Tuesday night
DAN BRIGMAN CALLED himself every kind of fool as he walked into the Nowhere Club. He’d asked a woman for a date and then stood her up. He hadn’t even called last night. She’d been everything he needed right now. Someone fun, easy to get to know, great to kiss. A wild, beautiful lady he could spend some time with and not worry about getting involved. No strings. No complications. She’d made that plain from the first.
She was the dream he’d always wanted and never had.
And, thanks to Thatcher Jones, Dan had blown his one chance. She probably wouldn’t bother to speak to him tonight, and all he had was a memory of one great kiss. Maybe the best kiss he’d ever experienced, or ever would.
There was the possibility she hadn’t thought it was a date. She’d just said that if he could find a place open, she’d be hungry. Maybe showing up a day late wouldn’t matter. Brandi Malone didn’t strike him as a woman who made long-term plans.
By the time he’d left the sheriff’s office after one final check of Thatcher and his two babysitters and gone home to clean up, it was almost eight o’clock. If he was lucky, he’d hear her second set, even if she didn’t talk to him afterward.
Any plans of taking the lady back to his place had vanished when his daughter showed up this afternoon. The singer he met might be beautiful and wild, but they were both too old for him to even suggest making out in a car. His old Jeep didn’t have much of a heater, and he was not taking her out to dinner in the county cruiser.
At least he’d switched into civilian clothes and left his gun belt at home. Of course he did have a small revolver strapped to his calf and his badge was tucked into his coat pocket. A lawman was a lawman; it was not just his job.
He almost turned around halfway to the county line. The weather was getting worse. If he stayed a few hours at the bar, he’d probably be fighting snow going home.
“No,” he said aloud as he pushed on the accelerator. He was going. It was about time he made a memory. At the rate he was going, he’d head into old age without having that “once in a lifetime” affair.
Twenty minutes later, Dan climbed out of the Jeep and turned his collar up against the freezing mist. He might as well go in and make a fool of himself. At least he’d have something to regret.
“Evening, Sheriff,” the bartender said with a nod as he shouted loud enough for half the drunks to hear. “You coming in undercover tonight?”
“No.” Dan smiled as if the question didn’t bother him. Dan never went undercover, even though the club was officially in the next county. “I’m just here to have a beer and listen to the music.” He glanced at the bartender’s nametag. “You got any objections, Sorrel?”
“Nope.” Sorrel Douglas shrugged his bony shoulders. “Would suggest you don’t order food. Kitchen’s backed up. We’re getting a lot more folks in here on weeknights since Brandi came. Drunks around here act like they’ve never seen a real country singer, so they come in early and eat during the first set, then hang around way too late for a weeknight to catch the last set. It’ll be closing time before you get anything but nachos.”
Dan ordered a drink and found a table in the back just as Brandi Malone stepped onstage. The crowd settled. Even the drunk who’d been drooling on the next table raised his head and grinned.
The sheriff swore the air in the place settled as conversations stopped and people who had been playing pool in the back moved where they could see a woman in knee-high blue boots take the stage. Her skin looked pale in the lights, and her dark curls floated around her like a cape.
Dan held his breath. Even if she never spoke to him again, it was already worth the drive to just see her.
As he always did, Dan measured the crowd for trouble. Mostly couples, a few small groups of girls-night-out types. A dozen men standing at the bar. Cowboys, oil-field workers, truckers and a few bikers. No one in the place appeared to be looking for trouble, but a few were starting to drool in their beer as they stared at Brandi. She wore a long silk shirt over leggings, and the boots he’d seen before. Her hair wasn’t tied back as it had been yesterday. When she looked down at her hands, she curtained most of her face from view, and he wondered if she did it on purpose.
Dan wasn’t sure what he expected, but when she began a song, he was lost in her world. He wasn’t even sure she could see him in the crowd, but he swore she was singing just for him. Some of the songs were old favorites that anyone who loved country music liked to hear, but others were new, fresh, almost like she was making up the words as she sang.
For once he didn’t watch his surroundings. All he did was listen. Her music drifted around him like a gentle hug, and her words spoke straight to his sleeping heart. The crowd grew quiet as if they all knew just how good the lady was.
Dan caught himself holding his breath, waiting for her to look up, but she rarely did. For her it was all about the music, and he realized something no one else seemed to see—she was playing for herself, not the audience.
Finally, the spell was broken when she finished the last song and lowered her guitar. A roar went up from the crowd and Dan stood with everyone else.
She took one quick bow and vanished behind the curtain that covered the backstage door. Hank, the owner of the bar, was there as guard, making sure the men who moved toward the stage didn’t make it past the door.
Dan remained in the dark corner without taking one step toward her. Part of him was mourning the wild, crazy woman he’d thought about spending a few nights with. She was so much more. Not just attractive—there was something deep inside her that poured out in her music. She was one of those rare people who were truly gifted.
The lady was obviously hurting so deep down she might never heal. There was a richness to her that had nothing to do with money or diamonds.
“Sheriff?” A voice jerked him back to reality.
He frowned and turned. “What do you want, Sorrel?” The bartender’s name matched the color of the few strands of hair left on his head. He reminded Dan of an in-between man. Not tall or short. Not young or old. Not handsome or ugly enough to be noticeable in bar light.
Sorrel Douglas took a step backward as if surprised the sheriff had taken the time to remember his name. “Miss Malone said she’d like it if you’d come backstage.” Sorrel looked like he was trying to piece a puzzle together. “Probably wants advice about this guy who’s harassing her. He comes in a couple nights a week, and by the last set he’s drunk and thinks he’s going to take her home.” The bartender’s head twitched to the left, but when Dan turned, the big guy who smelled of motor oil at the next table was rushing for the restroom.
Sorrel stopped trying to point with his head. “I know you said you’re off duty, but she wants you to come talk to her for a minute. You wouldn’t believe the number of losers who want to get their hands on Miss Malone. Last week we had a drunk in a suit say he was going to stand at the bar and cry until she showed up to comfort him. He claimed he’d known they were soul mates after two songs. A few boys have even offered me money if I’d pass them her phone number.”
“Right.” Dan made up his mind he wasn’t leaving until midnight. “I’ll be happy to advise her.” Maybe it would be best not to mention that he was one of those men Sorrel was talking about. He wanted to know the lady, too.
“You’ll have to go behind the bar. Hank makes sure the stage door is locked after she disappears.”
Dan pulled his coat off the back of his chair. “Any of those guys make it behind the curtained door?” he asked casually.
“You’re the first I’ve seen.” Sorrel laughed as if even the thought of the sheriff going back for any other reason than to answer questions would be ridiculous. “But, it being official business, I guess you don’t count.”
Dan fought down the urge to thump Sorrel in the back of his bald