination. I look back, my eyes suddenly feeling less strained, and he's tossing his tools in the back of his truck.

Resistance is obviously futile.

Gale kills the tractor engines and jumps down from his perch. He wipes his hands on his jeans, more for a distraction from me than because they actually need it. I slowly move from my perch, jumping down at the end of the trailer. I grab both of our pitchforks and reach out to hand him his. He slightly takes it and I go toward the stalls to open up the main entrance. Most of the horses have their heads out waiting for their expected meal.

We work in silence for awhile, but this silence feels different. This silence feels loaded. And I know what that means; Gale wants to say something, but he's hoping maybe I'll bring it up first. He's always disappointed in this game.

"Look, Catnip, I know you're not really experienced with this."

Ah, there it is.

I look up from pushing the hay evenly around the feeding bens. I want to say something, to instantly argue with whatever he's about to say, but I bite my tongue. Part of me wants to hear him out, better understand where he's going with this before I ram him with my pitchfork.

"But guys like that aren't really – well, they're not attainable."

"Excuse me?" I can nearly taste the venom in my voice.

"You know what I mean, like they're not the kind that stick around here. They're not the kind that are meant for this small town life." He's not looking at me when he talks. He's going about his work, like we're talking about sports.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about, but from the sounds of it you're trying to reason why I'm not good enough for whoever it is you think I'm interested in." I argue, pushing a bit harder into the pile of hay with my pitchfork.

"Don't be like that," Gale bites back. "You know that's not what I'm saying and I'm not dumb, Katniss. You don't look at someone like that without having something invested."

He said my actual name. Gale never says my real name. I mean, hardly ever. That right there is enough for me to start taking this a bit more serious. I swallow my latest bitter retort and remain silent. He's standing there waiting for me to react, maybe rebuttal what he's just said, but I can't find my reasoning. Instead I continue to work.

I do not have a crush on Peeta Mellark - that part is obvious. I don't have crushes. Crushes are for girls like Madge Undersee. I am too calloused for crushes. I am too calloused for a lot of things.

"I get it." Gale's defeated voice fills the silence once again and I look up from what I'm doing. "Just be care."

"I hardly know him." I say, feeling the need to assure him that it's nothing.

I think I'm also trying to assure myself.

The afternoon fades away and soon enough we're packing it in for the day. It's still early, but weekend chores are usually kept the bare minimum. Mr. Mellark doesn't want us to overdo ourselves and I appreciate that. Gale and I ride back to the barn together and put up our respective tools.

"We'll probably all meet up at Red's first, grab a bite to eat. Leave at six?" He asks, wiping his hands off with an old rag.

"Can I meet you there? I told Prim I'd stop off at home sometime today." He gives me a skeptical look and I can't help but laugh, "I said I'd come, didn't I? I'll be there. I just need to go home for a bit. It's been over a week."

"Alright, see you tonight." Gale smiles and turns to head toward the door. When he gets to the open doorframe he stops and turns back to look at me. "Hey, about earlier –"

"Don't mention it." I shrug, shoving my hands in my pockets.

He nods and disappears into the afternoon. I stand there looking at where he once stood. I'm not sure what made me more furious earlier; the fact that he thought I was some kind of child that needed protection simply because my experience in the romance department was null, the fact that he doesn't see me ever having a life outside of Dawson, or the fact that he saw Peeta Mellark looking right through me as nothing more than another notch on the bedpost.

I chose to believe it's one of the former.

My eyes are still staring at the empty doorframe when another silhouette forms there. I don't realize how much I haven't really been focusing on that space until I have to focus to see exactly who it is. He's shorter than Gale, but not as lanky. He has structure and a broad one. His hair isn't cut short and crisp like Gale's either and his silhouette shows that his curls move every which way. The more I concentrate, the more realize something else; he's shirt isn't like Gale's either. His shirt is missing entirely.

"Shit," Peeta lets out a surprised sort of gasp under his breath. He quickly recovers and clears his throat to speak clearer, "Sorry, I didn't realize anyone else was still working."

Swallow, Katniss. My mind screams, it's also telling me to look away, but I can't and I know I must look like a doe caught in the headlights. My throat has gone dry and my mind seems to be shorting out. I can't form a coherent thought let alone get something to spit out of my mouth. He doesn't seem to notice as he turns off to the side to throw down the toolbox he's carrying in one hand. I notice his soiled shirt is hanging out of his back pocket like a forgotten dishtowel.

Without my permission my eyes start to travel from his back pocket up his bare back. The years of football and manual labor are obvious. His waist widens up into his shoulders perfectly and the muscles are prominent there. His neck is thick, another sign of a football player. When he turns just slightly to move around the workbench I see the hint of a tattoo on the inside of his right bicep. He doesn't leave the arm lifted long enough for me to notice what it is, but I now know it's there. He slowly starts to turn and my eyes instantly travel down the planes of his torso. He's toned, that's to be expected, but he's not ripped like those athletes you'd see in Gatorade commercials. Of course, I don't know if anyone is that toned.

I find myself uncharacteristically wanting to reach out and touch the sharp edge of his hips that travel past the vision of my eyes. His jeans are tightened securely with an old brown leather belt, but a small portion of his boxers – or briefs? – peek out over the tops. The black material is a deep contrast to his light skin. He steps away from the workbench and faces me directly. We're still a good distance from each other, but I instantly feel a rush come over me.

When he reaches into his back pocket for the forgotten t-shirt I finally regain control of my eyes and look away as he wipes the sweat from his face with the grey material. I look at him as his arms drop to his sides and he has the hint of a knowing smirk. Oh God, he's noticed my obvious appreciation and in this moment I want nothing more than to have the world open up and swallow me. I half expect him to make a coy comment, like his brothers undoubtedly would, but he just turns back around and starts putting the tools on their respective hooks.

I appreciate Peeta's understanding nature more.

"Finnick tells me everyone's heading out to Panem tonight." Peeta says, his back still turned toward me. "You going?"

"He said everyone didn't he?" I counter, hoping my voice sounds more sarcastic than condescending. I've been told I can be rather harsh without meaning to be.

But by the sideways smile I receive I realize I must have come across just right. I'm not sure why I'm still standing there. I've finished my work for the day and I need to shower before going over to visit with Prim, but there I stand nonetheless. He finishes putting away the tools and turns back to face me, leaning against the workbench. We're both just standing there in some sort of standoff. We don't know what to say, but we both want to say something.

"Are you going?" I ask, desperate to break the silence.

I half expect him to counter with my earlier comment and inwardly smack myself for asking such a stupid question. Of course he'll go and he'll be the main event. He's only been home for several days and the tongues are practically wagging to get a chance to talk to him.

"You said you're going to be there?" He asks again.

I give him a confused look and nod. Where is he going with this? Is he trying to best me or make a sarcastic comment at my expense? It wouldn't be uncommon, well maybe from Peeta, but here on the ranch we're all usually trying to outsmart each other. A joke given in your expense is usually a common happening.

"Good, then I'll be there." He smiles, pushing himself off the workbench once more and starts to walk back out of the barn. He stops at the doorway and I inwardly laugh at how alike he and Gale truly are sometimes. "You want to ride together?"

"Sure."

My answer escapes me before I can even comprehend it. My insides instantly twist again and I can't say I'm all that upset by it. I like how his features seem to light up at my simple answer and I like that his eyes linger on me a moment longer before he nods.

"Okay, I'll pick up around 8."

Thank God he doesn't see the way my mouth gapes open after he leaves.

Eight o'clock comes too soon. Or not soon enough. I'm not sure which since I kept glancing at every single clock I'd come into contact with. I didn't want to be distracted when I'd visited Prim, but even she could see I wasn't my usual self. Our conversation was normal, but I'd ask her to repeat almost everything she said and was continually caught staring off into space. She'd asked me numerous times what was wrong with me, but I'd just shrug it off as being tired. I was tired. I'd gotten up at sunrise that morning and had been working ever since. That would distract anyone.

So would a shirtless Peeta Mellark.

By the time I'd gotten back to my new home I had less than an hour to wash the day off. My shower was quick, but they normally were. And as I stand here in front of my fogged mirror I can't help but over critique myself; even in the blurred reflection I can see the dark circles forever beneath my eyes, my nose that's a bit small for my face, and the tiny scar just above the cupid's bow of my lip. It's a scar I got years ago while playing outside with Prim; one that's had plenty of time to fade, but tonight I notice it. Tonight I'd notice an arm hair out of place.

Why was I being like this?

I quickly brush my teeth and braid my wet hair in its traditional style. I don't wear makeup. I've never had a real reason to. The cattle don't seem to mind that I lack mascara and Gale has never told me I need to add a bit of blush to the apples of my cheeks. Which is just as well, since I can't imagine I'd be all that good at putting it on.

My outfit of choice is the usual as well; white t-shirt tucked into my dark washed jeans and boots. Not cowboy boots, just boots. A brown leather pair with this buckle thing going across them. Prim picked them last winter - she called them riding boots - but I'm not sure they're those either. All I know is they're comfortable and I'm not picky. Plus they're the cleanest pair of shoes I own.

I'm looping my belt through my jeans when I hear the knock on the door. My heart instantly beats twice as fast. I finish that task and look up at my reflection, judging my appearance. I catch myself just as I'm about to fix a piece of hair that's fallen around my face.

"Stop." I tell myself and turn to leave my room.

Peeta is leaning against one of the awning posts when I open the door and I swear in this setting he looks like he just walked out of a County Living spread. He's wearing a blue plaid button up with the sleeves rolled up to just under his elbows, the jeans the shirt is tucked into are dark and loosely fit, and his boots poke out from underneath his denim. His hair looks ever the part in its own curled way.

"Ready?" He asks, pushing himself off the post.

As I'll ever be.

I nod, shutting the door behind me. We walk to his truck in silence and I'm terrified that I've made a mistake. What if the ride there is awkward? Filled with silence and unnecessary small talk? I can't do small talk. I'd rather sit in silence than idly talk about the never changing summer weather of Texas. Maybe I should have just told him I'd see him there. Maybe I can still fake a headache or something. But when he walks over to my side to open the door, ever the Southern gentleman, I climb right in.

He'd left the truck running and I recognize the song on the radio as a Lynard Skynard classic. My eyes instantly look up to see the inside of both the driver and passenger visors lined with CDs. There are also several tossed into the console. Every last one is a Southern Country classic and I'm slightly surprised. I never really saw Peeta listening to Skynard or Waylon.

When he climbs into the truck I want to say something about it. But then he smiles over at me and I lose all hope of forming a coherent sentence. I really need to get a grip here.

"I have to admit, I miss a lot of things when I'm away at school," Peeta starts, being the first to break the silence before we're even out of the ranch. "But Panem is not one of them."

I crease my brows together slightly confused. I always assumed someone like Peeta lived for such a place. He was always fawned over by all the females and even the males made it a point to search him out at some point. His brothers had always seemed to thrive in such an arena. Why would Peeta be any different?

I look down at my hands as they fidget together in my lap, "So why are you going?"

"Why are you going?" He counters with a smirk.

Good point.

I let out a small laugh and look out the window into the darkness. The drive into town is certainly not the most entertaining during the day so at night it was almost a total drag. Very few houses stand between Mellark Ranch and Dawson city limits. And those that did were few and far between.

"So, um, how's school?" I ask, looking back over at him.

"It's good. I mean, it's school." He shrugs, looking over at me. "It beats being around here having my mom ragging on me about not going to school."

"You didn't want to go to college?" I ask, suddenly very intrigued by this man I thought I had all figured out. But apparently I have Peeta Mellark chalked up to be exactly like his older brothers and today he is bound and determined to prove me wrong.

"I don't know, I guess I never thought about it much." Peeta's eyes never leave the road and my eyes never leave him. "My mom always talked about me going to college and my dad always wanted me to play football for as long as possible, so I guess there really was no option."

As I listen to him I realize pressure is always present. It doesn't matter how talented you are. How much money your family has. Or how much life has been handed to you. Pressure is there to stay. It just takes many different forms. My eyes still haven't left his strong jaw, clenching ever so slightly, or how his one hand grips the steering wheel loosely. When he looks over me I'm a bit stunned and instantly feel heat rise to my cheeks.

"God, I sound like some sort of spoiled brat, don't I?" He smiles and pulls my heart along with it. "Sorry to bore you."

I can't stop the words that fall from my lips next.

"You don't bore me."