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“Mommy doesn’t want to, baby. She has to work late tonight, and my fairy princess needs her beauty rest, or she won’t be able to attract her own personal Prince Charming.”
She giggled and rushed toward me, wrapping her arms around my legs. “I love you, Mommy. When I get rich and famous, I’m going to buy you a house.”
I was able to laugh even though a single tear slipped past my lashes. She was the most generous soul I’d ever known, her heart made of gold with sparkly shimmer. I wanted our time together to last forever. I only prayed I could give her everything I never had.
With one exception.
There would never be a father in her life. I wasn’t going through that again.
As she grabbed her favorite stuffed animal, I couldn’t help but think about the man who’d called himself my hero from this morning. Even in his disheveled state of dress, he’d caught my eye immediately. I’d always been a sucker for hot, muscular guys with hair the color of silky milk chocolate and eyes the vivid hue of my favorite whiskey.
However, usually they were rugged cowboy or biker types, not men dressed in six-thousand-plus-dollar suits, his watch alone capable of buying me a house. Yeah, I knew my men’s attire. I’d made it a point of knowing the clientele who stepped inside my bar. I’d been on the short end of a stick more than once, thinking some jerk could pay for a meal or a few drinks when I’d been the one to fork out the tab. That had turned me off men forever.
Plus, even if Mr. City Slicker was handsome, that certainly didn’t mean he was a good guy. He could be a smarmy bastard just like my rough around the edges ex.
Granted, if he hadn’t come along, I don’t know what would have happened. Still, I refused to be blindsided by beauty or anything else.
I had to figure out a way to stay in my little house, no matter what it took to make that happen.
“Come on, pumpkin. Ready for an adventure?”
“Yeah!”
At least Britta was enthusiastic. Me? I doubted I’d ever feel that way again.
CHAPTER 4
Sebastian
I stood outside listening to the ugly strains of some country music blaring from what had to be a jukebox, the tinny sound assaulting my senses. I was no music expert, but I knew what I liked and what I didn’t. Listening to the honkytonk crooner was like hearing nails scratching a blackboard. Still, the bar was the closest to my motel room, and the place certainly didn’t have a bar attached, the quaint setting more like a mom-and-pop organization.
The Wild Horse Saloon, huh? Well, the name certainly fit the exterior of the building, other than the flashing neon sign in reds and yellows indicating the name. It was as if I’d gone back in time, heading into the wild, Wild West. Too bad I didn’t have a six-shooter with me. Grinning, I headed onto the outside porch, marveling at the tacky décor outside highlighted by yellowish lights that needed to be replaced. Now I was acting as a decorating critic? I never bothered doing that in Miami. Why here?
Maybe because I felt like a fish out of water.
A drink was in order after the thirty-six hours I’d experienced. At least the steak dinner had been decent, something positive after touring the city, rekindling old memories I wasn’t certain shouldn’t remain in my past.
But driving through the ranch quickly had been eye opening. There were still memories that had remained, a few of the structures like one of the barns the same. But everything else had changed. He’d managed to build himself a profitable empire. Maybe not to the tune of what my father had done or to Pops’ expectations, but Walter Cawthorne had always appreciated the simpler things in life.
I’d often wondered how they could be related given their vast differences.
Lamenting over the past I’d shared or being concerned about whatever the future might hold wasn’t in my best interest. Nor did I have the brainwaves to solve the problem. I only wanted relief from my splitting headache and extreme lack of patience. Only a whiskey could do that at this point. Maybe.
I wasn’t even certain of that any longer.
As soon as I opened the doors, my senses were dropped into overload, assaulted by the lack of atmosphere. The place took on an entirely new meaning of the word joint. A cheap joint at that. The stench of stale beer and cigarettes permeated every nook and cranny, nicotine permanently staining the cheap wood used for the tables and chairs. Whatever, no one could fuck up a shot of whiskey, not even this place.
The moment I walked in, I sensed I didn’t fit in whatsoever even though I’d changed into jeans and a tee shirt, tossing on a leather jacket for warmth. The ratio of men to women was significant, at least a dozen of the bruisers watching me walk closer to the bar where they were crowded around it, blocking the view of whoever was behind the bar.
As I moved closer, I noticed a fight was about to start only a few feet away, two guys shoving each other savagely.
“Hold on. Not in my bar, boys. If you want to do that shit, you’ll need to go outside.”
“Not fair, Jess,” one of the guys said, although the two of them stopped fighting almost immediately. It was funny how the female’s voice was vaguely familiar.
“She can’t tell us what to do,” the second guy had the nerve to say, immediately throwing a punch into the jaw of the first. “She’s just a woman.”
When only a couple of the patrons moved out the way, the unseen bartender hopped over the bar, a bat in her hand. She reared back, both hands on the grip and I could tell she knew what she was doing.
