Chapter 13 #2
My attention immediately draws to the women in question—both in their early thirties and attractive, both staring at Jack’s back as if waiting for him to turn around.
“Yeah, so the brunette in the blue shirt?” Jameson leans toward me as he explains, “Dumbass fucked her out back in his truck and then took off.”
“That’s not true! I walked her to her car before I left,” Jack retorts. “And I told her up front I’m not looking for anything serious.”
“Which is the same thing you told her friend the weekend before when you took her out to your truck.” Jameson teases. “Can’t wait till they compare notes.”
Jack gulps his beer in answer.
I chuckle at the two of them. Despite their constant bickering, they’re obviously close.
Would Jay and I have remained this close had that night not happened? Would we be sitting at the Bale House, drinking beer and swapping stories? Given the things I’ve learned about him since that night … probably not.
“So, Logan, what about you?” Jameson asks.
“What about me?”
“Well, fuck, you must be ready to, uh, catch up on lost years.” His eyebrows pop with meaning. “Found anyone yet?”
A burst of laughter escapes my lips, surprising all three of us, most of all me.
“I got out a week ago. I’ve spent all day in the fields, surrounded by bison.
I have to be home by ten p.m. every night and have a licensed adult sit in the passenger seat with me for the next year if I want to drive anywhere. ”
“Yeah, that doesn’t make it easy,” Jack agrees, scratching his beard in thought. The guy must spend a lot of time in the mirror, grooming that thing. There isn’t a single hair out of place. I’ll admit, it’s impressive.
“What about that hot cop next door?” Jameson snaps his fingers. “Emma?”
“Emery?” I shake my head at the idiot. “Not only is she a cop, she runs the detachment. So no, that’s never gonna happen.” I haven’t seen her since that first night outside my barn. She’s rarely home. My gut tells me that’s at least partly intentional.
I’ve seen Isla plenty, though, early in the morning when I head to the stables, before the boys are down to do their chores.
She’s always there, dragging her sleepy heels and wordlessly cleaning out Biscuit’s stall while he gallops around the corral, and then she heads home with not much more than a grunt for me and an odd question here or there.
Too early for conversation, I gather, but I appreciate the silent company.
“Yeah, I guess that ship has sailed,” Jack agrees. “But there are plenty of options out there.”
“For a guy who just got released from prison?” I say doubtfully.
“Especially for you. They’ll wanna fix you.”
“Too late for that.”
“Yeah, but let ’em try. You’ve got”—Jameson checks his watch—“about two hours to find someone and seal the deal. Jack’s truck is roomy. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
“Dude.” Jack glares at his brother.
“I think I’ll wait.” With my luck I’d get caught by the cops, and I’m sure good ol’ Glen would love getting that call.
“Yeah, he says that now. Wait till next spring when the bison birth calves with Logan’s pretty golden eyes.” Jameson snorts into his glass, earning his brother’s eye roll.
A drum percussion sounds, followed by the twang of an acoustic guitar.
Uncle Wyatt leans over to warn, “It’s about to get really loud in here,” and his grim expression says he’s not a fan of that prospect.
But it seems plenty of people are. For every table that clears out, two more groups come in. Some huddle around the hostess, others by the bar, resigning themselves to standing while they sip on a drink. The families are settling up and leaving.
“What do you got planned for tomorrow?” Jack asks.
“Nothing.” I shrug. “Splitting wood.”
“’Kay, I’m coming to pick you up in the morning. We’ll take the boat and some rods and head down to Temagami for a few hours. You good with that?”
“Fuck, yeah.” A small thrill skitters through me. It was one of my favorite places growing up.
“What about me?” Jameson complains.
Jack shakes his head. “You talk too much. Every time we go out there, I want to throw you overboard.”
His brother punches him in the shoulder, but whatever he says to him is drowned out as the singer offers a quick greeting over the microphone and then jumps into a song that dials up the energy instantly.
And I lean back for a moment, letting it sink in. This is real. I’m actually back in Cold River, free of my cell bars.
A burly guy strolls through the door then, followed by a tall brunette and a gorgeous blond.
No, not blond.
Strawberry blond.
Fuck, that’s Emery.
My heart starts pounding in my chest. She looks different from our last run-in, her hair and makeup done for a night out.
Gone are the rubber boots and pajamas. She’s dressed in a green silk blouse under a black leather jacket, with heeled black leather boots that reach three-quarters up her jean-clad calves.
An elbow jabs my arm. “That’s your neighbor, isn’t it?” Uncle Wyatt yells over the music, jerking his head toward Emery as she weaves through the crowd toward the bar.
I nod. “Who’s she with?”
“No idea.” He leans the other way—I assume, to ask Mak because the ranch hand seems to know everything about everyone—and comes back a moment later to confirm, “That’s her platoon sergeant, Mike Lynch, and his wife, Breanne.”
I wondered who Emery kept in her social circle these days. I guess now I know—other cops. Makes sense.
I track her every step as they head for the opposite corner. A server greets them and removes a Reserved sign from the table as the man behind the bar waves.
“Matt doesn’t reserve tables for anybody,” Jameson notes with a hint of bitterness, patting his brawny chest to add, “Not even his number one beer distributor.”
Jack grunts at his brother’s antics.
Meanwhile, I eye this Matt guy—I assume it’s the one who seems too familiar with her for my liking—as he holds up a bottle of white with a questioning look.
People clutter the bar area, blocking my view of Emery, much to my dismay.
The band shifts into another song, and it’s too loud to carry a conversation without shouting but most people seem resigned to that, their focus drifting between the singer who belts out verses and people-watching. The servers beeline back and forth with trays of drinks and smiles.
And with each passing minute, I grow more agitated that Emery is so close to me and yet she feels so far away.
“Where’s the can?” I shout over the music.
Jack jabs his thumb toward the far end, on the other side of the bar.
Perfect. “Let me out.”
Jameson stands and stretches. “Good timing. Need to make my marketing rounds, anyway.” He gestures at the Barrow Brewing logo on his T-shirt before venturing off to the first table of attractive women.
I cut through the sizable room, pretending I don’t feel the interest I’m drawing from all angles, don’t notice the men sizing me up as I pass them, like I’m a threat they may need to subdue.
And the women? Well … they probably wouldn’t be looking at me like that if they knew who I was.
Or maybe my cousins are right and that’s exactly why they’re looking at me.
A brunette steps in front of me, cutting off my path. “Logan? Is that really you?” she shouts, her sky-blue eyes bright as she peers up into my face, noting my scar a beat.
She looks familiar … but I can’t place her.
“It’s Amelia!”
I frown. Did I ever know an Amelia?
Her expression wavers as doubt creeps in, but she steps in closer. “Millie. Crawford?”
“Oh, shit,” I blurt, genuinely shocked. “Your hair …” It was always bleached blond.
“Yeah.” She giggles, toying with a strand between her fingertips. “I stopped frying it a long time ago. Went natural.”
That’s not the only thing about her that’s changed with time.
By ninth grade, she had a tiny waist and giant tits, and she liked drawing attention to them any chance she got.
Guys would walk out of class with chubbies.
Decades later, she has a full face and an even fuller figure—still on display in a low-cut top.
But those eyes of hers, they shine with seduction the way I remember them.
Hell, I lost my virginity looking into those eyes.
“Sorry, it’s been a minute.”
“Yeah. It has. You look good.” She eyeballs my chest, my arms.
The moment is growing awkward, fast. And this isn’t the woman I want to be talking to. “It was good to see—”
“We should meet up! You know, for coffee or dinner or something. We have so much to catch up on.”
We did very little talking during our time together. Apparently, I didn’t even know her name. “Yeah, sounds good. Listen, I’ve gotta …” I point toward the back and then let my feet lead me away without waiting for her answer.
I round the herd of people and suddenly there Emery is again, seated and smiling at the bartender as he hands her a glass of white wine.
My breath hitches at the sight of that mischievous crook at the corner of her lips. It’s the same one that used to make me weak in the knees whenever she graced me with it.
I slow my steps, waiting, hoping …
Green eyes flash as Emery finally notices me there. She can’t hide her surprise fast enough, her eyebrows jumping as if startled. I can almost hear her sharp intake of breath over the music. The reaction is enough to draw the notice of her friends, who turn to regard me.
I feel like an intruder. At least she knows I’m here, which, for some odd reason, seemed vital to me.
But I’d be a fool to think Emery wants to be seen talking to her convict neighbor, so I simply nod and then I continue, across a threshold and down a narrow hall cluttered with bulletin boards and posters, to the men’s bathroom.
Reality sinks deeper into my bones.
I’m still serving time, though outside of bars. But even when I’m done, I’ll never be in Emery’s life again. Not the way I want to be.
I’ll never be good enough.
And that little voice inside my head reminds me that’s what I deserve for my part in that night.
When I emerge from the washroom, my mood feels as heavy as a concrete slab.
A young, slender woman leans against the wall, her cleavage on display thanks to a low-cut red shirt and a push-up bra. Bare legs run for miles in a tiny skirt.
“Hey, Logan.”
I frown, instantly on alert. “Do I know you?”
“It’s me.” She tucks her platinum blond locks behind her ear, showing off a hoop earring. “Isla’s friend, Holly.”
“Right, the one who smashed my window.” Isla’s friend, who is not even sixteen yet and done up to look twenty. A wild child who likes to flirt with older men, according to Emery. And clearly, she’s been waiting for me.
I shift my body sideways, intent on sidling past, but Holly cuts off my escape, stepping forward until I’m forced back into the wall. A waft of herbal, sweet-scented alcohol hits me. She’s been into the gin. Great. Maybe that explains the boldness.
A young, stocky guy strolls down the hallway toward us then, shaking his head at Holly and scowling at me before easing past us with a muttered “Gettin’ into trouble already” as he disappears into the men’s washroom.
Fuck. I have no clue who he is, but he obviously knows who I am and this doesn’t look good. I need to end it before things get worse. “What do you want, Holly?”
“I’m sorry about your window.”
“’Kay, you’ve said it. Now move along.”
She bites her bottom lip playfully. I’m sure it works on the half-brained teenaged boys in her life.
“I’m not interested.”
She cocks her head. “In what?”
“Come on.” I can’t get away without physically touching her and there is no way in hell I’m doing that. “I don’t need this kind of trouble.”
She steps in closer, batting her long eyelashes at me. “You look a lot different than I thought you would.” Her voice is a purr as she reaches up to adjust the collar of my shirt.
“Please don’t—”
“What the hell is going on here!”
My head snaps left.
Emery marches down the hall toward us, fire in her eyes.