Read Online Save Me, Santa: A Chirstmas Anthology of Romance & Suspense by Rita Herron, Lois Lavrisa, Nina Bruhns, Ann Charles, Patricia Mason - Free Book Online Page B
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an accident. How many times do I have to tell you I’m sorry?”
“Every time my scar throbs.” He leaned against the bar, watching the mop-head move back and forth. “I sure wish you had that damned shotgun of yours handy.”
I winked at him. “What makes you think I don’t?”
“That’s my girl.”
The bell over the door jingled.
“Bar’s closed,” I hollered.
“Hello, Montana.” The deep voice nearly stopped my heart. I turned slowly, squeezing the mop handle in a death grip. “Aren’t you going to welcome me home with open arms?”
“Well, well, well,” Buffalo said, his tone low. “Look what Santa left behind for you, Monty, some achy-breaky heartachey. You must have been extra naughty this year.” He slid me a grin. “I told you to stop talking bad about Aunt Harriet.”
I growled in the back of my throat as Joel walked closer, shucking his thick coat. With his ruffled midnight-black hair, stubble-covered square jaw, and emerald green eyes, he looked like sin in the skin, all cock of the walk.
But when he stopped in front of me, I noticed the crows’ feet bracketing his eyes, showing a tension that his big, easy grin couldn’t hide.
Don’t say it’s a fine morning or I’ll shoot ya , I heard John Wayne say in my head. “I said the bar’s closed.”
“I heard you, Shooter.” His use of my childhood nickname prickled my pucker. He patted Buffalo on the back. “Hey, Buff, you given any thought to my investment offer for the ol’ Goldwash Grand?”
Buffalo had recently “retired” after making a shitload of money in software development over in Silicon Valley and was blowing it all on fixing up the local historic hotel, which needed a lot of love and a wad of cash after sitting in the Nevada sun and wind for the last forty years.
“I don’t feel right taking money from friends or family.”
“Hey!” I gaped at Buffalo. “What about that fifty bucks you still owe me?”
“Well, your money feels just fine, Monty.”
Buffalo turned back to Joel. “How are those Vegas lights?”
“Too damned bright and crowded,” Joel answered Buffalo, but his green eyes held mine captive, fire burning in their depths like usual whenever he tried to sex my boots off. “Not enough big blue sky there.”
I curled my toes, holding on to my boots and my heart.
“What do you want, Joel?” I asked, not mincing words.
His gaze hovered on the front of my T-shirt. “I missed you, too, Montana.”
The asshole had a lot of nerve, strutting back into my world and throwing hungry looks in my direction.
I let the mop handle fall against the bar and walked around to the wall full of liquor bottles. Eenie-meenie-minie-moe. I grabbed a bottle of whiskey, sending him a stink-eyed glance. “Go back to the bright lights, Joel. It took me long enough to scrape you off the bottom of my boots last time you came around.”
Buffalo whistled between his teeth. “She ain’t pullin’ her punches tonight, Joel.”
“Come on, Shooter,” Joel said. “Is that any way to treat a guy just out of the cold on Christmas Eve? Where’s your holiday spirit?”
“Brunhilda ate it,” Buffalo said.
Brunhilda swiveled an ear in our direction.
I poured myself a shot, my trembling hand itching to pour the amber liquor over Joel’s head. How dare he show his mug in here after kicking me in the teeth the last time we talked?
The phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID—unlisted number again. Damn it!
Reaching over, I grabbed the phone base, tore it off the wall, threw it on the floor, and stomped down on it with my heel.
“Breathe all over that, jerkoff,” I said and tossed back the shot of whiskey. It burned a path all the way down, slamming into my toes.
With a tight smile for Buffalo, then Joel, I said, “You both need to get out of my bar before I fill you full of holes.”
“She ain’t bluffing,” Buffalo said. “She’s got her shotgun with her.”
“What’s up with the phone, Montana?”
“Every time my scar throbs.” He leaned against the bar, watching the mop-head move back and forth. “I sure wish you had that damned shotgun of yours handy.”
I winked at him. “What makes you think I don’t?”
“That’s my girl.”
The bell over the door jingled.
“Bar’s closed,” I hollered.
“Hello, Montana.” The deep voice nearly stopped my heart. I turned slowly, squeezing the mop handle in a death grip. “Aren’t you going to welcome me home with open arms?”
“Well, well, well,” Buffalo said, his tone low. “Look what Santa left behind for you, Monty, some achy-breaky heartachey. You must have been extra naughty this year.” He slid me a grin. “I told you to stop talking bad about Aunt Harriet.”
I growled in the back of my throat as Joel walked closer, shucking his thick coat. With his ruffled midnight-black hair, stubble-covered square jaw, and emerald green eyes, he looked like sin in the skin, all cock of the walk.
But when he stopped in front of me, I noticed the crows’ feet bracketing his eyes, showing a tension that his big, easy grin couldn’t hide.
Don’t say it’s a fine morning or I’ll shoot ya , I heard John Wayne say in my head. “I said the bar’s closed.”
“I heard you, Shooter.” His use of my childhood nickname prickled my pucker. He patted Buffalo on the back. “Hey, Buff, you given any thought to my investment offer for the ol’ Goldwash Grand?”
Buffalo had recently “retired” after making a shitload of money in software development over in Silicon Valley and was blowing it all on fixing up the local historic hotel, which needed a lot of love and a wad of cash after sitting in the Nevada sun and wind for the last forty years.
“I don’t feel right taking money from friends or family.”
“Hey!” I gaped at Buffalo. “What about that fifty bucks you still owe me?”
“Well, your money feels just fine, Monty.”
Buffalo turned back to Joel. “How are those Vegas lights?”
“Too damned bright and crowded,” Joel answered Buffalo, but his green eyes held mine captive, fire burning in their depths like usual whenever he tried to sex my boots off. “Not enough big blue sky there.”
I curled my toes, holding on to my boots and my heart.
“What do you want, Joel?” I asked, not mincing words.
His gaze hovered on the front of my T-shirt. “I missed you, too, Montana.”
The asshole had a lot of nerve, strutting back into my world and throwing hungry looks in my direction.
I let the mop handle fall against the bar and walked around to the wall full of liquor bottles. Eenie-meenie-minie-moe. I grabbed a bottle of whiskey, sending him a stink-eyed glance. “Go back to the bright lights, Joel. It took me long enough to scrape you off the bottom of my boots last time you came around.”
Buffalo whistled between his teeth. “She ain’t pullin’ her punches tonight, Joel.”
“Come on, Shooter,” Joel said. “Is that any way to treat a guy just out of the cold on Christmas Eve? Where’s your holiday spirit?”
“Brunhilda ate it,” Buffalo said.
Brunhilda swiveled an ear in our direction.
I poured myself a shot, my trembling hand itching to pour the amber liquor over Joel’s head. How dare he show his mug in here after kicking me in the teeth the last time we talked?
The phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID—unlisted number again. Damn it!
Reaching over, I grabbed the phone base, tore it off the wall, threw it on the floor, and stomped down on it with my heel.
“Breathe all over that, jerkoff,” I said and tossed back the shot of whiskey. It burned a path all the way down, slamming into my toes.
With a tight smile for Buffalo, then Joel, I said, “You both need to get out of my bar before I fill you full of holes.”
“She ain’t bluffing,” Buffalo said. “She’s got her shotgun with her.”
“What’s up with the phone, Montana?”
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