“Get out, and don’t come back!” Unc tells Joe and his crew.

  The guy who tried to apologize for Joe’s earlier behavior helps him to his feet. Joe splutters out, “Get out? Fuck that! Call the cops! I’m pressing charges!”

  Joe glares at Bobby, and my heart races even faster, though it’s pounding away like a hamster’s from the adrenalin of the fight right in front of me. He’s going to get in so much trouble. For me. Over nothing. What Joe did was wrong, obviously, but it’s not the first time a customer has gotten a little handsy, and I’ve always handled it just fine and without bloodletting.

  Unc grins at that. “Cops? Okay, man, your funeral. Hey, Patrick, this guy wants a police report filled out on this little incident.”

  A rotund guy in a plaid snap-front shirt gets up and saunters over, pausing to take in the scene with his hands on his hips. Unc and Bobby seem to know something Joe, his buddies, and I don’t know, because they don’t seem concerned in the least.

  “Patrick Gibson, Chief of Police for Great Falls. I hear you want a police report. All right, let’s start with you, Willow.”

  It hits me all at once, and I can’t help but feel a little vindicated. There really is a police officer in the right place at the right time for the good guy.

  I tell Patrick what happened precisely, and then Bobby does the same. Joe tries to interrupt, but then Patrick asks Unc, who also confirms it. Finally, Patrick asks Joe, whose bluster is fading. His version is more that Bobby is a hothead who came out of nowhere for no reason and beat the shit out of him.

  Unc offers, “If you have any doubts, I can pull the video.” I turn to him in surprise because there are no cameras that I know of. Unc winks at me, his straight face giving nothing away.

  Patrick summarizes, “Well, it does sound like an open and shut case of sexual assault against Ms. Parker and battery against Mr. Tannen. Bobby, I mean, Mr. Tannen, had every right to defend himself. Willow, you wanna press charges too? I can take our friend down to the station, but it’ll probably be Monday afternoon before he gets arraigned because the judge teaches up at the university in the morning.”

  Joe, though, wants to argue. “No, I’m pressing charges.”

  Patrick stares him down. “For what, exactly?”

  Joe’s buddies seem to have caught on to just how much trouble their friend is in and are trying to herd him out with promises of ‘no problem, Officer’ and ‘so sorry, ma’am’. I shake my head, telling Patrick, “No, I think we’re good.”

  Patrick nods, putting his cowboy hat back on. He sticks a hand out, which Bobby shakes. “Good show, son. Like that new one you’re doing.” To Unc, he says, “Damn tourists, think they can do whatever they want.” Unc flashes a lopsided grin and walks back behind the bar, swinging his bat with every step.

  I look to Bobby in shock. “What just happened?”

  He steps in close to me, the knuckles of his left hand brushing over my cheekbone. I’m surprised at the gentle touch, lighter than a butterfly’s wings. “Are you okay?” His eyes flash . . . worry, fury, fear, and tenderness.

  He’s an exciting blend of intensities.

  “I think so. That was just . . . crazy.”

  Olivia walks by, serving beers as though nothing happened. “I told you live music nights are the best.”

  I blink at her no-big-deal tone and then laugh, though it’s probably a little manic. Bobby’s lips quirk up too, as though my laughter reassures him that I’m okay.

  Unc calls out, “Hey, Willow, take an ice pack to my office and get the first aid kit. Bobby’s gonna need some ointment for those knuckles. No telling what that prick had up his nose.” He taps his nostril like Joe was some coke-head druggie rather than a handsy drunk.

  Both Bobby and I look at his right hand, where the joints are a little puffy and red. “Oh, my God, let’s get you taken care of.”

  He smiles and jokes, “It’s fine. Been there, done that, even got the scars from the other guys’ teeth a time or two.”

  Wait, that didn’t sound like a joke.

  Bobby heads back to Unc’s office like he knows where he’s going, so I grab a Ziploc bag and fill it with ice. Unc watches me but stops me as I pass him. “You really okay?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Just not used to being up close and personal with UFC fights, you know?”

  Unc smiles, though the joke isn’t the least bit funny and my nerves are still shot. “Looks like you might oughta get used to it if Bobby Tannen is taking a liking to you. You sweet on him too?” His eyes narrow, like he wants to read my answer from my face, not just hear the words. I think Unc would go meet Bobby with that bat if I said no.

  “I just met him.”

  “That don’t mean a thing, girl. Take the rest of the night off. I can handle closing.” I start to argue, but he cuts me off. “Been doing it myself for damn near thirty years. Once more won’t kill me.” And with that, he turns back to Richard and continues chatting about the ballgame as though nothing else of interest happened tonight.

  Olivia stops me too. “Ooh, girl. I’m so excited I could spit. You have to tell me everything, okay? I want to live vicariously through it all.”

  My cheeks heat. “I’m going to put ice and ointment on his knuckles. That’s it.”

  She pats my shoulder. “You keep thinking that. I’m already hearing wedding bells. Can I be your maid of honor?”

  “What?” My eyebrows climb up my forehead and my jaw drops open. “We’re not⁠—”

  “At least you got the nice brother. The other ones are monsters.”

  “Olivia, he just beat the shit out of that guy. Broke his nose!” I whisper-scream, not wanting to drag it out if everyone else is acting like it’s no big deal. Which they are, having returned to their beers and their conversations, though there’s a fresh round of female glares coming my way from the margarita girls.

  Olivia looks at me in confusion. “Willow, his brother’s name . . . his actual name . . . is Brutal. Bobby is just a little wild, a bad boy who needs some sweet, sweet loving from a nice girl.” She pats my cheek a little too hard and walks off, her tennis shoes squeaking on the wet floor where she’s already cleaned and mopped up the broken glass.

  I think I must’ve bumped my head or something because tonight has been crazy, but it seems like I’m the only one who thinks so.

  5

  BOBBY

  In Hank’s office, I take a few deep breaths that smell like stale cigarette smoke, reassuring myself that Willow is okay. When I turned around and saw her in that guy’s lap with a look of horror on her face, fear had shot through me, dropping my gut to my boots. It’d climbed right back up paired with fury. How dare he lay hands on her? I’d reacted instantly. Once upon a time, I would’ve punched first and dealt with the fallout later, but a conversation or two from Chief Gibson in my younger days taught me a solid lesson—let the other guy throw the first punch and have a witness.

  Willow comes in, her voice gentle. “You okay?”

  I flex my hand, clenching and flattening it slowly. “Yeah, no big deal. As long as you’re okay?”

  She sits down next to me on the retired booth bench that acts as both seating and storage, judging by the stack of papers that have fallen off the far end. “I don’t know if okay is how I would describe how I’m feeling right now. That was . . .”

  Her words taper off like she can’t find a suitable label for the last fifteen minutes. “Sexy?” I suggest, deadpan.

  Her pink lips part as her jaw drops in offense. “What? No!”

  I break, letting my infamous grin do its work, and she realizes I’m fucking with her. She bumps my shoulder with hers, looking slightly less shell-shocked. “That was insane. You are insane.”

  I shrug, intentionally drawling out extra slowly, “Aw, thanks.”

  “Seriously?” She sighs, shaking her head. “You didn’t have to . . . why did you . . . do that?”

  I sober up, looking at her evenly. “Look, I’m not some hothead asshole who goes around beating people up.” Her brows jump, arguing my assessment, and I correct myself. “Not anymore. But you shouldn’t have to put up with shit like that. That guy had it coming because I guarantee you that wasn’t the first time he’s pulled a stunt like that, but hopefully next time, he’ll have some second thoughts and make a better decision before laying hands on a woman without an explicit invitation.” I manage to bite my tongue and not add ‘and never touch you’, though that’s what’s rolling through my mind. That asshole thought he was worthy to touch her? No fucking way. I’m not either, but damned if I don’t want to. But I’ll wait for her signal, even if it guts me to delay a single moment.

  She’s quiet for a long heartbeat as her eyes search mine. Now that we’re in better lighting, I can see that they’re an unusual gray color and currently filled with confusion.

  “That’s unexpectedly . . . nice. I think?”

  I can feel my insides twisting and turning as she tries to put the jagged and worn puzzle pieces together to solve me.

  Good luck, sweetheart. I gave up on that a long time ago.

  Wanting to wade back to safer territory, I drop my eyes to her lips, remembering the almost-kiss we shared earlier. Attraction, I understand. Lust, I recognize.

  There it is, the green light I’m looking for. Her breath hitches, her lips parting a millimeter I want to measure with my tongue.

  I lift my hand to cup her cheek and flinch as I bend my fingers a bit too fast. She sees it and grabs my wrist.

  “Let me get you doctored up.”

  Kiss, foiled again.

  She wipes an alcohol pad over my knuckles then smooths on ointment with a delicate touch. Her teeth bite into her bottom lip as she concentrates, doing some magic trick with a regular band-aid that makes it cover the one knuckle I split open.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. Our thighs are pressed together, and she’s cradling my hand in her lap, staring at it instead of looking at me. If I weren’t currently feeling my heartbeat in my knuckles, I might consider sliding that hand up her thigh. Her very bare, toned, tanned thigh that’s so temptingly close.

  Slow down. You’ve been warned twice about her. Don’t scare her off.

  “You ready to go, or do you need to close up first?” I say lightly, easing her into this but well aware that I’m not giving her a choice. It’s a trick I learned from watching my sister-in-law, Allyson, with her son. Don’t give options you don’t want them to pick. Never say ‘you want broccoli or fries’ because everyone will pick the fries. Instead, offer ‘broccoli with butter or cheese’ so that it’s broccoli no matter what.

  Willow’s only option is now or later, not never.

  “Go where?”

  Thank you, Allyson! The psychology tricks she plays on Cooper, and fine, me and my brothers too, worked for me this time because Willow didn’t even try to say no.

  “Welcome Wagon tour of Great Falls. I’ll show you everything—the best places to eat, where to take pictures, the best shopping area, where to take pictures, downtown Great Falls, where to take pictures.” I’m not stupid, and I know the key to getting her excited. If photography is her thing, I’ll exploit the hell out of it to get her to say yes right now.

  “It’s the middle of the night. I’m not going anywhere but home.”

  “Or we could check out all those places, and I’ll tell you everything you could ever want to know about Great Falls. Then we can eat fresh doughnuts, pink with sprinkles, of course,” I say, letting her know I haven’t forgotten her earlier confession, “and watch the sun rise. That’d make great pictures.”

  Her light touch traces along the calluses on my fingertips, swirling and teasing as though she’s learning my skin. But I can sense the turmoil inside her, the desire to say yes warring with a need to say no.

  “Are you usually this friendly and welcoming with newcomers?” she says behind a shy smile, melting for me by degrees.

  Chuckling, I confess, “Not at all. I’m more a ‘silent but deadly’ type, but you’re special.”

  Her jaw goes rigid and her eyes narrow. “You can stop whatever game you’re playing.”

  She hasn’t moved an inch, but there’s an instant, yawning void between us and I don’t know how I fucked up. She closes the first aid kit and stands, trying to put it back in Hank’s desk.

  Elbows on my knees and hands clasped between them, I silently watch her fumbling with the contents of the overstuffed drawer.

  She gets the kit situated and shuts the drawer with a slam that feels like an alarm bell going off. Leaning a hip against the desk, her arms crossed over her chest defensively, she locks her eyes on me. They swirl like a mood ring, tortured and thoughtful.

  I get the feeling she has no idea how gorgeous she is and has no defense against someone like me other than being enticingly skittish. But I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. I won’t be like Joe, thinking that I’m entitled to her just because I want her.

  But fuck, I want her.

  I haven’t been this instantly attracted to someone in . . . maybe ever. I don’t know what it is about her. She’s more cute than hot, more sweet than sassy, and it’s entirely possible that a rough cowboy like me might not be what she wants at all. But I’m willing to try, again and again, because something in that soft smile tells me she’ll be worth it.

  I dig deep, searching for words on demand, which is not something I’m good at by any measure. Studied, practiced, written and rewritten phrases I can do, but turning the jumble of images and thoughts in my head into something that expresses them to someone else in the moment is unfathomably difficult. And it’s why I usually just keep my mouth shut.

  “What just happened? I’m not playing games.” I copy her words, keeping my voice steady and low, “but if I said something wrong, I’m sorry.”

  I honestly can’t remember the last time I apologized. For anything.

  “It’s fine. I need to go help Unc with closing. I’m sure you know your way out.”

  Every word is crisp and clipped, and she doesn’t seem to suffer from the same affliction as I do. She is saying exactly what she means, dismissing me as she walks out the door with her head held high.

  Total crash and burn.

  I’m three cups of coffee in and it’s barely past sunrise. The sunrise I should’ve spent watching Willow snap away on her camera. It was a damn gorgeous one too, with pinks and oranges lighting up the purple sky like blooming fire I wish she’d seen. But I feel like I’m the one who missed out, not her. Because she’s probably at home, warm and snuggled in her bed, and I’m out here in the fields.

  “What crawled up your ass?” Brutal asks.

  Oh, yeah, and I’m not alone to wallow in my failure, either. I’ve got my older brother trying to figure out what pissed in my cereal this morning and I don’t even eat cereal.

  “Nothing,” I snap, focusing on the plums from the handful of trees we’re harvesting today.

  “Hey, think fast!” That’s all the warning I get before one of the fruits is hurtling straight toward my head.

  Reflexively, I catch it, pain shooting through my knuckle. I toss the plum to the bucket that’s already half-full. My sister, Shayanne, is going to have enough to make a fair amount of jam. She sells it at the local farmer’s market, to the restaurant at the tourist-filled resort in town, and to folks all over Great Falls and Morristown.

  “What’d you do to your hand?”

  “I didn’t know it was twenty-questions day. My hand’s fine.”

  I yanked the Band-Aid off as I got dressed this morning, not wanting to invite questions. But Brutal’s got eagle eyes and probably noticed some small detail, like the speed of the middle finger I flip him or the tightness in my fist as I pluck plums, and that was enough to clue him in that something’s wrong.

  He hums his disagreement and is quiet for a moment, seeing if I’ll fill in the blanks. When I don’t, he theorizes for me.

  “You played at Hank’s last night. Fan’s jealous husband?”

  I told Willow that I’m not a hothead who throws hands all the time, but it probably says something about my family that it’s an often-enough occurrence that we don’t so much as blink when it happens. Another day, another tussle, sometimes with each other, sometimes with someone else.

  I cut my eyes his way, throwing daggers that should shut him up. Instead, he takes my glare as an answer about the imaginary jealous husband.

  “Or not. Well, you didn’t get arrested, so it must not have been too bad. And you don’t have a scratch on you, other than the swollen knuckles, so the other guy must’ve been a pussy.”

  He’s trying to throw me off. It won’t work.

  “Unless you started it and took him out with one sucker punch?”

  “I know better. I let him throw the first punch—weak, like the guy.” Fine, it worked. And now I’m amped up again, growling, “Asshole had the new bartender bouncing in his lap like a fucking Tilt-a-Whirl.”

  Brutal grins, knowing he got me. To anyone else, his smile looks like a promise of death and dismemberment, but I’m not scared of him, even if he is a huge motherfucker who looks like he eats steel for breakfast and shits out bolts. The men in our family aren’t known for being tall, dark, and handsome. It’s more like tall, dark, and scary, each of us damn near replicas of our dad’s black hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, and broad build. Brutal’s the scariest of us all until you get to know him, then you see that he’s the mushiest guy ever, wrapped around his wife and son’s fingers.

  “I saw one of those carnival rides when I took Allyson and Cooper to the fair. They wouldn’t let me on, said I ‘exceeded the weight limit’ or some shit.” He throws up dirt- and sap-covered fingers in air quotes, rolling his eyes. When he sees the set of my jaw, he laughs. “Not the point, got it. New bartender, asshole, Tilt-a-Whirl. I vote we talk about the new bartender because I didn’t think Hank would ever hire help.”