Forsaken Hearts (Black Heart Security #11)

Chapter One

The joke in Willowbrook, Wyoming was that there were more bars than churches. But men like Vander Pope didn’t go looking for salvation.

It didn’t matter that there were three other bars within walking distance, or that one of them had better whisky and another had a stage that allowed for live music on weekends.

The Stockyard Saloon and Grill had what Pope wanted—a damn fine steak sandwich, breakfast at midnight when the rest of the town had long since shut down its kitchens, and a back room where a man could always find a seat at a poker table.

And it had Summer Denton.

Pope leaned back in his chair, the worn wood creaking under his weight as he studied his poker hand without really seeing the cards.

The back room vibrated with its usual noise of chips clinking together, a few low curses and the scrape of chairs on the old plank flooring. But tonight it was background noise.

The air was thick despite the cool temperatures of springtime in the mountains, and every time Summer bustled in with another round of drinks for the table, Pope felt the heat rise.

The group of regulars he played with were several drinks in, but he always quit after a couple, preferring to keep a clear head just in case.

Across the table, a guy they called Little Mike as a joke because of his tall stature shoved a stack of chips forward with a grunt. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” Pope didn’t bother looking up, just dragged his thumb along the edge of his cards.

Little Mike issued a snort. “You’ve been sitting on garbage all night.”

“Maybe I’m tired of losing.”

That earned a low noise from the man to his right. “You don’t lose. You just wait longer than the rest of us to start winning.”

Pope finally lifted his gaze, letting it glide over the table, the men, the game—and right past them to the main room where the bar lights cast everything in a low amber glow.

And there she was.

Summer moved between tables with a tray balanced on one hand, her light brown hair pulled off her neck in a messy knot that gave the impression she didn’t care when really she spent time tucking the little strands back in place. A few wisps lay on her nape, curling damp against her skin.

He filled his lungs with enough air to outweigh the throb of desire in his veins, but that didn’t work when he saw the way her tank top clung to her back and the jeans hugging her curvy thighs in a way that made a man think of those legs wrapped around him.

She laughed at something one of the regulars said, head tipping enough to show Pope the line of her throat, and his gut clenched.

He shifted in his seat to ease the tightness of his jeans and forced his attention back to the table before anyone caught where it had drifted.

Little Mike tapped the table. “Your play.”

He pushed his chips into the pot without another glance at his cards.

“Damn, he didn’t even look. You see that, Little Mike?”

“Didn’t need to look. I know what I have,” Pope drawled.

“You’re either about to take everything”—Little Mike narrowed his eyes—“or you’ve lost your damn mind.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

His focus slipped to the one reason he didn’t mind losing control, but he didn’t look at her again.

Summer backed through the door with a tray balanced against her hip. She’d been in and out of this room all night, keeping the drinks coming and collecting empties before they stacked too high.

But it was always the small things that got him.

The way she brushed her knuckles against his when she set down his glass, just enough contact to shoot sparks through him before she pulled away. Or the glance she sent his way—quick and gone before it could mean more.

Except it did.

Her perfume hit him before her question. “Another?”

He tilted his head up just enough to meet her warm blue eyes. “You offerin’ or askin’?”

Her sweet lips curved. “Depends on the answer.”

“I’ll take another.” He’d take anything she had to give him.

She reached for his empty glass, her elbow lightly bumping his shoulder. Neither of them pulled away, and the contact lasted only a second or two but the heat of her body lingered in his skin long after she moved to replace Little Mike’s glass.

She gave Pope a nod. “Don’t clean him out too fast. I’m counting on those tips.”

Pope’s lips quirked in amusement that his opponent didn’t share. Little Mike already knew he was leaving the Stockyard a hundred bucks lighter.

After Summer finished passing out drinks, she wandered away, full ass swaying as she wove around tables to reach the front of the bar.

“Jesus,” Little Mike muttered. “You’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”

Pope cocked a brow. “Hide what?”

He twitched his chin toward the door. “That. You’ve been staring at her all night.”

“You’d do better to watch your hand.” Pope’s response came out flat.

The game picked up again, but Pope’s patience was running out. He played faster and with an edge of aggression, shoving chips into the center of the table without any care to his usual calculations that kept him ahead. He took a few hits for it, but it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the clock on the wall and the slow crawl of minutes until closing time when he could be alone with Summer.

She came back two more times, each time leaving a little more tension coiled inside him. When the last hand finally ended, last call was announced.

Pope pushed back his chair. “Gentlemen, thank you for letting me lighten your wallets.” He tossed a few bills on the table to cover his tab—as well as a fat tip for his favorite waitress.

He grabbed his cowboy hat off the table, settled it on his head and headed for the back exit before anyone could respond.

Outside, the night air carried a hint of pine and mountains that had a smell all their own. When Pope first joined the therapy program at the Black Heart Ranch not far from here, he never expected to recognize mountains by smell alone.

The cold wrapped around him as he crossed the gravel parking lot in measured strides. A single light illuminated the area, casting long shadows across the row of trucks and wide array of SUVs.

He headed straight for the spot where Summer always parked. Third row, a few feet from the road that would take her home.

Pope leaned against the driver’s door and folded his arms, settling in to wait for her to finish her shift. Not only was it her job to chase everyone out of the bar, lock up and close out the register for the night, but she and the other waitresses had to clean off the tables too.

The voices of customers leaving carried across the lot. They climbed in their vehicles and engines started. One by one they drove away, leaving only him.

When the back door opened, two bartenders exited, their voices spilling into the night. Gaze trained on the door, he waited for her to appear next.

Right on cue, Summer stepped into the blinding light over the door, one hand already reaching for the elastic band that held her hair in place. The thick mass fell loose around her shoulders, and she took off walking as the door shut and automatically locked behind her.

She scanned the lot before heading for her car. The sight bothered him more than he’d admit. Nobody should have to move through the world expecting trouble around every corner.

When she picked him out of the shadows, she didn’t look surprised—or annoyed either. Just…something else.

He tipped his head toward her and pushed off her car. “C’mon. I’ll see that you make it home.”

Keys dangling from her fingers, she studied him as if she was debating how to answer, even though he’d been following to make sure she made it home for months.

Then she nodded. “All right.”

Her boots crunched over gravel as she neared the car, and that cord in his chest tightened with each step. Up close, he could see the faint sheen of perspiration along her collarbone. The late shift had worn lines of fatigue around the corners of her eyes but it hadn’t dulled anything about Summer.

She popped the door locks but didn’t open the door. “You know, Vander, I can get home just fine on my own.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because I want to.”

The air between them seemed to beat with a heart of its own, silencing the crickets and hum of insects around the bright light. Everything faded until it was just the two of them standing in the dark.

“That so?”

He held her stare. “Yeah.”

She slid into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut behind her. The engine turned over, headlights cutting across the lot and washing over him as he moved to his truck.

Her car’s taillights glowed red, guiding him toward the quieter roads that led to the outskirts of Willowbrook.

Pope had crossed this line with her dozens of times, followed her to the duplex where she lived. The front door rarely shut all the way before she was in his arms, her soft noises of want trapped beneath his lips.

Up ahead, her brake lights flared as she slowed and turned onto a road leading to a small row of houses. When she pulled into her driveway, he drew up to the curb and cut the engine.

By the time they met on the front porch, his fingers were twitching to feel her skin.

They faced each other, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

“You didn’t have to follow me.” Her voice came out low.

“I know.”

She searched his face like she was looking for a different reason to explain why he cared.

“Thank you.”

He nodded once and reached for her, settling his hands on her hips as he held her gaze. “Get inside.”

A beat passed. Then she turned for the door.

Pope watched her unlock it and stop, her hand still on the knob.

She didn’t move.

He pulled in a breath. This wasn’t how things usually went.

Most nights, she turned back with no hesitation, just a look in her eyes right before she tipped her face up to his.

Tonight…nothing.

His jaw tightened as he watched her stand there, half in, half out like she couldn’t pick a side.

“Get inside,” he said again, voice grittier.

She still didn’t move, but her fingers flexed against the door.

Pope waited.