ONE
BRIAN
Itipped back the craft beer, a smooth porter produced by 4 Noses, a local Colorado brewery. It hit the spot after the day I’d had, and I was probably going to have another and maybe some dinner before leaving the Tipsy Vandal. I glanced around me. The Friday night crowd was thick, and the music had the dance floor swinging with bodies in Stetsons and cowboy boots.
No one looked my way, and I was thankful for the anonymity. In my own town of Poplar Springs, I wouldn’t have been left in peace for long. Friends and townsfolk would have pulled up a barstool to have a drink with the sheriff, air their grievances, and share some gossip.
In a small town, people treated the sheriff like a free therapist. They liked knowing that their complaints were heard, even when they didn’t actually expect me to do anything about them. Normally, I was good with that. Not today. With the rodeo coming to town in a month, my office and small staff were swamped with security planning plus the usual day-to-day operations.
I could manage the stress of that, but Jake’s brief phone call earlier in the day pushed me over the edge. In my twin’s characteristic blunt language, he’d informed me that we had a half-brother we’d never known existed. Cal Pierce, the rodeo competitor who was headlining Poplar Springs Charity Rodeo and who had agreed to come to town early to do publicity work.
When it’d first been announced earlier this year that he’d agreed to headline the fundraiser, we’d looked him up, but none of us had bothered to really look at him. All of his commercial photos had a Stetson sitting low on his brow, leaving his face shadowed.
Evidently, when the hat was out of the way, the man looked striking like Luke—my older brother who died four years ago.
I had seen plenty of unexpected shit happen, but nothing in my life had prepared me for that call. It was what had me driving thirty-plus miles to Beaumont, the next town over, to have a few beers and mull over the news that apparently my mom had given a son up for adoption before she’d ever even met my dad.
And never bothered to mention it to me or Jake. Left us to find out today, when the calls started pouring in from damn near half the town, people talking about how they felt like they’d seen a ghost. I tapped the bar, getting the bartender’s attention, and signaled for another beer as I pushed down the inner grimace when I thought about the accident that killed Luke and our dad and led the rest of us—Jake, Mom, and Luke’s widow and son, Amy and Henry, to cling even more closely together.
The accident should never have happened. If I had only…
A disturbance five seats down from me drew my attention and I leaned back to get a better view. I might be off duty, but the instinct to sort out trouble never shut down. A man was standingnext to a barstool, half-leaning over it, obscuring whoever was seated. Shapely legs and a pair of scuffed cowboy boots were all I could see of the woman on the stool.
“Not interested. Back off,” a feminine voice said, loud enough to cut through the noise of the bar.
Typical problem, a drunk giving a woman a hard time and very clearly not backing off, even after she’d said no. Even though this wasn’t my town, I’d been raised to help when I came across someone in distress. I crossed the space between us and plucked the guy by the collar, yanking him back, and spinning him around.
“Hey,” I said to the man, and blinked when the strong smell of bottom-shelf bourbon came off him in waves. “Time for you to leave.”
“It’s a f…free country.” The guy got in my face, slurring his words. “I’m s…staying.”
I had dealt with enough drunks to know that the best option was to defuse the situation and convince the guy that it was in his best interest to go before he ended up in the backseat of a police car. I was about to escort the guy to the door when the woman spoke.
“Brian? Brian Thorne? I can’t believe it’s you.”
For the first time, I swung my eyes to the woman on the barstool. The pixie cut was a new look for her blonde hair, but I knew those soulful brown eyes. Caitlin Baker. The younger sister of a good friend—and the girl I dated in college. She was the one woman I’d never gotten completely over. Damn, she was still beautiful. Maybe even more so than before.
“Caitlin,” I managed to get out, feeling suddenly tongue-tied. “Good to see you.”
“Same goes for you.” She smiled at me then. It was tinged with a little of that sadness she’d always carried. I’d wanted to change that in our time together, but I’d never had the chance. I remembered all-too well how it ended between us.
“Ah, h…hell, no,” the drunk interrupted, puffing out his chest. “I saw her first. You can go find someone else.”
“News flash, bucko.” Caitlin switched her gaze to him. “You were never going to get lucky with me, so get lost.”
“The lady wants you to leave,” I reiterated in a calm tone, hoping the guy wasn’t going to cause serious trouble. “I suggest you do it peaceably.” I put my hand on my belt and tapped my badge, watching as his eyes got bigger and rounder. I counted to a slow ten, my eyes on the other man’s face, waiting. If I needed to get more physical, I would. When I was just about to help him find the door, the guy spun on his heel, the rapid movement causing him to stagger a few steps, and stumbled for the exit.
“I know him. I’ll make sure he doesn’t drive anywhere,” a middle-aged waitress said as she followed him.
“Thanks,” Caitlin said to me, flashing me another smile. “But I could have handled him. He was nothing but a standard run-of-the-mill creep with too much liquor in him and not enough common sense.”
“I’m grateful to him.” I brought my full attention to her. She had on a scoop-neck blouse that clung to her curves and a short denim skirt. Caitlin appeared to have changed little from our college days. “I might not have seen you if it wasn’t for him.” And that would have been a damn shame.
“Well, then. I think we should drink a toast to the drunk guy.” She played with her dangly silver earring as she spoke, drawing my attention to the curve of her neck. She’d liked being kissed just below her ear. The rush of memory was so strong that I could almost hear the little sound of pleasure she would make.
“On the house.” The bartender slid a beer across the bar to me. “Thanks for getting him out of here before he broke anything.”
I lifted the bottle in acknowledgment. “Thanks for the beer.”
