Текст книги "Change Rein"

Автор книги: Anne Jolin

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Looking up at him, I feel so guilty for the time with my family my ambition has cost me.

“At least for a little while.” He winks.

After throwing my arms up around his neck, I squeeze him as hard as I can without hurting myself. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he says back, his jaw tight. Daddy’s never been good with crying daughters.

“Can we eat already?” Owen whines.

I turn just in time to see Aurora whack him in the back of the head with her oven mitt.

“They were having a moment, you ass clown.”

I’m home.

Edmonton, Alberta

“DO I SOUND LIKE I give a shit?” I bark into the receiver.

“It’s illegal.”

After turning the phone on speaker, I toss it onto the bathroom counter. “Quit pretending you have a moral compass, Francis,” I huff, sliding my dress shirt up my back, leaving it unbuttoned in the front. “I want the accident to run in this week’s Sunday paper.”

“It’s going to cost you, Tucker.”

Angling my chin to the side, I eye the two-day-old stubble shadowing my jaw in the mirror. “Whatever it costs, get it done.”

“Do you want any”—he hesitates, clearing his throat—“casualties?”

As I grab the edge of my marble counter, my knuckles turn white. “Not a hair harmed, Francis.” My voice is heavy with barely harnessed fury at the mere suggestion. “You’d do well to pass that down the line, as I’ll no doubt seek retribution for any losses I incur.”

“Yes, sir.”

After ending the call, I snag the tie on the counter and hang it over the back of my neck. I’m so distracted these days that I can barely get anything done. The least of which seems to be dressing myself.

Grabbing my Armani suit coat off the edge of my bed, I eye the newspaper article beside it. For two weeks, I’ve carried the catastrophe with me everywhere. Looking at it now overwhelms me with equal parts anger and lust. The absurdity of its claims is absolute bullshit, but the underlying depth of beauty still manages to overshadow it. Nonetheless, I’ll have his head on a platter in due time, even if I have to pay someone to cut it off and serve it to me.

“Breakfast, sir?” my housekeeper offers when the heels of my cowboy boots ring out on the kitchen tile.

“No, thank you, Sarah.”

The older woman scowls at me, never happy when I skip breakfast.

“I’ll be out of town for the remainder of the week. Go spend some time with your family.”

“I couldn’t hardly. There’s so much to do—”

“Your son is here.” Looking up from working the knot on my tie, I can see the confusion on her face. “His visa has been pushed through. In fact”—I lift my sleeve to check the time on my watch—“his flight’s arriving in less than an hour.” Stepping forward, I lean down, kissing her once on the cheek. “There’s a car waiting outside to take you to the airport. I’ll see you in a few weeks’ time.”

Sarah has been my housekeeper, cook, and friend for the last nine years. Her son has been unsuccessfully trying to immigrate from Greece on a student visa. So I had a friend of a friend push the paperwork through as a favor.

“Come back here, you rascal!” she shrieks, all five-foot-one of her scurrying up behind me. “Eat,” she demands, shoving a bagel into the outside pocket of my briefcase. “And thank you.” Her bottom lip wobbles as tears pool in her eyes.

I kiss her once more on the top of her head. “It’s my pleasure. If you need more time to get him settled, let me know,” I say before stepping around her and opening the door to my attached garage.

Some might think it’s particularly odd that I have a four-car garage but only two vehicles. However, my architect would hear of nothing smaller during the design of the house. I believe he said it was imperative that someone of my wealth and subsequent status have more than two doors. I came close to kicking his mouthy, money-grubbing ass off my property, but he managed to save himself. Selling me on the idea when he asked where my wife would park if I only had two. Do I have a wife? No. Nonetheless, the point was a solid one.

After rounding the front of my red convertible Corvette, I slide onto the tan leather seat and toss my briefcase onto the passenger’s seat. After pressing the garage door opener on my visor, I roll the engine over while the morning light floods the room. It’s been a particularly hot summer in Alberta, wildfires clearing out massive areas at a time without much warning. I can feel the strength behind the sun as I pull out into the driveway.

The car I sent for Sarah is gone, so I take a minute to admire the home I had built nearly ten years ago. In fact, it’ll be ten years come October, the same month as my thirty-third birthday. If anything, I’ve grown to love it more every day.

The roughly eight-thousand-square-foot log home sits on nearly three hundred acres of farmland. The entire house is encased in floor-to-ceiling windows that run in line with the triangle-shaped roof. The red front door was my mother’s idea, as was the fountain in the middle of the circular driveway. While I’ll admit I balked at the idea at first, the result is gorgeous. The stone fountain is a roughly eight-foot-high horse rearing onto its back legs, and water cascades around it into the pool below during the summer. Either that or the deck running the expanse of the house is my favorite feature.

I let the vehicle pick up speed as I drive through the tree clearing towards the stables. While real estate may be what made me what’s considered a tycoon around these parts, my passion for horses keeps me sane. My parents still live on the ranch I grew up on in Coal Hill, approximately an hour’s drive from Edmonton, and although my property is much larger than theirs now, I work tirelessly to keep the same family atmosphere among the men and women under my employment.

As of today, I own thirty-seven thoroughbred racehorses in various stages of their careers. Ten are currently racing and boarded at Hastings Racetrack. While the other twenty-seven remain on my personal grounds, some are too young to race, and others have long since seen their name in lights. However, unlike most of the rich jerk-offs at the track, I don’t sell my older horses to the highest bidder without giving a shit where they’ll go—a glue factory specifically being of concern. I keep them, all of my horses. When their racing days are over, they’re put out to pasture and ridden by my nieces and nephews, but never once are they sold.

Horses are family.

You don’t sell family.

Charlotte, the barn manager, waves from her office window as I pass. Sliding my black Ray-Bans down over my nose, I nod once at her before turning left out towards the highway, no doubt to her dismay. We spent one night together a few years back, and sometimes, she wishes it were more than that. She’s a lovely woman, and while most men would love to bed or wed her, the case for me is neither. Frankly, she caught me on a bad night after one-too-many glasses of bourbon and the loss of one of my oldest horses. I was broken and lonely, welcoming the comfort of an old friend, although it became more than old friends that night.

I’ve grown into the kind of man that doesn’t sleep around. It was perhaps a fault of mine for a brief period in college, but besides that, it’s hardly been my taste to bed women I don’t see a future with. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that the offers don’t come, but it seems hollow, and having come from a family with parents whose love seemed like the world revolved around it or would stop turning without it, that’s what I craved, but damned if God himself would see it fit to give or grant me that.

More often than not, I take Street, my horse, out for a ride each morning before making my way into the office. The fresh air and the space narrow my focus on the agenda for the remainder of my day. However, like everything else in my life, the ability to ride horses has been overshadowed by the one thing constantly nagging at my brain. Come Sunday, it will hardly be of concern. For, within a week’s time, I’ll take the first step towards righting the wrong that consumes my normally unrelenting, focused brain.

I’m a man familiar with getting what he wants.

This would be no exception.

“GIRLS!” MY FATHER’S VOICE BOOMS through the smaller barn, where I am organizing buckets for tomorrow’s Monday morning feeding.

I pop my head around the corner of the feed room door, wincing at his second harsh call. “Geez.” I step into the aisleway, scrunching my nose up and shaking my head. “Right here.”

“Yell a little louder, Daddy. I don’t think Hank heard you,” Aurora whines from a nearby stall, referring to one of our three miniature ponies. While Willy and Waylon are old but sound, Hank happens to be deaf and quite pesky, really—hence the reference.

“Hardy har har.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m calling a family meeting. There’s something we need to discuss. Your brother is on his way over. Finish up and come on over to the house.” Pausing, he looks us both in the eyes from underneath the brim of his ball cap. “I mean it, girls. No dillydallying. This is important.”

Instead of waiting for us to answer, he stalks from the barn as quickly as he entered it.

“What in Heaven’s name could that be about?” my sister asks, leaning her hip against the stall she was cleaning, chucking her pitchfork into the wheelbarrow.

Shrugging, I look at where Daddy walked out of the barn. “Not a clue.” We had dinner less than two hours ago, so what could have possibly changed in that short amount of time? Her guess was as good as mine.

It was Sunday already. I’ve been home for a little over a week, and Achilles, my butt pillow, and I are settling in just fine. I’m not allowed to clean stalls, move hay, or lift anything heavy, so instead of feeling useless, I spend my days taking care of the smaller tasks, which are fewer and farther between than I remember.

In the mornings, I was helping Aurora with the grain feeding, occasionally the turnout too, but after a few days of that, my back began acting up and I was put on even more modified duty: grooming horses, ordering new supply, and some free lunging of any of the horses that require exercise, including Chil. He hasn’t been ridden since my fall, and even thought I know that isn’t a good thing—for either of us—I can’t bring myself to ask anyone else to ride him. It’s only ever been me, been us.

Twenty minutes later, Aurora steps into the feed room. “The stalls are done. You ready?” she asks, wiping the dirt from her hands on her jeans before shoving them into her front pockets.

After lining up the last of the now-labeled containers on the shelf, I rest my hands on my hips. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” I follow behind her to the green gator we use to get around the property, huffing as I position the junk in my trunk on top of the elusive ass pillow.

“Have you been into town at all?” she questions, driving the howling hunk of junk towards the house.

Picking at the rip in the knee of my jeans, I fight against the urge to fidget. I know full well the actions will only serve to irritate both my injuries and me. “No.”

“You’ll have to go eventually.”

Rolling my shoulders back in an effort to exude more confidence, I shake my head. “To give the small town vultures a chance to pick apart what’s left of my dignity and career in person? I think I’ll pass.”

“You’re only making it worse by hiding out. You’re becoming some kind of attraction by staying holed up here. They need to see you. They need to see it hasn’t broken you.”

I don’t even consider answering her—for the simple fact I’m afraid to tell her it may have indeed broken me, at least more so than anything before.

“I’m meeting some of the girls at the Sundance tonight. They’re doing karaoke. Come with us.”

I open my mouth, an assault of excuses ranging from a sore ass to a headache on the tip of my tongue, but she abruptly pumps the brakes, turning almost fully in her seat to look at me.

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” I shrug.

As she pokes my chest with her finger, she loses the battle with the moisture in her eyes. “Letting this become you . . .” She struggles with her words, repeatedly fluttering her eyelids. When the familiar blue stares back at me this time, it’s with more fire than she usually harbors. “You’re not this person”—she now waves her hand in front of me—“and you’re not the person in that article, either. So let them choke on their ignorance. Heaven is filled with redeemed sinners sporting crooked halos, and your sins or mistakes hardly stack up to those of others. None of us are perfect, London, so to Hell with the bastards. It’s not your job to make them understand. You’re not the asshole whisperer.”

Clenching my jaw to ward the threatening tears off, I nod. “A saint, a sinner, and a cowboy—Lord have mercy, Daddy has his hands full.”

“So, you’ll come?” she urges.

I’ll admit I’m still furiously unsure about whether the idea is good, but my sister is a saint, and she just pulled her guns out for me. Seems downright unsisterly to tell her no.

“I’ll come,” I say, giving in.

Without any warning, she morphs back into her dominant personality and enthusiastically claps her hands. “Then let’s get this godforsaken meeting over with so I can laugh at your attempt to sing Shania Twain,” she deadpans, pressing the gas pedal down and lurching us forward.

“I need you all to understand it hasn’t been an easy year,” Daddy says, pulling his Edmonton Oilers ball cap off and running his hand over his head.

Uncertainty is rolling off him in waves, and that alone making us all uncomfortable. It’s unlike Larry Daniels to exude any emotion of the sort.

“With the economy the way it is, people aren’t boarding their horses at stables like ours anymore.” He pauses uncomfortably.

“What’s going on, Dad? Just tell us,” Owen rumbles, leaning back in his chair.

Aurora pulls her chair around before resting a hand on his forearm. “Is everything okay?”

“Daddy?” I prompt.

He looks up at me from across the kitchen table as I lean my elbows onto the wood.

“Share the weight.”

“The barn has been running me into the ground. At the rate we’ve been going, especially with the cost of repairs to prepare for the coming winter, I would have to remortgage the property to keep us afloat.” The hit it’s taking on his pride to tell us this is waging a war of emotions on his face. “However, it would seem lady luck is on our side, which I like to think of as your mother watching out for us. A gentleman has approached me with another offer, but I want us to agree on it as a family.”

Leaning his forearms onto the table, Owen furrows his brow. “What’s the offer?”

“The assistant for a Mr. Tucker out of Edmonton called after dinner. It would seem her boss lost his stable to a fire yesterday.”

Aurora gasps, covering her mouth with her hand at the same time I wince. I know what she’s thinking, because I’m thinking it too. Were any horses hurt?

“Thankfully, no one was injured in the fire, but he’s in need of a property to board his twenty-seven horses that is available immediately. We are one of the few stables in the province with enough space and amenities for Mr. Tucker’s racehorses to continue their usual training and management for the winter during the time it will take him to build a new barn in the old one’s place.

“While Mr. Tucker would employ his trainers and groomers, we will still be shorthanded when it comes to tending to that many horses as well as our own at once. We haven’t had a farmhand in years though. If we were to go through with the offer, I can look into hiring one, but until that should happen, it will require more work from all of us to maintain the property.” He pauses to look us all in the eyes. “You are in no way obligated to saddle yourself with this responsibility. If any of you are uncomfortable with this as a solution, we will not proceed. My children come before my pride.”

Owen is the first to speak. “Next weekend is the windup for the rodeo out in Edmonton, and then I’m done for the year, Dad. I’ll bring the trailer over when that’s done and park it around back.” He tips his cowboy hat towards the man he mirrors so much. “I’m all yours, old man.”

Laying her head on his shoulder, Aurora wraps her arms around one of his. “Me too.”

“Me three,” I say, taking his hand in mine from across the table.

My heart compresses at the thought of the man I love so much harboring this while my dreams bled him dry of money. Sure, Momma had life insurance. Daddy split it among the three of us and into separate trusts, but he never once let any of us dip into that if he could help it. He always said the trusts were a representation of our futures. The money was for us to buy houses and start families of our own with someone who loved us as much as he loved our mother.

“I’ll call Mr. Tucker’s assistant back with our answer then.” The relief surrounding him is palpable in the air.

The only thing more present in our kitchen is love.

I’VE BEEN PACING THE LENGTH of this god-awful hotel room for nearly two hours. While patience has never been a virtue of mine, the lack of it in this moment feels like it’s trying to suffocate me.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I tug at the knot in my tie and flick the top two buttons of my dress shirt open in an effort to promote breathing, as I seem to have forgotten how to do that as well.

It was eager, or perhaps stupid, of me to have jumped the gun like this, but my emotions were a wreck. Reckless is hardly a choice word used to describe my personality, but in this moment, it is of the utmost accuracy. The unsteady roil of feelings trying to purge from my chest are scaring me, and I am feeding their starved attachments like a foolish child.

My iPhone wails on the bedside table, a welcome interruption to the mental chastising rattling around inside my skull. I withstand the urge to lunge for it, instead picking it up and resuming my pacing.

“Tucker,” I answer.

“Good evening, sir. The call you’ve been waiting for came in a few minutes ago,” Lydia, my assistant, informs me.

As I pinch the bridge of my nose, anxiety at the thought of this having not worked swarms me. Truthfully, I never expected the man would have to discuss it with his children.

“And?” I snap.

“Larry Daniels has accepted your offer.”

I run my hand up to the top of my head, fisting it into my hair. Thank fucking Christ.

“Wonderful. Thank you, Lydia.” Calmness makes its way back into my tone. “Please have everything scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. You can coordinate with Charlotte as she’ll need to be in the loop for transport.”

“Of course. Will that be all?”

Leaning my back against the wall, I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear, unbuttoning the remainder of my shirt. “That will be all. Sorry to keep you so late on a Sunday.”

“Perfectly fine, sir. Goodnight.”

I vaguely hear the line go dead before tossing the phone back onto the bed. There’s an energy building inside me that, no matter what I do, I can’t seem to burn off.

I’m nervous.

That’s another feeling I’ll admit I’m not used to, and the anxiety surrounding it is increasing.

I need a drink.

After unbuttoning my slacks, I let them pool on the floor, knowing full well I’ll stick out like a dirty shirt dressed like that in this town.

After changing into a pair of Wranglers and a black t-shirt, I sit on the bed again to pull my cowboy boots on. Satisfied I can find a place to soothe my aching chest within walking distance, I forgo car keys and slide my wallet and my room key into the back pocket of my jeans.

When I reach the lobby, I nod towards the eager hostess, who’s beaming at me.

“How is your room, Mr. Tucker?”

“Lovely, ma’am. Thank you.”

Her eyes widen as I make my way over to her desk, and I withhold the urge to shake my head at her. “Manners make a gentleman,” my mother often reminded us children.

“Is there anywhere nearby to get a drink?” I ask, politely removing any flirtatious vibe from my tone. Although, these days, most women can twist even simple kindness into something it’s not.

The men who make them feel that desperate for affection are hardly men in my opinion. Weren’t raised by fathers like mine, I suppose.

“Oh yes,” she sighs, her voice breathy. “The Sundance is just about a kilometer up the road—only bar in town. Can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” I tip my hat towards her before making my way to the exit.

“Mr. Tucker?” she calls out behind me.

Stopping, I look over my shoulder, nodding for her to continue.

“I’m off in just a few minutes if you need a date,” she purrs, suggestively propping her breasts on top of the counter.

“Thank you for the offer, ma’am.” I smile as the thoughts form on my tongue. “I’ve already got a date though. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

The last thing I see before stepping out into the warm August air is the furrowing of her brow.

Hell, I don’t blame her. The whole thing is confusing me too.

The girl is right, though—just shy of a kilometer up the main drag, the familiar neon lights glow bright. It’s nine-thirty when I finally put a boot down on the beat-up hardwood floor. Heaven only knows what glass and brawls the grain in that wood has seen.

The bar is loud—exceptionally loud for a Sunday night in a small town, I figure. Nonetheless, my ears appreciate the twang and steel guitar coming through the speakers. My tense shoulders relax with the music.

Resting my forearms on the bar, I lean forward and wait as a petite redhead makes her way towards me.

“What can I get you, sugar?” she asks.

Lifting two fingers, I nod towards the bar behind her. “Bourbon, please.”

She pours the amber liquid into a short glass before passing it over the counter. “That’ll be twelve.”

After passing her a twenty from my wallet, I shake my head as the pretty, young thing tries to give me change. Just as she’s about to speak, the knucklehead wobbling on his stool beside me pipes up.

“R-e-e-d,” he slurs. “One more, baby.”

I don’t know how much he’s had, but the woman before me hardly seems like she fits such a masculine name.

“You’ve long since been cut off, Frank. Go on home.”

She turns to walk away, but the good-for-nothing idiot reaches over the bar, grabbing her bicep.

“Don’t be such a bitch, Reed,” he snaps.

I wait for the fear to build in her eyes. He’s a big guy, and he’s absolutely had a few too many. But it never comes.

“You have three seconds to remove your hands from my body, Frank, or I’ll have Mack haul your ass out of here. You hear me?” She leans into his face.

I can’t fight the smirk on my face when he uncurls his hand and shrinks back into his seat.

“Don’t you think you owe the lady an apology?” I ask, not looking up from my glass.

I feel his eyes sizing up the competition. He must determine it’s not worth it, because his stool scrapes across the floor.

“Sorry,” he says begrudgingly before vacating his seat.

“Thank you,” the bartender says.

I look up at hazel eyes. Shaking my head, I chuckle. “Seems to me like you had everything handled just fine on your own. Deserved an apology is all.”

“Reed Hennessy,” she says, reaching her hand over the bar. “I own the Sundance, and that there”—she nods towards the brute of a man coming towards us—“is my brother.”

After swallowing the contents of my glass, I put my much larger hand in hers. “Branson Tucker.”

It’s hard to see the resemblance between the two as her brother leans his hip against the counter beside me. “You good, Reed?” His face hardens in question.

“I’m good.” She nods. “Meet the out-of-towner, Branson Tucker.”

“Mackenzie Hennessy,” he clips out, shaking my hand with a firm grip. “You can call me Mack so long as you’re here.”

I fall into easy conversation with the sibling duo, and a few glasses of bourbon later, I’m about ready to call it quits for the evening. Then a god-awful sound crawls through the speakers.

Tap. Tap. Tap. “Is this thing on?” a pretty voice says, talking too closely into the microphone.

After turning around, I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against the bar to watch.

“You see, I . . .” Her voice drops off as she argues with someone offstage and out of my line of vision. “I promised my big sister it was karaoke night tonight.” She stumbles a little. “So,” she says, pointing her finger out towards the crowd, “whaddaya say, Hennessy? How ’bout a little Shania Twain?”

Something about her appearance nags me, but I’m distracted when Reed mumbles, “Oh, lord.” She sighs before nodding towards Mack. “Go on and set it up for ’em. Poor girl’s had a rough one. She wants to embarrass herself on stage, let her do it.”

It only takes Mack a few minutes to get the old school karaoke machine set up, and as he puts in the song they were looking for, the blonde onstage motions for someone to join her. When she furrows her brow, I think she’s given up, but then she points towards Mack.

“Help a girl out?” She smiles.

The bastard caves almost immediately.

The whole thing is too darn funny—drinks and a show.

I can see the top of his cowboy hat move through the crowd. He must find who he’s looking for, because I hear a squeal as he hoists another blonde girl onto the stage.

The girl’s back is to me, her thin frame staggering a little. From the way neither can seem to stand without swaying, I’d guess they won’t be remembering much of anything come morning.

“Ladies and gents.” The girl with my microphone winks. “Let’s give a big ol’ round of applause for . . . Drum roll, please?” she asks, and a few men oblige. “My big sister, Looooondooooooon Daniels.”

My heart unexpectedly slams into my ribcage as music floods the bar. I’m grateful as fuck for the barrier, or I’d be picking the organ in my chest off the floor right about now.

She slowly spins, a white summer dress moving against her skin, and I feel like I’m trying to breathe under water. She grabs the microphone from her sister and scowls as she finally faces the crowd, a flush of embarrassment staining her cheeks.

The blood in my entire body goes straight to my head, and I have to grip the bar behind me to keep my knees from buckling at the sight of her.

She’s perfect, gold like honey, and far more captivating in person than she has been in the media.

“Hi,” she giggles softly, batting her eyelids a little.

Her voice moves the blood to another part of my body, and I shift the weight between my boots in response. The room feels hotter than a goddamn two-dollar pistol. I can feel my heart beating inside my head.

She scrunches her nose up at the screen in front of her, desperately trying to focus. After missing the first few bars, she catches up and starts to sing. “I’m goin’ out tonight. I’m feelin’ all right. Gonna let it all hang out.”

Everyone, country music lovers or not, knows this goddamn song, but in this second, I can’t remember a single lyric to Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like A Woman.”

“Wanna make some noise, really raise my voice. Yeah, I wanna scream and shouuuuuuut.” She hollers along with the music, and Lord have mercy if she isn’t absolutely bloody awful. I don’t think the girl could carry a tune in a bucket, but she’s cute as hell.

She shuffles a little from side to side. Her long legs are encased in nearly knee-high, beat-up, red Durango cowboy boots.

Hell if I don’t want to marry her right on the damn spot.

Call me a stalker, or crown me the King of Creeps, but I had to meet her the moment I saw her on my television screen. And when I read that article, I could feel her personality through that ass clown’s unjust representation. Regardless, that’s the second I knew she would be mine.

My mother called those kinds of feelings fate, and right now, in this crowded, old bar on a Sunday night, listening to the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on butcher a classic country song, I am inclined to believe her.

“Did they drive here?” I raise my voice so Reed can hear me behind the bar. “Those girls?” I nod towards the stage.

“Hell no. Their daddy would tan their hide if they drove to the bar.” She laughs to herself like it’s something I should have known already.

“How’d they get here, then?” I know I sound nosy, but I’m two drinks and one right mind shy of caring.

Leaning onto the counter, she scans the crowd for a minute before pointing to a table off to the left of the stage. “See that cowboy?”

I nod, my gaze landing on a guy in a brown Stetson and plaid.

“That’s their ride.”

The temperature under my skin spikes and my hands curl into fists. I go to push off from the bar, but Reed’s tiny hands wrap around my forearm and pull me back.

“There ain’t no brawlin’ in my bar, no matter who you are.” She narrows her eyes at me.

“I wasn’t . . .”

Laughing, she cocks an eyebrow in my direction and subsequently drops my arm. “I spend seven nights a week servin’ drunks, and I’ve seen that look a million times before. Don’t go gettin’ bloody knuckles just yet. That’s their brother.”

“Oh.”

“Mm-hm, oh.” She shakes her head.

Every emotion coiling through my system spins completely out of control, and despite not wanting to take this moment back, I don’t want to meet her this way. Not when she won’t remember me.

No, I’ve waited nearly three weeks already. I can wait one more night.

After grabbing a business card from my wallet, I slide it across the bar. “If she looks like she’s gettin’ in anything but her brother’s truck at the end of the night, you best call me.”

Pushing off the bar, I take one last look at her on the stage.

London Daniels.

Not for long, little lady.

I am going to make her my wife someday.

I know it. ’Bout time she does too.