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RIDING INTO LOVE
KATHLEEN KELLY
RIDING INTO LOVE
People in a small town think they know you.
Especially when you own the local bar, the Tin Cup.
Nightly advances from the locals have hardened me, forcing a fortress around my heart that no one seems able to breach.
That is until the return of Texas "Tex" Blackwood.
As the simmering tension between us escalates, my world takes a perilous turn when I’m confronted by a group of menacing men.
In that moment, Tex emerges as an unexpected savior, a sudden burst of strength in my vulnerable world.
Yet, questions linger….
Is Tex a genuine savior, or just another passerby seeking a fleeting connection?
The electric charge between us intensifies, riding the fine line between passion and peril.
Is Tex the elusive key to unlocking love, or a transient flame destined to flicker out?
As we ride into the unknown territory of love, the biker's presence in my bed becomes a thrilling and uncertain journey.
CHAPTER 1
JANE EVERLY
The Tin Cup’s neon sign flickers, a beacon to the weary and the wild. I push open the door, stepping into the dimly lit abyss that swallows up half the town on a Friday night. Shadows cling to the walls like cobwebs, and the air is thick with the scent of stale beer mixed with the tang of sweat—a cocktail of resignation and reckless abandon.
“Evening, Jane,” old Sam calls from his usual corner, his words barely audible over the laughter and clinking glasses.
The jukebox croons a country tune, mourning a love lost long ago. It’s the soundtrack to my nights behind the bar, a lonesome melody that gets drowned out by the revelry.
I nod at Billy as I make my way to my post, slipping on my apron. My shoulder-length chestnut hair sways with each step, tied back but always escaping in wisps, framing my face. My mother used to say it was the color of fall leaves after a rainstorm. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the rows of bottles, pale green eyes stare back, defiant, unyielding. They’ve seen too much for someone just shy of twenty-six, yet they’re not ready to look away.
“Got a new batch of whiskey, Jane. Want to give it a taste?” I hear the rattle of a bottle being set on the counter, but I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Tom has been delivering alcohol to this place for the longest time.
“Maybe later, Tom,” I reply without missing a beat, tying the strings of my apron tight around my waist. My hands are strong, from years of bar work, capable, and they don’t shake, well, not anymore.
“Always too busy for a little fun, aren’t you?” There’s a playful edge to his voice, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Fun’s got nothing to do with it,” I retort, my tone light but firm. “Got responsibilities, remember?”
“Ah, yes, the ever-dutiful Jane Everly.” He chuckles, lifting his glass in a mock salute before sauntering off into the crowd.
I take a deep breath, letting the noise wash over me. This bar is more than just a job—it’s a proving ground, a place where I learned that tragedy can either break you or forge you into something stronger. It’s where I keep the memory of my father alive, the man who taught me everything about running this place before he was taken from us too soon. His laughter seems to echo through time, mingling with the sound of tonight’s mirth. Dad gave me life skills and when he died, the bar. The Tin Cup has only ever had three owners, Pete who we haven’t seen in an age, my dad and me.
The first order comes in, and I’m all fluid motion, grabbing a tumbler, filling it expertly with ice. My movements are swift, the rhythm familiar—it’s a dance I could perform in my sleep. The clink of the ice, the pour of the liquor, the slide of the drink across the polished wood—it’s a symphony of sorts, one that keeps the darkness at bay.
“Keep ‘em coming, Jane!” someone shouts over the din, and I flash a quick smile. The night is young, and the Tin Cup is alive with stories waiting to unfold, with people shedding their daytime skins for something a bit rawer, a bit truer.
“Coming right up,” I say, my voice steady as I steal a moment to glance at the doorway, wondering if tonight will be the night when something or someone walks in, challenging the fragile balance of my carefully constructed world.
The laughter peels away as Ricky Caldwell saunters up to the bar, his shadow long in the dim light, a predator’s grin spread across his face. Bobby “Snake” Harrington isn’t far behind, his presence like a chill skirting down my spine. They’re a pair of wolves in a hen house, smugness oozing from their pores. These two come here most nights, regular patrons who seem to think I’m their plaything.
