by Becky Wade
She’d always been introverted. Part of her discomfort around strangers stemmed from that. The other part stemmed from her experiences. Because of her father and his money, she’d learned long ago that people regarded her as an oddity. In a room full of duck, duck, ducks, she was the goose. She’d become overly sensitive about it in situations like this, concerned that people were looking at her, whispering, judging her appearance.
She needed to get over it. How much more self-centered could she be? Most likely no one here cared who she was or what she looked like.
“Are you having any fun?” Bo asked.
“I am. I’m enjoying the people watching.” Young women wearing jeans, thin necklaces, rhinestone-studded belts, and low-cut tops moved through the space on the arms of cute cowboys in Stetsons and Ariat jeans. Middle-aged couples who looked like they’d been boot-scooting together for decades glided across the dance floor. And a few suburbanites, more hiply dressed than the country folks, had apparently made the trip over from Plano or Allen.
Out of the crush, Brimm emerged. Meg waved, and he crossed toward them, his hands in his pockets. He’d eschewed western wear and instead had on khakis and a yellow T-shirt with a graphic of Pac-Man on the front.
Meg gave him a quick hug. “Are you late because you got stuck solving an unsolvable math equation?”
“Meg.” He gave her a mock-chiding look. “You know I only solve unsolvable math equations on the weekdays. I got stuck playing Xbox LIVE.”
“Ah.”
Brimm exchanged greetings and a handshake with Bo, then took in their surroundings. “Cool place. Where’s Amber?”
“Out there.” Meg pointed through the weaving dancers.
“I see her,” Brimm said.
Amber spotted him, too. “Brimm!”
He saluted her with two fingers.
As soon as the song ended, Amber made her way to their table. She grinned at Brimm, slightly flushed, her hair mussed from all the movement and twirling. “Ready to dance?”
“Is anyone here planning to video me and send the clip to YouTube so that everyone in America can laugh at me tomorrow?”
They shook their heads.
“Then I guess I’ll dance. At least the hilarity will be reserved to the enormous crowd currently present.”
Amber pulled him onto the dance floor.
Sure enough, when Brimm attempted to two-step in sync to the fast beat of Garth Brooks’ “Callin’ Baton Rouge,” Meg couldn’t help but laugh. He’d always been her favorite cousin: calm, loyal, smart, self-deprecating. But sadly, her favorite cousin had all the natural coordination of a baby giraffe.
“I thought he was a Texan,” Bo murmured.
“And men from Texas should be able to ride horses, hunt, play football, and two-step.”
“Well, yeah.” He looked at her sidelong, humor flickering in his eyes.
“Brimm can’t do any of those things. He went to a private boys’ school in Dallas that had a lacrosse team.”
Bo’s eyebrows drew down with disgust. “Lacrosse?”
“He followed that up with several years at MIT. So you could say he’s on an unusual track for a Texas boy.”
“Do you have to be a bad dancer to get on that track?”
“Yes,” Meg confirmed. “Very bad.”
The song wound down, which left Brimm shrugging and Amber giggling and patting his arm consolingly.
“Uh-oh,” Bo said.
Meg followed his line of vision to a remarkably beautiful teenage girl with long dark hair and pale blue eyes wearing black leather from head to toe. The girl walked straight up to them, considered first Bo, then Meg, then Bo again. “Do you have a new girlfriend you’d like to tell me about?”
Meg cringed.
“We’re friends,” Bo answered.
The girl lifted a skeptical eyebrow.
“Meg,” Bo said, “this is my sister, Dru. Dru, this is Megan Cole.”
“No kidding?” Dru’s eyes lit. “Megan Cole? The one that owns Whispering Creek Horses?”
“Yes.”
“Any interest in selling it to me cheap? I’d love to boss around my older brothers.”
Meg released a surprised gasp of laughter.
“That’s enough,” Bo warned Dru. He took the beer bottle she held away from her and set it on the table. “You’re underage. Who bought this for you?”
She rolled her eyes. “What does it matter? There’s twenty guys over there who’d buy beer for me.”
“Not while I’m here, they’re not. Does Dad know you’re here?”
She ignored the question and swiped the bottle off the table.
Bo took it away again, and this time kept a protective hold on it. “Tell me you didn’t drive the motorcycle over here—”
“What else am I supposed to drive? I’m grounded from using my car.”
“Good grief, Dru. Did you wear your helmet—”
“Well,” Dru interrupted in a light tone, “this has been fun. I’m heading over to play pool. I’ll catch you later.” She gave Meg a wink, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the crowd.
“Your sister,” Meg said. Dru Porter radiated the kind of towering, headstrong bravado most often seen in action movie characters played by Angelina Jolie.
“My sister.”
“How old is she?”
“Eighteen, with a fifty-fifty shot of making it to nineteen.”
“Must be fun to be her older brother.”
“It’s a nightmare. She gets herself into one scrape after another.”
The band kicked off the sort of song that made a person want to sing along and tap their toes. Meg drummed her fingertips on the table in time to the music.
“You like this one?” Bo asked.
She nodded.
“You do know”—his expression turned mock-somber—“you may end up having to dance with me a couple of times.”
She half-hid her pleasure behind a quick sip of water. “Why’s that?”
“To make it look like you’re telling the truth about being here with me.”
“You really think that’s what it’s going to take to prove my story to these people?”
“I’m real sorry, but I’m afraid so.”
“High price.”
“Very high.”
“Well, Joan of Arc made her sacrifice. I guess I’ll have to make mine.”
A grin dawned slow across his mouth. He placed a hand on the small of her back and led her to the dance floor. Once there, he pulled her into his arms with total ease, one strong hand clasped around hers, his other curved behind her waist. Meg’s nose came up about as high as the clean sweep of his shoulder.
“Ready?” he asked.
It was all perfectly textbook and respectful, yet her heart reacted like cymbals clanging. “Ready.”
He moved her into the dance smoothly, with the competence of someone who’d done this all his life. With every step she grew more and more intensely aware of him physically. To hold his hand, to move in such close proximity to his body, to feel the heat and power of him was all so breathtaking. She’d had no idea that this simple contact between them could contain such force.
She could sense Bo struggling to adjust to the shock of it, too. He’d tipped his face down to hers, but she didn’t have the nerve to look up. If she did, not only would that bring their profiles just millimeters apart, but she worried he’d be able to read tenderness for him in her eyes.
When the song finished, Bo didn’t even begin to lead her off the dance floor. “We may need to dance a few more.” He shrugged apologetically.
“Because who am I kidding?” she replied. “One dance probably isn’t enough to verify my story.”
“Right.”
“A few more dances are definitely necessary.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Torture,” she said. Another song began, they set off together again, and a jolt of humming bliss shot through her. “Pure torture.”
They maintained an easy flow of conversation while dancing the next several songs in a row. Then Meg, Bo, Brimm, and Amber shared an order of nachos before returning again to the dance floor.
Meg found it hard to squelch the goofy smiles that kept wanting to overtake her mouth. None of her worries about this night had come to fruition. Bo hadn’t left her all night, not once, and certainly not to dance with other women. He treated Amber politely, but didn’t exhibit any romantic interest in her. He hadn’t had anything to drink, let alone too much of something.
When the band took a break, Meg made a quick trip to the bathroom. She emerged into the main room to find Bo waiting for her.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“Another water would be great.” Might as well live on the wild side.
At this time of night, a far larger crowd circled the bar than had surrounded it when they’d arrived. Bo would have to exert both patience and muscle to get close enough even to place her order.
While Bo waded into the mass, Meg hung back. She glanced around at the people nearby and accidentally locked gazes with Sean, her dance partner from earlier. Though she rapidly looked away, he crossed over to her. Two of his buddies trailed behind him.
“Hello again.” Sean regarded her with bright, unfocused eyes. He’d clearly been overindulging in beer and the admiration of his friends since they’d last spoken.
“Hello.”
“Interested in another dance?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
“C’mon, pretty lady.” He swept his hands wide. “I don’t bite.”
Charming. She gave him a tight smile.
“Just one more,” he coaxed.
“No really, thanks. I’m good.” She looked toward Bo. His attention had been on the bartender, but his head came around sharply, as if he’d sensed that she needed him.
“She won’t dance with me, boys,” Sean said to his buddies. “What’m I to do?”
“Shoo-oot.” Brady, the one who’d danced with Amber, repositioned the wad of chew stuck under his bottom lip. “She probably thinks she’s too good for us.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” Sean’s grin started on one side of his face and sort of traveled, out of his control, from there. “She probably does.”
“I don’t think anything of the sort.” Where was Bo? There, thank goodness, shouldering his way back in her direction.
“Will you invite me out to Whispering Creek sometime, Meg Cole?” Sean asked. “Everybody talks about that mansion of yours, and I sure would like to see it for myself.”
“Umm . . .”
Bo finally reached her side.
Sean glanced at Bo, then back to her. “So, if you’re too good for me, then why’re you slumming with him?”
Bo stiffened, and Meg’s relief torqued into genuine dismay. “I’m not slum—”
“I mean, he’s no better than the rest of us. You can slum with me instead, pretty lady. C’mon. Just one more dance.” Sean wrapped his fingers around her elbow.
Bo knocked Sean’s hand away. “Don’t touch her.”
“What?” Sean scowled at Bo. “You’re the only country boy around here allowed to touch her?” Sean bit off an expletive and extended his hand toward Meg again. This time Bo pushed him back with a shove to the chest.
Meg sucked in a breath. Bo’s attention—intimidating, and without an ounce of compassion—had leveled directly on Sean.
Sean recovered his balance. Anger began to burn in his eyes.
“It’s all right,” Meg said to Bo in the calmest voice she could muster. “Maybe we should—”
“She’s hot, isn’t she, Bo?” Sean sneered. “I mean, hot enough, considering all that money—”
Bo swung. His fist connected squarely with Sean’s cheek. Sean’s face whipped to the side and he reeled backward. Caught himself. Froze for a split second.
“Bo.” Meg reached out, stunned and shaking inside, to pull Bo away before anything more could happen.
But Sean leapt into motion, rushing at Bo. Sean’s fist arced toward Bo’s face. Bo deflected it with a cross swipe and punched Sean in the gut.
Meg sensed more than saw the crowd around them gasping and moving back, like waves expanding from a stone that had been dropped into a pond. Shock rooted her to the spot. She couldn’t move, didn’t know how to help—
One of Sean’s friends launched himself at Bo’s back and managed to grab Bo’s arms from behind.
Sean, blood trickling from his nose, took the opportunity to throw a punch that landed on the side of Bo’s face with a sickening crunch.
Meg cried out, moved toward Bo—
Bo jerked forward, flipping the guy behind him over his back and onto the ground. Sean and Brady closed in on Bo simultaneously. Bo moved swiftly, striking one with his elbow and trading punches with the other.
Dru stormed into the fray, blistering the air with expletives and kicking the one on the ground.
“Dru, don’t,” Bo snarled. Sean leapt at him. Bo spun Sean with a powerful blow, then grabbed him around the throat. Before Meg could find breath to speak, Sean went limp and collapsed to the ground.
Brady ran at Bo.
With all the strength Meg had, she pushed Brady off course. Brady stumbled, then glared at her, infuriated.
Bo threw his arm in front of her and edged her backward, behind him. “Careful.”
Brady threw a thunderous punch at Bo. Bo dodged to the side, but Brady’s fist still managed to connect with Bo’s shoulder. Bo struck back, and Brady answered. Bo landed more than he took until Brady sprang at Bo, trying to tackle him to the ground. Bo managed to stay upright and toss Brady to the side.
Dru got pulled to the ground by the man she’d been kicking, which brought bystanders into the mix. Men swarmed over the fighters, pulling them apart and restraining them.
Two men held Bo. He was breathing hard, his chest expanding and contracting forcefully. His lip had split open, and one eye had already started to swell.
The sight caused Meg’s heart to drop with a dizzying lurch.
Bo paused for a few moments, eyeing Dru, then his opponents before his gaze cut through the crowd, stopping firmly on her. He’d told her he’d been a Marine. She could see now that he remained every inch a soldier, his body as fit and dangerous as it ever had been.
Bo spoke to the men that held him and shook himself free. He moved to her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she promised. “Are you?”
He nodded and guided her over to his sister. “You okay, Dru?”
The girl adjusted her leather cat suit, rolled her shoulders once. “Heck yeah.” She had the audacity to beam at them, like she’d just stepped off an adrenaline roller coaster. “I got to be included in the fun for once.” She looked at Meg. “I never get to be included in the fun.”
Fun? Fun?! Bo’s face looked like a boxer’s, and Meg felt like she’d been pulverized. She might have to pass out.
“You did well,” Dru said to Bo. “That was awesome.”
A voice raised over the din of the music. “What in the tarnation is going on here?”
“The owner,” Dru said to Meg.
A Kenny Rogers look-alike parted the crowd and strode toward them. He took in the scene with a quick, angry sweep of his head. “Bo?” he demanded.
“Sean insulted a lady,” Bo said.
“So what’d you go and do to him?” The older man went and stood next to Sean’s body. He toed him with his boot. No response.
“I choked him out,” Bo answered. “That’s all.”
The owner regarded Bo with blazing eyes.
“He’ll be all right.” There wasn’t a shred of apology in Bo’s voice or face. “When he comes to.”
“He better be.”
“He will be.”
“Go on, then.” The owner jerked his head toward the front door. “Git.”
Bo glanced at Meg. She nodded in response. “Dru?”
he asked.
“Don’t look at me. I just got here.”
Bo asked the owner if he’d keep an eye on Dru until either Jake or their father came to claim her. When the man agreed, Bo escorted Meg in the direction of the exit. Men murmured compliments as they passed.
“Nice fight, man.”
“Sweet left cross.”
Brimm and Amber pushed their way into Meg’s path, their faces full of concern. Meg grabbed Brimm’s hand. “Bo was in a fight.”
Brimm looked at Meg, then Bo, eyes round.
“I’m going to go with him,” Meg continued. “Here are my car keys. I was thinking Amber could drive my car home and you could follow her to make sure she gets home safely.”
“Sure. Anything else I can do?”
“No. Thank you, though.”
“You’re white as a sheet.”
“I’m fine.” But honestly, her muscles and emotions had all turned to jelly.
She led Bo from the building. Blessed quiet and cool darkness rushed over them when they stepped outside into the parking lot. Meg made her way to the nearest light post, where a pool of illumination fell in a hazy circle.
Meg found she couldn’t quite meet Bo’s gaze. She crossed her arms and used the toe of her boot to pry a piece of gravel free from a pothole.
“Meg,” he said softly.
She looked up at him. Bo, with his shirt rumpled, his lip cracked, his eyes stark, his big body motionless. The sight seared straight to the center of her heart and left her helpless, foolish, unable to trust herself.
“I’m really sorry, Meg. About what Sean said about you.”
“No, I’m really sorry. You’re hurt.” She gestured ineffectually toward his face. “I’m so sorry.”
He lifted the back of his hand to his mouth, noticed that it came away bloody, and dabbed at his lip a few more times. “It’s no big deal. I’ve taken a lot worse.”
“You’re going to have a black eye.”
“Won’t kill me.”
“I could take you to a doctor.”
“I don’t need one. I’m good.”
Meg inhaled a big breath, held on to it as if to gain strength, and let it out slowly. Bo seemed impossibly still. Their roles had gotten flipped somehow. He, who’d been hurt—placid. She, who’d not had a single hair on her head disturbed—a mess. “I really think I should take you to a doctor.”