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As I push my way down toward Beef, getting elbowed in the stomach and ribs, I catch my reflection in an old chipped mirror hanging behind the bar.
I wince.
My strawberry-blond hair is a mess. On the drive from Denver to Montana, I had the windows down, giving me a snarled air dry. I wear little makeup, and while I’m fully clothed, even I can admit the bright yellow sundress isn’t quite right for the Carhartt-and-flannel vibe of the bar.
I’m about to the middle of the bar when a cowboy in a bolo tie shoves his chair back, pinning me in place.
“Excuse me,” I say, speaking up to make myself heard. I push at the back of the chair to free myself. “I just need to—”
“You need to go,” a deep, rugged voice rumbles.
Flustered, I look up to see a man the size of a mountain looming over me. His brow is furrowed, his dark bearded jaw clenched.
I shove at the chair with a frustrated sigh. “Well, I would if I could get by—”
Before I can say another word, the guy’s strong-arming the chair forward, growling, “I’m moving your ass, Burt,” before he sends the owner of the chair lurching across the table full of beers, giving me the space to get unstuck.
“Thank you,” I say, sneaking past him to flatten myself against the wall papered with stickers. “I’m Ruby Bloom.”
“Charlie. Montgomery.” He says the words hesitantly, like they pain him.
“Nice to meet you.” I smile, but judging by the arctic chill coming off him, the feeling is not mutual.
He takes a step closer.
I press a palm over my chest, willing my jaw not to drop.
Handsome. The word pounds its way into my heart.
The man standing in front of me, arms crossed, legs braced, is a bonified cowboy. The boots and big, bold western belt buckle give it away. He’s well over six feet. Chiseled jaw. Trim beard. Piercing cornflower blue eyes. Mile-wide shoulders. He wears a black T-shirt that hugs his muscled chest and popped biceps. His mussed dark brown hair, curled at the nape of his neck, suggests he had a hat on at a previous time.
He frowns down at me, like this is the one emotion they taught in cowboy school. “Listen,” he growls. His tan forearms, corded with muscle, flex. “Maybe you’re lost, but I don’t think you know what kind of trouble you’re in for being in this bar.”
“Oh, I very much do,” I reply with a bright smile. “I’m in Nowhere.” I hold up a finger as his mouth snaps open. “And I—”
“Need to go,” he barks in a hard tone.
“I am going. I’m going forth and conquering.” I make a move toward the bar, but he steps in front of me and blocks my path.
I draw myself up, hoping to look imposing next to his towering form. “Listen, Cowboy. I’m not leaving here until I talk to Beef about this ...” In my periphery, I notice a deep hole in the black wall. My eyes widening, I lean in and run a finger over the groove. My gaze flicks back to Charlie. “Is this from a bullet?” I gasp. “A real bullet hole?”
He stares at me, his expression a cross between disdain and amusement.
Beef is now hollering at a guy wearing a trucker hat and an “Armadillo by Morning” T-shirt who is arguing with a man dressed entirely in camo. Trucker Hat Guy looks eerily like Charlie. They have the same deep blue eyes, the same broad chest, the same square jaw. The only difference is Trucker Hat guy is grinning while Charlie is scowling.
Charlie groans, his eyes on the same scene I’m watching. It’s funny. Two grown men, peacocking, arguing about horses while the entire bar minds their own business. I smile. Already, I like this town.
Keeping to myself should be easy.
Trucker Hat Guy punches his finger in Camo Guy’s chest and shouts, “You stole my horse, you Tweedledum motherfucker!”
Charlie swears.
His blue eyes drop to my face. Without warning, he steps closer. One big hand lands on the small of my back. His earthy scent surrounds me and I feel dizzy. My head falls back on my shoulders as I gape up at him.
That’s when I feel him. His hard body presses against me, every muscle tense like he’s gearing up for something.
Oh, wait.
