Chapter One
Last New Year’s Eve
Jameson John fully intended to ring in the New Year in style.
He wanted to hear some good music, play a little eight ball and, if the stars aligned, take someone sweet and willing home. To make all that happen, he’d jumped in his quad cab and headed straight for Wild Willa’s Saloon.
Perched on Center Street, with the entrance in Bronco Valley and the dance floor in tony Bronco Heights, Wild Willa’s was the most popular bar in Bronco, Montana. At Wild Willa’s, things got loud and rowdy pretty much every night. On New Year’s Eve, however, the fun reached a whole new level.
As midnight approached, the very air seemed charged with anticipation. The sound of boots stomping on hardwood competed with the wail of the fiddle, the beat of the drums and the driving rhythm from the bass guitar.
Tonight, every man wore his best boots and a snap-front dress shirt. Every woman had on her tightest jeans or her shortest flirty skirt. Many wore light-up, sequined cowboy hats. They blew party horns and shouted encouragements at the band. The place smelled of beer, perfume, saddle soap and sweat.
“Hey, cowboy, let’s dance.”
Jameson turned to the pretty blonde who’d just tapped him on the shoulder. She had lipstick on her straight white teeth and a woozy look in those big blue eyes. Like just about everyone else in Wild Willa’s tonight, she’d had one too many.
As for Jameson, in the two hours since he’d walked through the wide, rustic double doors, he’d had a whiskey, neat, and a single beer. He wanted to be sharp, on his best game, just in case he met someone interesting. So far, that hadn’t happened. It wouldn’t be happening with this cowgirl, either.
But the woozy blonde looked sweet and hopeful. He gave her a smile and led her out on the packed dance floor.
When the song ended, another cowboy stepped up. Jameson thanked the blonde and left the floor. He tried not to feel discouraged, but at this rate, he’d have nobody to kiss when the clock struck twelve. Maybe it just wasn’t his night.
With a shrug, he decided he needed a second whiskey and a seat at Wild Willa’s famous Get-Lucky Bar, which formed four loops of stools in a four leaf clover configuration.
Too bad every stool had an occupant. Jameson considered heading for the pool tables. He could order a drink there.
But then, in the split second before he turned for the tables, a guy at one end of the clover got up. Jameson moved in to claim the seat.
“Good luck, buddy,” muttered the other man as he went by. He looked kind of glum, like maybe he’d just been shut down.
Jameson slid onto the vacant stool, with the wall on one side and a curvy brunette on the other.
He signaled the nearest bartender and ordered, “Knob Creek, straight up.”
The brunette turned a pair of velvet brown eyes his way—and he almost felt sorry for that other guy. But then her wide, plump lips stretched in a devilish smile.
The rich, musical sound of her laughter had him forgetting all about that other guy. “Well, if it isn’t the one and only Jameson John.” She raised her glass as the bartender set his drink down. “Hot and handsome as ever, I see.”
Suddenly, his evening looked a whole lot more promising. Apparently, this gorgeous woman knew him. He studied her more closely.
She did look a little familiar. He raised his whiskey and tapped the glass to hers.
“Wait—don’t tell me,” he said. “I know that I know you...”
She laughed again, tossing her head, her thick, wavy hair tumbling down her back, gleaming like polished mahogany. He found himself staring at the smooth olive skin of her throat. “I’m Vanessa,” she said. “Vanessa Cruise.”
“Wow.” He never would have guessed. Tipping his hat to her, he said with frank admiration, “Evan Cruise’s little sister grew up.”
Vanessa had always been cute and smart, but somewhere along the line she’d turned into a beauty—the natural kind, in a silky white shirt and a pair of snug jeans that hugged every gorgeous, generous curve. She had that thick dark hair, those fine eyes to match and freckles, too. Everything about her appealed to him.
She shook a finger at him. “You are staring, Jameson John.”
“Sorry, can’t help it. I like your freckles.”
“Now, there’s an interesting compliment.”
“Freckles seem surprising, somehow, with your skin color.”
