7. Sam
7
SAM
The bash at Chez Kelleher is tanking before it even has a chance to soar. It’s kicked off all right; the guests have piled in, but our booze stockpile is bone dry.
“What do you mean we’re out of beer?” Mark’s got this look like he’s staring down a grizzly. No beer at a Montana shindig is about as good as a rodeo without bulls, especially since our A-list guests are hankering for ale over the fancy stuff.
I pop the fridge open to a whole lot of nothing.
Mark’s giving me grief. “Any half-decent host keeps a stash for emergencies.”
“Ha-ha,” I snap back.
We planned for a small crowd, but Mark’s gone and blown up the guest list. Now it’s like we’re hosting some high-flying gala.
“So, genius, what’s the play?” He’s trying to play innocent, but I bet the puppy-eyed man ballooned the invites to dodge any close-quarters talk, especially if Ivy Forbes showed.
“Dunno,” I admit, scanning the horizon for divine intervention.
We’re way out in the sticks here. It’s not like I can dash to the store and back before the guests resort to sipping creek water.
The room erupts with new arrivals, and Charlie Travis’s boisterous laugh echoes through the house. He wanders into the kitchen, catching us deadlocked in a silent standoff with the empty fridge.
“Charlie,” I nod, playing it cool. “Ivy not with you?”
“Ah, forget Ivy. She’s a no-show,” he announces casually.
“Pity,” I sigh, glancing at Mark, who’s trying to play it off.
“Lads, if my sixth sense is right, I’d say you’re dealing with a crisis here.” Charlie nods at the fridge.
I shrug and close the fridge door.
But the Brit then pulls a rabbit out of his hat. “Fellas, in a pinch, you gotta know who to call. And in Helena, that’s Cassidy Winter.”
“Who’s Cassidy Winter?” I frown.
“Just wait,” Charlie winks, dialing her up. “Cassidy. Charlie.” He then walks into a quiet corner to continue the conversation.
I notice my partner’s fingers twisting over each other. “Hands going through the ringer, huh? Missing your other half, I take it?”
“Shut it, Sam!” Mark points his finger at me and leaves the kitchen to offer the guests wine and champagne, which I don’t think many take up.
Charlie slips back into the room. “Sorted. She’ll be here in thirty.”
“You can’t magic up drinks in thirty minutes around here,” I scoff.
“Watch and learn, mate,” he says with a slap on my back.
The crowd’s getting antsy, so I deploy Maximus. He’s a pro at distraction, coaxing a group outside to the creek’s edge. There, he laps up the spotlight—frolicking, showing off, and pulling every trick he’s got.
But then the thunder rumbles, and he’s back at my side, jittery.
“It’s alright, big guy,” I say, patting him. “You stay close to me.”
The afternoon sun comes out, brightening up the sky as if canceling the storm. Then Maximus starts barking. Through the front window, I see a van approaching the causeway over the creek.
“Looks like your savior’s arrived,” Charlie seems to notice too.
I check the time. Thirty minutes on the dot. “No way,” I mutter under my breath.
“What did I say, my friend?” Charlie puts his arm around my neck. “Her brewery is only half an hour away from here.”
It’s not the imminent drink delivery that’s got my pulse racing. It’s that van, it’s the same Fallen Angel rig from The Thirsty Fox.
Without even seeing her, my heart kicks up a ruckus in my chest. I’ve been trying to block her from my thoughts, but it’s a losing battle. Now, I’ve got this nagging feeling I’m on the cusp of making a dumb move. She’s just going to be here to deliver the beer, and my cock needs to stay inside my pants.
Charlie’s frowning. “Why’s she stopped?”
I squint to catch the face of the driver, but the distance and the dusty windshield make it impossible for me to answer the burning question: is Cassidy Winter really my fallen angel?
Maximus’ barking continues, and if I’m still attuned to my dog’s way of communicating, I’m sure that’s the exact bark I heard in that alleyway at the back of The Thirsty Fox.
“Maximus, stay!” I command. He might be eager to see her again, but there’s a chance that the driver is someone else. I don’t want the dog to unleash his hyper enthusiasm on an unsuspecting stranger and get himself into trouble.
But the van stalls at the far end of the causeway, and this time I realize the more important question to answer is indeed Charlie’s question. Why has she stopped?
“Come here, Max,” Mark says, tugging the mutt.
I excuse myself and jog toward the van, the wind picking up, pressing the water onto the causeway. As I weave through the cool mist, I notice she’s parked away from the water’s reach.
“Hey!” I call out, peering into the driver’s side.
There she is—my fallen angel, but she’s looking like she’s staring down her own personal apocalypse. Between the two of us, I should be the one who’s terrified because she’s supposed to be out of my head, and now she’s about to drive right into my home.
But with her breath coming in short bursts, this is no time for pleasantries. This woman is having a panic attack.
My instinct kicks in.
“Cassidy,” I murmur, slipping into the passenger seat. “You okay?”
When she doesn’t respond, I lay a hand on her shoulder.
A deep breath lifts her chest, a subtle nod to my presence. Her eyes remain fixed on the water churning against the causeway, her expression filled with terror as if she was about to pass through hell’s gate.
I will fight men for her. But how am I going to protect her from… the earth?
“Are you okay?” My voice rises above the patter of the rain, a firmer squeeze on her shoulder.
Cassidy exhales sharply. “Sorry,” she turns to me, a strained smile fighting through. “This place… it seemed too quiet for a party house.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” I glance at the ignition. “Everything okay with the van?”
“Yeah.” She releases the steering wheel and extends a hand. “I’m Cassidy. You must be Samuel?”
The way she said my full name is like a touch of magic. One that makes buds suddenly sprout out of what should be a petrified tree. After the curious start of our encounter in downtown Helena, today it feels like we’re no longer strangers.
“Call me Sam. And I believe we’ve met,” I say as her eyes flutter between me and the causeway. “It’s a tight squeeze, but you’ll be alright.”
“Of course.” The van revs back to life.
She attempts to quell her panting, but I know her fear is far from subsiding. “Need me to drive?” I offer.
“No!” she snaps, pride wounded or fighting her own battle, I can’t tell.
I assess the air between us. There’s power in her independence, a resilience I admire. But there is a concoction of fragile emotions projecting out of her, and I’m drawn in, curious to uncover the layers of Cassidy Winter.
She guns the engine, and in a heartbeat, her eyes snap shut. I reach out, our hands meeting on the steering wheel as hers bleach white.
“Cassidy, brake now. Brake!” I urge as we hurtle toward the causeway’s end.
No response. At this speed, the van will end up in my living room. I immediately wedge my foot alongside hers, easing off the accelerator.
Finally, she hits the brakes, and I yank up the handbrake, cutting the engine.
Her lips shiver, her face desperate to escape my scrutiny. I’m looking not in judgment but in concern, wanting nothing more than to comfort her.
“Just breathe.” I rub her back, my hand still over hers.
She inhales, my hand guiding her. “I... I’m sorry. That wasn’t me,” she stammers.
“It’s alright,” I reassure her. “Stay put, I’ll get you water.”
She shakes her head, berating herself. “That was stupid. So stupid!”
Yes, it was reckless, her pride blinding her to fear. I’d have scolded anyone else, but Cassidy isn’t just anyone. My heart’s already made its choice—she’s different. I stop the back rub, opting instead to rest my hand on her shoulder. “We’re safe now, that’s what matters.”
“That was too close,” her voice rattles, her head angled toward the creek.
I don’t fully grasp her fear, but her body language screams a need for reassurance, which I’m willing to provide. My hand stays on her shoulder, a gesture she seems to welcome.
“I’m afraid of water.” She exhales deeply, as if forcing more than just air out of her lungs. “You must think I’m chicken.”
“Cassidy. You wouldn’t be a bar manager if you were chicken.”
“Just Cass,” she says.
“That was ballsy of you, standing up for Maximus that day.”
“That was different,” she scoffs. “Perhaps you’re wondering why I even live in Montana. I mean, I avoid rivers, lakes, and beaches when I can. If I have to pass them, I’m usually high up or far enough away. But that…” She points back at the causeway. “That was too close.”
I nod, withdrawing my hand from her.
Slowly her grip on the steering wheel eases as she waves off her admission. “Sorry. I shouldn’t even have told you all this. I’m here to make sure you and your guests are having a good time.”
“You’re allowed to be scared of something, you know?”
Her blue eyes slowly shine. Her shoulder relaxes as she nudges herself closer to me. Then she smiles. “Thanks, Sam.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’ll do better the second time ‘round,” she says.
“When you’re ready to head out, I’ll drive. Don’t argue,” I say lightly.
She nods and composes herself. “Liquid gold’s in the back.”
Relieved to put the creek and its memories behind her, Cassidy springs from the driver’s seat and flings the van door open with a flourish.
It’s not just the kegs marked ‘Fallen Angel’ that catch my eye, but the sleek kegerator behind them. “No way!”
“Figured this might come in handy,” she says proudly, “better than bottles or cans.”
“Cassidy!” Charlie greets her.
“Hey!” She beams, her arms opening for a hug that comes naturally.
It doesn’t take long for a crowd to form around her, and not just for the craft beer she’s brought. Most of my guests know her already. As the bar manager of a local hotspot, I should have expected it. I try to swallow down the jealousy, taking in the scene as she greets each person warmly.
Once the kegs are settled, I find her in the living room deep in conversation with Mark, who’s just introduced Maximus.
“He remembers you,” I say as my dog, eager as ever, starts jumping up at her arrival. “Maximus, down!”
“You’re a bad influence on your dog,” Mark chides.
Her laughter is light, remaining neutral on the subject of dog discipline. Then she pivots to the kitchen. “I’ll go and set up the beer station,” she decides.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Charlie offers.
Mark sends him a subtle shake of the head. “Sam’s got this.”
With a nod, Charlie steps back, and I escort Cassidy into the kitchen, with Maximus in tow.
The dog watches her closely as she unwraps the kegerator.
“So, you were with Maximus when he got injured?” she queries.
“No, I adopted him after his handler... didn’t make it back. For the family, the dog was a constant reminder of his death, so they had to let Max go. I guess we all grieve differently.”
Cass angles her face away, kneeling behind Maximus. Everyone would be sad hearing about a fallen soldier, but her eyes are holding more than just a passing empathy. I have experienced losses in combat, and I’m certain she has lived the grief.
I move to clear away the bubble wrap, giving her a moment with Maximus. When I return, she’s still there, hand on his fur.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you sad. Maximus is well taken care of,” I say. “Here, give him this treat and he’ll love you forever. Well, I guess he loves you already.”
Cass gives the treat and Max attempts to give her a high-five, only to collapse on her. Letting out a laugh, she hugs Maximus. Max does that all the time, and I thought the dog is clumsy, forgetting that he’s missing a paw. Now I wonder, could it be intentional on Max’s part, this ploy for affection?
“He’s a Staff Sergeant, did you say?”
“Yeah. Ever since the injury we named him Staff Sergeant Tri-Pawed Maximus. He responds to either Tri-pawed, Maximus, or Max.”
My dog ignores me. He isn’t even protesting the first name I mentioned.
“Tripod… as in P-A-W-E-D?” she calls while rubbing Maximus’ chest.
“Yeah,” I reply as Max just sits there, basking in the attention. “He’s a veteran, but he still thinks he’s on active duty.”
Cassidy then shifts the conversation to us, her tone casual but curious. “The Forbes rescue, that was you and Mark?”
I’ve been mad at the media for sensationalizing the rescue, and I’ve had about enough answering questions about it. But the soothing voice of Cassidy Winter opens up a part of me that I haven’t explored before—that it’s actually okay for people to acknowledge what I’d done. Especially when it comes from her, it holds a significance I can’t ignore.
“Yeah, that was us,” I admit.
She nods as her attention returns to the kegerator. “You shielded the kid, didn’t you?” she says, sliding the conversion kit into place.
“Tried to. I did everything I could to keep him safe and minimize the trauma. Children absorb more than we realize.”
“Indeed,” she gleams, perhaps admiring my awareness.
She wastes no time assembling the tap, her hands moving with the precision of a seasoned pro. “All set!” she announces, wiping the top surface like a final touch. “Shall we test this baby?”
I put my hand on the tap handle at the same time she does. Actually, she’s half a second faster, so my palm lands on top of hers. There’s a familiar rush inside me, but this time I feel warmth under my touch.
And she smiles sweetly.
“Let’s do it together, then,” she quips.
We fill the glass to the brim.
“The first pour is always for the host,” she states.
I take a sip. “Damn, this is one of the best ale I’ve had in my life.”
“I brew it myself,” she gushes.
“Seriously?”
“Uh-huh.” She grins, and then lifts her hand to me. I wish she was going to caress my face, but she simply thumbs my upper lip, no doubt wiping some froth off.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Well, I guess my mission is complete,” she says. “The Kelleher Kegerator is open for business.” She taps the machine as if marking the christening complete.
I wave at Mark, who’s standing right outside the kitchen, letting him know the guests can start lining up.
“Do you trust them to serve their own drinks?” she winks.
“Mark will take care of it.”
Cass picks up her bag, ready to give me a hug. But this is not the hug that I want, not a goodbye hug. I squeeze her hand instead. I hope she knows I’m telling her that her mission is far from complete.
She ponders, looking over my shoulder to observe the guests. “Actually, I’ll stick around. I’ll watch over the keg, keep things in order.”
Did she get my silent message to stay? Or is she simply making sure that no one is abusing her ‘baby’?
She continues, “Go enjoy yourself. After all you and Mark have done…” Her voice trails off, but the message is clear—she’s here to support, to give back in her own way. “I’m a mother. I can’t imagine what it’s like, being a parent in that situation,” she adds.
The word ‘mother’ makes my eyes roam to her fingers. No ring. I should’ve picked it up earlier, but it didn’t cross my mind. But the absence of a ring doesn’t mean she’s free.
At this time, Cass is already busy serving my guests.
“This is what I’m talking about!” Charlie boasts. He grabs a glass from her. “Thanks, love.”
“Owe you one, Cass!” Mark says and the son of a bitch hugs her, with a peck on the cheek, too.
Mark looks at me. I know he’s saying that he’s just shown me how to win a lady. But I respond to him with a glare. Next time, I’ll dare him to do that to Ivy Forbes when she’s around.
Cassidy weaves between conversations and pours. I can’t help but ask, “How many kids do you have?”
“A daughter. Her name is Grace, and she’s five,” she says, swelling with pride. Once the crowd has their fill, she rummages into her pocket and fishes out her wallet. “This is her.”
The image is warmth incarnate—Grace, her smile a clone of Cassidy’s own. Their bond is unmistakable, their joy infectious even through the worn print.
Cassidy lingers over the photograph, her fingertips brushing the edges. In that gesture, I see the love of a mother, a quiet strength that speaks of her capacity to protect all on her own.
I find myself reevaluating her, recalibrating the narrative I had forced myself to believe when I first met her.
The lack of a father in the picture, the absence of a ring on her finger—it all hints at possibilities I hadn’t allowed myself to consider. I may be getting ahead of myself, but if I ever had a family of my own, I wanted them in it.
I watch, silently, as she loses herself in the memory of the snapshot. This woman is stunning. Her eyes are like the first strokes of brush from a master painter; spontaneous and unpretentious, soft yet striking. Definitely a class above Taylor. Her broad shoulders carry a pair of tight arms, made for work—and dare I say, made for loving another human being.
“So she’s home now?” I query.
“Yes.”
I’m waiting to hear her say ‘She’s with her dad.’
“With my mom.” She obviously feels the need to clarify, which I appreciate.
Mark appears, breaking the moment. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.” He looks at me straight, giving no room for me to interpret it as a joke.
“Be right back,” I say to Cass.
“It’s fine. Go!” she says.
Returning to the fold of the party, I’m introduced to a man who apparently has premises in Helena available to lease. But my attention keeps dragging back to Cass. She’s in her element, making each person feel seen and important, her charisma clear in the way the guests gravitate towards her.
Mid-conversation, I’m jerked out of the polite exchange by a movement at the periphery. A figure shadows Cassidy to the bathroom corridor. “Excuse me,” I blurt, drawn away by an instinctive pull of protection.
The scene that unfolds sets my blood ablaze. A man, bold and uninvited, has his hand on her breast, pinning her against the wall. But Cassidy is no damsel. She’s a storm. With a sharp pivot, she sends her elbow soaring into his nose.
The man laughs as he wipes his bloody nose—either he’s totally drunk, or enjoying the fight. I know Cass is quite capable of defending herself, but as his laughter turns sinister, it’s no time to test his intentions. I curve my arm around his waist and mercilessly drag him outside like a sack. Then I throw him onto the ground.
“Fuck!” he yells. This time he definitely feels pain.
I clutch and twist his hand, the one that tried to grope Cass’ breast. “You fucking touch her, I’ll guarantee you’ll spend at least a hundred days nursing your sorry fingers—every knuckle, every digit. If you’re lucky!”
The man gets up as soon as I let him go. Pointing a finger at me, he staggers across the lawn.
“The hell!” Mark says as he joins me.
“Why the fuck did you invite that scumbag?” I scold him.
“He came with the governor’s son,” he says. “I didn’t know…”
“You should’ve known better!” I don’t think I’ve ever been that angry with him. Then I turn to the crowd. “There’s nothing to see here, folks. Please go inside.”
As everyone makes their way into the house, one figure remains—and I swear to God I’ve never seen a woman that pissed after being rescued.
“I had it under control, you know,” she complains.
This woman doesn’t need my protection. But the more she shows she doesn’t need me, the more I want to be close to her.
“You did,” I acknowledge her, but my admission hasn’t cooled the heat.
I take back my assessment of her eyes resembling Taylor Swift. The singer is known to channel her anger through her songs, but I bet she’ll never look as mad as Cassidy right now. She throws glances at the evicted guest who’s driving off. Perhaps her anger spawns both from my intervention and from an undiluted rage toward her attacker.
“With all due respect, Cassidy, you’re not in your bar, you’re in my house, and you’re my responsibility.”
Past her earlier fear, behind the tough persona she’s donning right now, there’s something in her that I can’t resist. If she gives me a chance, I know I’ll find in me the foundation that has been missing in my life. And I’ll build myself up so I can be the one she relies on.
“I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have invited him,” I apologize.
She straightens herself as if she hasn’t already. “We should go back inside.”
We enter as she delivers her final remark. “I do that all the time—kicking dickheads out, restoring peace. It’s no big deal. You shouldn’t have been so over the top.”
I toss her a sideways smile. It’s never over the top to protect someone. “You’re used to it, huh?” I turn down the mood between us with a soft gaze. “I thought with the location of your bar, your patrons would be more… um… sophisticated?”
“Fox is the choice of politicians. Hardly sophisticated.”
I chuckle and her captivating energy resurfaces.
This isn’t lust at first sight, and I don’t know if I can claim love at first sight, either. With her, I’m not feeling the wild butterfly fluttering in my gut. I’m feeling calm. Maybe she has restored the peace in me somewhat. She’s a specialist in that, didn’t she say? It’s not that I suddenly become a new man, I just feel respite, lightness, and optimism—which I haven’t had since I lost Jack.
In the meantime, guests are starting to say goodbye, keen to navigate the treacherous part of the road out of here before the storm hits.
Against the flow, one man steps onto my porch.
Thunder cracks, the loudest one so far—a fitting way to welcome, or to warn my uninvited guest.
Now, this is the peace that nobody can ever restore.