mustaches — plus a row of brass spittoons. Thank goodness the customers didn’t actually use
those
, except for the occasional tip.
“Spare-rib special for table four,” Jess hustled up to say.
“Pitcher of beer for table seven,” Janna added a second later. “Can you bring it to them, guys? I have to get the food.”
Simon looked blankly out over the saloon.
Sarah pointed. “Table seven — over there.”
“You already know the table numbers?” he gaped.
“Sure.” She counted them off. “Don’t you?”
The brothers exchanged weary looks. Soren went back to pouring drinks while Simon went off to deliver the beer, murmuring something about women. Or had he said wolves?
“Another couple of hours like this, and we’ll be able to afford that new bathroom,” Janna noted the next time she swept by.
Another couple of hours did pass, and they flew because Soren was right beside Sarah, practically brushing her elbow. In spite of her weary feet, her aching back, and the ringing in her ears from the hubbub all around, it felt good. They didn’t exchange a word — probably couldn’t have, given the noise level — or look at each other. But that just made it easier. Each of them went about work quietly, but that was enough. Something deep inside her hummed with sheer pleasure, as if they were cuddling on the mattress in the old cabin they used to sneak off to and not standing behind a bar.
Yes, she was kidding herself again. Yes, she knew the feeling wouldn’t last. But damn it, she’d take the little bits of goodness as they came and try to forget about the rest.
“Thanks, honey,” a man said, signing his bill.
Soren glared —
Honey?
— and all but showed his teeth.
That was just like the good old days, too, when he couldn’t stand seeing any other man come too close to her. So why, oh why, did he ever let her go? Why had he insisted on breaking up when he’d left Montana? Why did he tell her to find someone else? It didn’t add up.
She glanced over at Soren exactly as he turned away. When he turned back, he was inscrutable as ever. Maybe even more than ever. The man wore emotional armor thicker than buffalo hide. There’d been a time when he let her in, but now…
She closed her eyes, feeling all the regrets well up.
“Tip is for you, sweetheart,” a man at the bar said, and she snapped herself back to attention.
“Thanks.”
Janna winked from behind the man’s back. She’d brought the tip jar over from the café, and it was working its magic again. A born hustler, that Janna.
Sarah could sense Soren bristle every time a customer called her
honey
or
sweetie
or even
peaches
— which just about made her gag — but she put up with it because it was part of the job.
“Thank God we’re in the fourth quarter,” Jessica said, eyeing the TV screen.
They’d long since run out of spare ribs and desserts, but the crowd stayed on, drinking and cheering at the football game.
“Tip for the pretty lady,” the next customer said as he staggered up to the bar.
“Thanks,” she said in a flat voice while she made change.
“And for the baby,” the guy added, waggling his eyebrows.
She counted to five slowly. God, she hated the gleam in people’s eyes when they so obviously speculated about the act that created the baby rather than the child itself. As in, when and how and with whom.
Soren stood looming behind her — she could feel him there, with more than just body heat radiating off him — but the customer was too drunk to let up.
“That the lucky guy?” the man asked.
If Sarah could have wished herself to another part of the continent — or to a tiny cave where she could curl up and die, she would have.
Soren growled so deeply, she could feel it in her bones. She could picture the scene that was sure to unfold if she didn’t do anything. The customer would make another stupid remark, and Soren would lose it. He’d grab the guy by the collar and jeans and pick him up
those
, except for the occasional tip.
“Spare-rib special for table four,” Jess hustled up to say.
“Pitcher of beer for table seven,” Janna added a second later. “Can you bring it to them, guys? I have to get the food.”
Simon looked blankly out over the saloon.
Sarah pointed. “Table seven — over there.”
“You already know the table numbers?” he gaped.
“Sure.” She counted them off. “Don’t you?”
The brothers exchanged weary looks. Soren went back to pouring drinks while Simon went off to deliver the beer, murmuring something about women. Or had he said wolves?
“Another couple of hours like this, and we’ll be able to afford that new bathroom,” Janna noted the next time she swept by.
Another couple of hours did pass, and they flew because Soren was right beside Sarah, practically brushing her elbow. In spite of her weary feet, her aching back, and the ringing in her ears from the hubbub all around, it felt good. They didn’t exchange a word — probably couldn’t have, given the noise level — or look at each other. But that just made it easier. Each of them went about work quietly, but that was enough. Something deep inside her hummed with sheer pleasure, as if they were cuddling on the mattress in the old cabin they used to sneak off to and not standing behind a bar.
Yes, she was kidding herself again. Yes, she knew the feeling wouldn’t last. But damn it, she’d take the little bits of goodness as they came and try to forget about the rest.
“Thanks, honey,” a man said, signing his bill.
Soren glared —
Honey?
— and all but showed his teeth.
That was just like the good old days, too, when he couldn’t stand seeing any other man come too close to her. So why, oh why, did he ever let her go? Why had he insisted on breaking up when he’d left Montana? Why did he tell her to find someone else? It didn’t add up.
She glanced over at Soren exactly as he turned away. When he turned back, he was inscrutable as ever. Maybe even more than ever. The man wore emotional armor thicker than buffalo hide. There’d been a time when he let her in, but now…
She closed her eyes, feeling all the regrets well up.
“Tip is for you, sweetheart,” a man at the bar said, and she snapped herself back to attention.
“Thanks.”
Janna winked from behind the man’s back. She’d brought the tip jar over from the café, and it was working its magic again. A born hustler, that Janna.
Sarah could sense Soren bristle every time a customer called her
honey
or
sweetie
or even
peaches
— which just about made her gag — but she put up with it because it was part of the job.
“Thank God we’re in the fourth quarter,” Jessica said, eyeing the TV screen.
They’d long since run out of spare ribs and desserts, but the crowd stayed on, drinking and cheering at the football game.
“Tip for the pretty lady,” the next customer said as he staggered up to the bar.
“Thanks,” she said in a flat voice while she made change.
“And for the baby,” the guy added, waggling his eyebrows.
She counted to five slowly. God, she hated the gleam in people’s eyes when they so obviously speculated about the act that created the baby rather than the child itself. As in, when and how and with whom.
Soren stood looming behind her — she could feel him there, with more than just body heat radiating off him — but the customer was too drunk to let up.
“That the lucky guy?” the man asked.
If Sarah could have wished herself to another part of the continent — or to a tiny cave where she could curl up and die, she would have.
Soren growled so deeply, she could feel it in her bones. She could picture the scene that was sure to unfold if she didn’t do anything. The customer would make another stupid remark, and Soren would lose it. He’d grab the guy by the collar and jeans and pick him up
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