Vicki Thompson - Riding Hard

Jonathan glanced at him. “Just like you and Mom. I always wanted what you two have, and now, I have it.”

“Yep.” Aw, hell, now he was tearing up again thinking about Nelsie, the love of his life. He took a long swallow of his beer and hoped his son didn’t think he was turning into a sentimental old fool. Once he had himself under control, he looked over at Jonathan. “Hey, how about another beer? We can toast the ladies.”

That boy’s smile always could light up a room. “Great idea, Dad.”

In nothing flat, Archie went from wanting to get the hell out of the bar to wanting to stay forever. Funny how a situation that started out as a disaster could end up turning into something pretty damned wonderful, after all.

1

Present Day

DRAKE BREWSTER WAS used to women liking him, but Tracy Gibbons, the beautiful bartender at Spirits and Spurs, clearly didn’t. Oh, she was polite enough when she served him a beer, but her smile was mostly fake, as if she was forcing herself because he was a customer. He even knew why she didn’t like him, but that didn’t help much. When he thought about her reasons, he had to agree they were legitimate.

In point of fact, he wasn’t particularly popular with anyone in Shoshone, Wyoming. He was the guy who’d had sex with his best friend’s fiancée six months ago. On Christmas Eve. Apparently word had gotten out, and now everyone avoided him like a skunk at a Fourth of July picnic.

That very same best friend, Regan O’Connelli, happened to be quite popular in this neighborhood. Well connected, too. After severing his business relationship with Drake back in Virginia, as well he should have, he’d gone into partnership with Shoshone veterinarian Nick Chance. It had been a logical move since one of Regan’s sisters had married Nick’s brother Gabe, and another had married Nick’s brother-in-law Alex. Getting hooked into the Chance family opened all kinds of doors around here, apparently.

Getting crossways with the Chances, though, slammed those doors shut in a man’s face. Regan, who swore he’d forgiven Drake for the fiasco with Jeannette on that fateful Christmas Eve, said Drake should give people time. They’d come around.

Three weeks into his stay, Drake wasn’t so sure. The deep freeze was still on, except for Regan and his new fiancée, Lily King. Drake gave Lily much of the credit for Regan’s willingness to forgive and forget. She was a softhearted woman.

In fact, her soft heart had nearly been her downfall when she’d bought Peaceful Kingdom, a horse-rescue operation outside of town, and had accepted every unwanted animal dumped at her feet. Besides the horses, she’d taken in two potbellied pigs and several chickens. Regan had saved her from herself, and in the process, they’d fallen in love. She encouraged Drake to visit as often as he could, but he didn’t want to wear out his welcome. Couples in love needed alone time.

That should have fit right in with his plans. Before leaving Virginia, he’d put his vet practice in the hands of a colleague and hadn’t specified when he’d be back. Then he’d rented an isolated cabin just outside the boundary of the Last Chance Ranch so that he could make amends with Regan and take a few weeks to reevaluate his life.

He’d imagined long solo hikes and intense periods of soul-searching would help him figure out how he’d veered so off track that he’d gone to bed with his best friend’s girl. His life couldn’t be working if he could do something that disloyal, and he’d hoped for some insights.

Surprisingly, his jealousy of Regan’s self-confidence had been one of his issues. Realizing he’d set out to sabotage his friend’s sense of self-worth was an ugly truth he’d had trouble facing. But he had faced it, and consequently he and Regan were okay.

His period of self-examination had yielded another nugget of wisdom. He wasn’t into long solo hikes and intense periods of soul-searching. He was a sociable type, a Southerner who loved to talk, and he craved the company of others. But except for Regan and Lily, nobody within a thirty-mile radius craved his company, and that sucked.

Yet here he was, anyway, sitting on a barstool at the Spirits and Spurs during happy hour trying not to look as lonely as he felt. A few people had said hello, but then they’d gone back to talking to whomever they’d come with. Nobody seemed interested in a prolonged encounter with the guy who’d wronged Regan O’Connelli.

Tracy made a circuit of the bar area, her dark hair shining, her red lipstick glossy and inviting. She glanced at his nearly empty glass. “Another round?”

Drake considered giving up and going back to the cabin but couldn’t make himself do it. “Sure. Thanks.”

“Coming up.” That fake smile flashed again.

He watched her walk away. She had the perfect figure for jeans, and he’d noticed other guys checking out her ass. But someone with his hound-dog reputation couldn’t be caught doing it, so instead he studied her hair. It was up in some arrangement that kept it out of the way, but he pictured how it would look loose. It might reach halfway down her back, at least, and sway as she moved. Nice.

He didn’t want her to see him staring like some wet-behind-the-ears doofus, so he grabbed the menu out of its holder. Then he proceeded to scan the offerings as if fascinated by what he’d found, although he knew them by heart.

“Here you go.”

He glanced up, as if he hadn’t noticed her coming toward him. “Thank you, ma’am.” The beer foam was perfectly symmetrical. He raised the glass and admired it. “Very pretty.” He meant the compliment for her, but he could always claim he’d been talking about the head on his beer.

“Thanks.” She didn’t quite roll her eyes, but she looked as if she wanted to. She gestured toward the menu. “Would you like something to eat?”

He wasn’t hungry, but picking up a menu was a classic signal and there wasn’t much in the refrigerator at the cabin. “I would, indeed. What do you recommend?”

She paused, confusion shadowing her brown eyes. “Don’t you want your usual burger and fries?”

“I find myself wantin’ something different.” That she’d noticed his ordering pattern meant nothing, of course. Any good server would do that. But it pleased him, anyway.

“Well, then...you might try the barbecued-pork sandwich. Lots of people like that.”

“Do you like it?”

She hesitated, as if not wanting to give him personal information. “I’m partial to the burgers here,” she said at last.

“So am I. I’ll stick with my usual, after all.”

“Okay. I’ll put in the order.” She started to turn away.

“Tracy?”

When she looked back at him, her expression was guarded. “What?”

He tried to remember if he’d ever used her name, although he’d known it for days. Maybe not. Southerners tended to use ma’am most of the time. He took a deep breath, finally ready to tackle this situation head-on. “I’ve been coming in here quite a bit lately.”

“Yes, you have.” She didn’t seem particularly happy about it, either.

“And you’re always polite to me.”

“I certainly hope so. If I’m not nice to the customers, I would probably get fired.”

“I appreciate that, but I’ll bet there are some customers you look forward to serving and some you don’t.”

Her gaze became shuttered. “I’m grateful for any and all customers who come through the door. Without customers, Spirits and Spurs wouldn’t be in business.”

“Nice speech. I admire your dedication. But the fact remains that you don’t like me.”

She opened her mouth as if to reply. Then she closed it again.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to complain to anyone about it.” He sighed. “Hell, you’re in the majority around here when it comes to holdin’ a bad opinion of me. But nobody will say it to my face. They’re unfailingly polite and then they act like I have a contagious disease.”