Her Cowboy Doms(46)

Destin took her legs and put them over his while she dug her fingers deeper into Paul’s flesh.

“It’s not your fault, baby. You did what you could.”

Her throat ached from her cries. Her eyes burned from her tears. She could never let it go. Not until she found the killer.



* * * *



“Are you sure you’re okay, sweetie?”

Georgia jerked out of her trance. She smiled, knowing that’s what Barb wanted to see. “Of course. Never better.”

“Uh-huh.” Barb wasn’t anyone’s fool. “Well, if you want to rest or whatever, you just let me know, okay?”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” She held her head up and strode over to one of her tables. Shooting her friend a thumbs-up, she turned to the men and asked to take their drink orders.

It was a slow night at the club with only a few of the regulars showing up. She was thankful for that. Once she had their orders, she strode over to the bar and gave them to Wilson.

She’d had a rough time getting back to normal after the men had brought her back to the house. Destin had cradled her in front of him on his horse. She remembered the way he felt holding her tightly against him, but not much else.

They’d stayed with her, comforting her, talking softly to her for the next two days. One of them was always in her room, never leaving her alone. She’d had the nightmare again, but when she awoke, they were there to lull her back to peace in the safety of their arms. Although they tried to talk her out of working her shift, she’d had her fill of lying around and being treated like an emotional cripple. The scene had taken a lot out of her, but it wouldn’t get her down. Not if she had any say in it.

“Sweetie, you’ve got another table that just came in. They’re not regulars.” Barb dipped her head, scrutinizing her. “If you’re not up to it, I can take them.”

Enough was enough. If Paul and Destin weren’t going over the club’s records in the back, Barb’s suffocating attention would’ve had her out the backdoor and running toward the house.

“I’m fine. Really. Stop worrying about me. I’ll take care of them.” She hoped Barb would finally get the message to leave her alone. Unless, as she suspected, Paul and Destin had put her up to watching over her. If that was the case, there wasn’t much she could do about it.

The six men who had taken the table closest to the exit joked and laughed as she walked over to get their orders. Four of the men had on cowboy attire to the hilt, but they didn’t strike her as real cowboys. Now that she’d hung around the ranch hands and the Casing men, she could see the difference. The wannabes tried too hard, putting on everything from spurs to the type of shirts old country-western singers used to wear. Ranch hands wore simple clothes, opting for functionality and comfort over appearance. The other two men wore jeans, but no belt buckles or hats.

She cleared her throat, then pointed to her head. One of the house rules was for men to take their hats off when inside. It took a while for the group to catch on. Once they’d taken off the hats and hung them on the back of their chairs, she gave them a wide smile and put her pencil to her order pad.

“Hi. I’m Georgia. What’s it going to be, guys?” She paused, getting into the perfect waitress stance. All she needed to do was to chew gum and she’d be like all the waitresses she’d seen in the movies.

She nodded as the men told her what they wanted. Then when she came to the last man, she refreshed her smile and lifted her eyebrows in question. “And you, sir?”

His black gaze met hers. She’d seen a lot of the same “screw you” glints while on patrol.

Aw, hell. Don’t go there.

“I’ll have a whiskey sour.” His lip tipped up in a snarl. “And make it fast, bitch.”

She bristled. None of the regulars would’ve ever spoken to any of the staff that way. “Sir, I realize you’re new here, but we don’t allow customers to speak to us that way. If you do it again, you’ll have to leave.”

Her nerves, the gut instinct that had kept her safe as a cop, jumped to life. There was something not right about the man. She studied him, from the black hair and black eyes and the way he held his shoulders, to the tip of dark ink that peeked out from under his shirt sleeve.

“You going to make me?”

What the hell? What’s wrong with this guy?

“Come on, Jack. Don’t act that way.” One of the other men punched him in the shoulder. “This is our first time here. I don’t want it to be our last.”

Jack’s snarl didn’t lessen, but he backed off and rested his elbows on the table. “Like I said, get me a whiskey sour.”