Chapter 2
“That dude bothering you?” Stan Morgan, the cook and proud owner of the Tumbleweed Tavern, held the swinging door for Bea to enter the kitchen.
She grabbed the mop and ducked past Stan. “No, I think he was flirting with me.”
“Think?” Stan snorted and crossed to the grill. He grabbed a scraper and pushed it across the metal surface once and paused. “Either he was, or he wasn’t.”
Breely Brantt, known only as Bea Smith at the tavern, fought the smile threatening to spread across her face. “He was.”
Stan straightened to his full six feet four inches of barrel-chested toughness and glared. “I can go out there and mop the floor with him, if you like.”
“I don’t like,” Breely said.
His huge stature might have frightened others, but Breely knew the man’s bark was much worse than his bite.
Stan had a big heart for the people he liked.
And he’d taken a liking to Breely the moment she’d started working at the Tumbleweed Tavern.
He'd murmured something about his granny having red hair, and that had been enough for him.
Breely cringed at the thought of big ol’ Stan stomping on the flirt.
The man wasn’t even a foot taller than Breely, who measured five feet tall in her bare feet.
That would make him less than six feet tall and subject to a severe beating at the hands of Stan “The Man” Morgan, former competitive wrestler turned cook and tavern owner.
Breely carried the mop to the corner of the kitchen where the bucket of water stood.
She shoved the mop into the bucket and lifted it into the press.
Breely leaned on the handle to squeeze out the excess moisture.
“No need to mop the floor with him. He was harmless and kind of cute.” She ran the mop over the floor in front of the commercial refrigerators and then carried it back to the bucket.
Stan shook his head, his brow furrowing. “I don’t like it. Customers gotta treat my staff with respect.” He set the scraper on the grill and turned toward the dining room door. “I’m gonna have a talk with him.”
Breely, dripping mop in hand, raced to catch Stan.
The big man beat her to the door, pushed it open and came to a complete stop.
Breely plowed into Stan, slipped on the water dripping from the mop and almost crashed to the floor.
Stan’s arm snapped out, and his hand clamped onto her arm and steadied her. “Chill,” he ordered.
“How am I supposed to chill when my boss is about to go ballistic on a guy half his size?”
Stan chuckled. “He might be short to me, but he’s still bigger than you.”
Breely wedged herself between Stan and the door. “Everyone’s bigger than me. You can’t go out there and intimidate him. It’s not nice.”
Stan’s stern countenance softened a little with his lips quirking on the corners. “Relax. Your guy just left.” Her boss chuckled, returned to his grill and finished scraping it clean.
Breely let go of the breath she’d been holding, the tension in her body subsiding to be replaced by an unreasonable disappointment.
He’d said he would be leaving at any moment. Too bad he hadn’t stuck around until she’d gotten off work. Breely hadn’t been lying when she’d said she’d like to make a new friend.
Why she’d told him that, she wasn’t sure. She’d met a number of people since she’d escaped to Bozeman to start her new life. Until her last customer of the evening, she hadn’t met anyone she’d wanted to open up to about wanting a friend.
Was it because he’d said he wouldn’t be there longer than the evening?
Or was it because he wasn’t that big or intimidating?
Most guys stood head and shoulders above her, making her feel like a little girl.
The flirt didn’t make her feel like a little girl at all.
In fact, he’d made her feel desirable, like the full-grown, mature woman she was.
He'd even called her red hair sexy.
She could forgive that lie because the tone of his voice and the smoldering look in his eyes had set her blood on fire, burning through her veins.
No, he wasn’t the typical muscle-bound hulk of a man most women swooned over. His friend, though older, fit that description to the letter.
The flirt was short and wiry with black hair and brown eyes. When he’d touched her arm, his hand had been firm but gentle.
Breely could imagine those hands smoothing over more than her arm. Her core heated. She could imagine the flirt lying over her. He wouldn’t crush her beneath him. Making love to him would be a partnership in pleasure.
Wow. How long had it been since she’d slept with a man?
Obviously too long if a chance encounter with a guy with a terrible pickup line turned her on. She shook her head and got back to the business at hand.
She quickly finished mopping the kitchen, emptied the bucket and rinsed it clean.
Stan had filled the dishwasher with a tray of plates and glasses and started the cycle.
He wiped his hands on his apron, walked toward the swinging door and stopped before pushing through to the dining room.
“If you want me to walk you to your car,” he said, “you’ll have to wait for me to lock the front door. ”
“That won’t be necessary. I can walk by myself,” Breely said. “I’ll dump the trash on my way out.”
Stan’s brow furrowed. “You sure you can’t wait?”
She smiled. “I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Thanks anyway.”
Stan glanced through the crack in the door. “Last customer is leaving. I’m going to lock the door. Night, Bea.”
“Goodnight, Stan.” Breely grabbed the heavy trash bag and lugged it toward the back door. She had to back into the door to keep it open as she pulled the big bag through it.
Once on the other side, she let the door swing closed, turned toward the huge trash bin and frowned.
A van stood between her and her goal. A quiver of uneasiness slithered across her skin, raising the fine hairs and gooseflesh on her arms.
Instinct made her spin and reach for the back door. The trash bag stood in the way.
Before she could move around it or shove the bag to the side, a door sliding open sounded behind her.
Her heartbeat kicked into hyperdrive. She grabbed the big bag and flung it around her body and behind her. As she turned, she counted two men, both wearing black clothing and ski masks, as they leaped from the van.
One man hooked his arm around her waist and dragged her backward.
When Breely drew a quick breath to scream, a large hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the sound.
She dug her heels into the pavement, then twisted and turned in an attempt to break free from the man’s hold. Her feet were yanked out from under her by the other man. Together, they carried her toward the open door of the van.
Breely fought, twisting and bucking against the holds they had on her. She managed to pull one foot free and kicked hard, landing her heel in the masked face of the man struggling to hold onto her other foot.
He cursed and relaxed his hold.
Her feet hit the ground.
When the man holding her around her middle lifted her toward the open van door, Breely pulled her knees up and planted her feet on the doorframe.
Her captor cursed. “Get her damned feet,” he hissed.
Breely had to choose between kicking out or continuing to brace her legs against the van doorframe.
The man she’d kicked in the face slammed his arm down on her kneecaps, breaking her toehold on the outside of the van.
As soon as her feet fell, her captor shoved her into the van.
Breely screamed, planted her feet on the metal floor and launched herself at the two men blocking her escape.
The one who’d carried her to the van backhanded her across the cheek, sending her flying backward into the van. She lay stunned, gray fog closing around her.
The door slid closed, blocking what little light had filtered through the fog, plunging Breely into darkness.
A shout barely penetrated her consciousness. Something slammed against the metal door, rocking the metal floor beneath Breely. Again, something big slammed into the van, this time jerking Breely out of the fog.
Her head still fuzzy and her cheek aching, she pushed herself up onto her hands and knees and searched for another door on the other side of the van. There wasn’t one. She crawled toward the sliding door.
Someone cursed. Again, something heavy rammed into the closed sliding door.
Breely reeled back and felt her way toward the van’s rear, praying for doors at the back. With her hand on the side of the van, she crawled to the end, found door latches and tried to push them down. They didn’t move.
More grunting and loud cracking sounds erupted outside the van.
Breely turned around, pushed to her feet and walked in a hunched position toward the front of the vehicle, stumbling once over debris in her way. When her fingers touched the back of the driver’s seat, she almost cried in relief.
She had just eased one leg through the gap between the driver and passenger seats when the sliding door crashed open. “No,” she cried and tried to slide the rest of the way into the seat.
Hands gripped her around the waist and dragged her out of the van.
“No!” she cried louder. “Help me! Please! Help!” Breely bucked and twisted, clawing at the hands now wrapped around her waist. “Let go of me.”
“Shhh, Bea,” a familiar voice cut through her panic. “It’s okay. They’re gone.” The arms around her middle loosened.
Breely spun in the circle of the flirt’s arms. “Oh, thank God.” She flung her arms around his neck and buried her face against his chest.
He held her, gently stroking her back.
A door slammed open and a voice shouted, “Release her, you son of a bitch!” Stan yelled.
Breely’s head snapped up in time to see Stan storming toward them, holding a rolling pin high above his head, aiming for the man holding her in his arms.
“No, Stan.” Breely broke away from the man and planted herself between Stan and her rescuer. “It’s okay.”
“He attacked you.” Stan still held the rolling pin over his head, his glare going over her shoulder to the man behind her.