Even if he’d hiked out in a blizzard, on a broken knee, to save him.
“Bull’s-eye,” Gage said as his dart landed in the circle. “That’s twenty bucks, Rem.”
“Game’s not over yet,” Ty groused.
Gage grinned, glanced at Sam, and raised his hand in greeting.
Sam nodded at him.
Willow sat on the windowsill nursing what looked like a Coke, every inch her hippie self in a pair of cutoff overalls over a sleeveless white shirt, her long tanned legs bare all the way to her red Converse tennis shoes. She sported a thematic black cowboy hat, and her brown hair was down and tumbling over her shoulders.
He had the sudden, very vivid memory of the silky feel of her hair between his fingers.
Willow had followed Gage’s wave, and for a second, her gaze fixed on Sam.
Deer in the headlights.
He tried not to have the same panicked expression. Found a smile.
Willow looked away, back at the game, but he saw her entire body stiffen. “I promise I’ll never talk to you again if you don’t tell Sierra.”
No problem.
“Let’s go sit by the team,” Sierra said, and tugged him toward trouble.
“I’ll get us drinks,” Sam said and escaped.
On the front stage, on the far end of the room, the warm-up singer—a clean-cut cowboy with styled short brown hair wearing a white shirt, jean jacket, and tie for his set—settled into a cover.
“Who’s that?” Sam said to Gina after he ordered a couple sodas. Her dad, Roy McGill, owned the place.
Sam remembered a few times, back in high school, when Gina would open up the place after hours, let them dig in to the leftovers. She’d lost about fifty pounds since then, dyed her hair black, added a couple tattoos.
“Easton somebody, up from Nashville. Mountain Song Records has tryouts here sometimes.”
“Be my love song, my all night long . . .”
Gina handed over the drinks, and he gave her his card, started a tab. Then he headed over to the table, eyes on Sierra, who was laughing with Kacey and Audrey.
Willow sat at the edge of the group with a tight-lipped smile.
Sam set down the drinks, slid in next to Sierra. Put his arm around her.
“I told Willow that you said yes, by the way,” Sierra said, smiling up at him. Sierra had such a pretty smile, the kind that told a guy he could hang the moon.
Almost on reflex, Sam glanced over at Willow. She was staring into her cup, looking miserable.
He felt like a jerk. Because clearly she felt as wretched about her actions as he did for reacting to them.
The kissing part ended up being just as much his fault as hers.
“We’re going to have a great time, Willow,” Sam said, raising his voice over the music.
She looked up then, startled, with the slightest hue of fear in her hazel-blue eyes.
He gave her a smile, offered a message in it. See, we can forget the past, just move on.
He received a hint of a grin in return, sweet relief in it.
Easton wrapped up the song, started another, something slow and romantic.
“Your sunset kiss, on a night like this, come on over, we’ll stay up late . . .”
Sam leaned over to Sierra, whispered in her ear. “Let’s dance.”
She looked up, her eyes shining.
He took her hand, and they slid out of the booth.
Apparently, they weren’t the only ones with the idea, because as they scooted around tables and chairs to the front, the dance floor began to fill up with couples swaying to the music.
“It’s a perfect night, out in the moonlight . . .”
Sam found them a pocket near the back corner, and Sierra wrapped her arms around his neck, tucked her head into his shoulder.
Yeah, a perfect night.
Sam closed his eyes, sinking into the music. And wouldn’t you know it, there was Willow smiling up at him.
He opened his eyes. Swallowed against the tightening in his chest.
In his arms, Sierra stiffened, and for a second he thought maybe—crazily—that she could see inside his mind.
But as he lifted his head, he saw her look away. He followed the trail of her gaze, and a fist landed in his gut.
Ian Shaw, back from his hunt for Esme, taking a turn on the dance floor with a blonde caught in his arms. Her high heel boots, shimmering black tank top, and tight sequined jeans over her too-thin model form evidenced that the woman wasn’t from around here.
Sierra turned her face the other way, settled her head back onto Sam’s chest, and Sam suppressed the urge to go over and tell Ian and his floozy to get lost.
That would only bring to a fine point the fact that it still bothered Sierra. Which meant that she probably wasn’t over the man.
Someday, Sam hoped to make her forget Ian Shaw.
Sam turned his back to Ian, protecting Sierra from the view, and Sierra looked up at him, smiled.