Miss Firecracker: Wild West Boys, Book 2 (2 page)

Chapter Two

“‘Come watch the bar,’ he said. ‘We never have any problems in Broward, Nebraska. It’ll be a cake walk.’” Blake West mimicked his buddy Dave’s cajoling tone.

What stuck in Blake’s craw about the bizarre events from last night wasn’t that he’d allowed the sexy slip of a woman to run roughshod over him, but the misery on her sweet face when she huddled alone knocking back shots. Something about her…called to him. And that was before he’d seen her nekkid.

Blake hefted the case of beer onto the bar top and slammed open the sliding lid on the cooler. The jukebox blared Dwight Yoakam’s “Guitars, Cadillacs” and normally he’d be tapping his boot and humming along, but all he could think about was her.

Willow Gregory, a.k.a. Miss Firecracker, had been contrite after the sheriff chastised her. To hear the buzz in the bar, her performance was far from her normal behavior. On the trek to the apartment, she’d repeatedly told him her actions had been above reproach for the last year and she wanted to have fun for a change.

Blake understood needing to cut loose. Hell, last month after loading the last of the sheep, he’d gotten totally shitfaced. He hadn’t woken up until noon the next day, which had happened maybe a dozen times in his entire life.

Mornings started damn early in the sheep business. The sheep didn’t care if you’d closed down the bar at three a.m. The sheep didn’t care if your head hurt. The sheep didn’t care if you had a warm, willing woman in your bed. Sheep needed tending. Period. When you raised sheep your life was dictated by that constant tending. Period.

But you’re no longer in the sheep business.

His hand curled around the longneck bottle. For the briefest moment he considered popping the top and chugging the beer. Blake experienced a sense of displacement when he considered the drastic changes in his life during the last four months.

Nightmare words bounced in his brain. Stroke. Disabled. Long-term recovery.

His memory rewound to that day. A normal day. It’d started out the same as always, as Blake and his dad worked side by side in the barn. Then his dad had hit the ground with some kind of seizure.

Luckily, Blake had been right there. Luckily, his dad received medical attention in time. It hadn’t been a heart attack like Blake feared, but a stroke. The stroke wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been and the doctor’s prognosis had been good. But recovery would take time.

It’d been difficult watching Darren West, his formerly robust father, struggling to relearn how to walk. Directly after his discharge from the regular hospital, the staff placed him in a rehabilitation unit more than one hundred miles from their ranch. Rather than drive two hundred miles round trip every day, his mother had rented a ground level apartment in Casper.

Since Blake and his father were the only ones in their small livestock operation, his father’s health crisis meant Blake shouldered all the work, not just half. And half had been plenty before his dad had become incapacitated.

Blake hadn’t complained. He just worked himself to the bone and fell into bed exhausted every night.

He’d been grateful to his older brother, Nick, for showing up to help out for a week. But the relief on Nick’s face had been apparent when he returned to his wife and life in Colorado. Nick never wanted to raise sheep and he’d bailed out of Wyoming the month he’d turned eighteen.

Oddly enough, Blake didn’t hold it against Nick for making that choice. Even when Nick’s choice meant Blake didn’t have one.

So it’d come as a complete shock when his dad announced he was selling the ranch, the livestock, the house, the barns, the equipment, everything.

Naturally, Blake had bristled. He’d been doing his damndest to keep it all together during his dad’s recovery. But his father assured him it wasn’t anything Blake had—or hadn’t—done that brought about the decision. The bottom line: after two months of rehab he doubted he’d ever be the same man. Workaholic Darren West decided it was time to retire.

Blake’s mother was in complete agreement. After living in rural Wyoming her entire married life, she’d developed a taste for living in town. And she preferred quicker access to a hospital if need be. Blake also knew with Nick and his wife Holly expecting their first child, his parents were eager to move closer to Denver. He didn’t blame them. He’d miss them, but frankly, the workload had been wearing on Blake for a while.

Then his father shared the most shocking news of all. Their neighbors to the east, who’d been looking to expand, agreed to buy everything but the sheep on the West Ranch outright. The dollar amount his dad named nearly had Blake’s eyeballs popping out of his head.

And that was just Blake’s half.

The first thing he’d done was pack up his worldly goods from his crappy singlewide trailer and rent a house in Sundance. The second thing he’d done was sleep. The third thing he’d done was become a bum.

Well, not really a bum, although at times he felt like one, lying in bed until eight in the morning. Lifting weights at the community center with his cousins. Playing with his dog. Loafing on the couch with a book until his shift started at the Rusty Spur. Instead of working three jobs, bartending part-time was his sole occupation. No riding the range looking for lost sheep. No last minute handyman projects for his cousin’s construction business.

He’d gone from out-of-his-mind busy to bored-out-of-his-skull.

Blake jumped at the chance to manage his good buddy Dave’s bar in Nebraska while Dave took a much-needed vacation. Dave was one of the few guys Blake had confided in about his situation after the ranch sale: his restlessness, his worry about his dad, his struggle to figure out what to do with the rest of his life. Bartending in a town where no one knew him would allow Blake to shake the phantom sheep shit off his boots and be someone else for a while.

And maybe Blake could finally fulfill his fantasy of finding a no-strings fling. The women in his hometown preferred his bad boy, hell raisin’ McKay cousins to a simple nice guy like him.

Which was another reason he’d sought escape from Wyoming. Once word got out Blake West had money, women who’d never given him the time of day would flock to him like sheep. Another irony, since being a sheepherder had been part of his lack of appeal with the ladies.

Might make him a dreamer, but Blake hoped to find a woman who wanted him for him—even if it was only for a week of hot sex over the Fourth of July. The town was packed to the gills with people attending family and class reunions and the county fair. Surely there was one woman who’d be up for generating some major sparks with him.

Immediately the delectable Willow Gregory appeared in his mind’s eye. There was something about the former Miss Firecracker that made him want to blow his Mr. Nice Guy persona straight to hell.

After mopping the floor behind the bar, Blake restocked the liquor shelves. He called the supplier and tripled the beer order. He lined up limes, lemons and oranges for slicing.

He’d just poured himself a Coke on ice when the cowbell on the front door clanked and Willow slunk in. Damn, she looked good. “Feeling better?”

“No. It’ll take more than a shower and four aspirin to purge my misdeeds, sad to say.” Her gaze zeroed in on his glass. “Are you drinking on the job?”

Rather than ask why Willow had such a low opinion of him right off the bat, he answered, “Nope,” very curtly. He pointed his finger at her. “And just so we’re straight, no drinking on the job for you either.”

“That’s not gonna be a problem. Today anyway.” She marched around the bar and planted herself in front of him.

Blake looked down at her. The top of her head didn’t reach his shoulder. If Mandy hadn’t checked her ID he never would’ve believed she was almost twenty-six. Willow projected sweetness and innocence with her cherubic face, big brown eyes, and wavy chestnut hair. Mercy, he’d like to drag her upstairs and prove that innocence was just a veneer.

“Where am I supposed to put my stuff?”

His gaze reconnected with hers as he tried to forget how perfect she looked naked. In his bed. “There’s a locker in the breakroom, which is next to the bathrooms.”

“Thanks.”

His eyes narrowed when Willow was back in a flash.

“You’re scowling at me like I’ve already done something wrong.”

“It’s hard to grasp your sudden change of attitude.”

She shrugged. “You know the saying, ‘When life gives you lemons’. Speaking of…” She pointed to the fruit piled on the bar. “You making juice? Or a fruit basket?”

“Neither.” Blake pushed away from the barback. “You’ll be slicing them after we go over a few things.”

“What things?”

“Learning to take orders, to start.” He handed her an old-fashioned waitress order pad and a small round tray. “It might be easiest for you to write down the orders to begin with.”

“Write them down for you?”

“No, for yourself. The only time I’ll need a paper copy is when you have a big table, ten or more people, and they’re all ordering at the same time.”

“Got it.” She supported the tray on her hip. “Okay, hit me.”

“Pardon?”

She gestured impatiently with the pen. “Name some drinks. See if I can keep up.”

“Tangueray and tonic. Bud Light. Jack and Coke. Fat Tire. Seven and Seven. Fuzzy Navel. Diet and Captain. Chardonnay.”

Willow rattled them back.

“Good. Except for beer. Verify if they’re asking for a draft or a bottle.” He sipped his Coke. “How are your math skills?”

She offered him a droll stare. “Is this part of my punishment? You’re going to make me do story problems?”

Blake laughed. “I hated them in school too. No, I’m talking simple addition and subtraction. But fast addition and subtraction.”

“Can I use a calculator?”

“Nope. You can use your pad if you need to. Ready?”

“For what?”

“To tell me how much the drink order I just gave you costs.” He flipped the pad around on the tray. “Here’s the price list. Top shelf. Premium. Domestic bottled beer. Imported bottled beer. Tap beer. Wine. Soft drinks aren’t listed, but usually those are free for the designated—”

“Forty-one fifty?”

His mouth dropped open. “You figured that out already?” When her stare turned into a challenge, he backtracked. “Wow. You’ve got a head for numbers.”
In addition to being a hot little number that makes my damn head spin.

Willow reached up and patted his cheek. “And don’t you forget it. So what’s next?”

“Wiping down the tables. The rags and cleaner are below the sink. I’ve gotta grab the cash drawer from the office and then I’ll help.”

He’d only made it a few steps when she said, “Blake. Wait.”

He stopped.

“I’m sorry for all the problems I caused last night. For being so touchy this morning.”

I wish we’d been a lot touchier this morning.

Blake bit back his retort and listened.

“You probably don’t believe me, but I’ve never done anything like this before. I mean, when I’m mad I yell and get in people’s face, but drinking until I pass out? Waking up naked in a strange man’s bed? And finding out I performed a strip tease for you—”

He whirled around. “You didn’t strip for me.”

“I didn’t?”

“No. After the sheriff left, you were upset so I took you up to the apartment. I’d planned to drive you home after I locked up the bar. But when I came back a couple hours later, you were naked and snoring on my bed. I slept on the couch. Nothin’ happened.”

The relief on her face was comical. “I hate that I don’t remember. Sounds like I was lucky to end up with you and not someone…less honest.”

Blake looked at her thoughtfully.

“What?”

“As long as we’re bein’ honest? My gentlemanly streak only goes so far and it’d been long gone last night if you
had
stripped for me. No way could I’ve kept my hands off you. No way. It was damn hard.” His gaze swept over her. “It’s still damn hard.” Boy-howdy was that statement true in more ways than one.

She blinked. “So my behavior didn’t repulse you?”

“Far from it. But fair warning. Next time I find you naked in my bed? There’s gonna be a whole lot happening. And I guarantee you’ll remember every single second of it.

Willow didn’t unfreeze until Blake disappeared. Then she sagged against the barstool.

Holy moly. She’d wondered if she’d imagined Mr. Hottie Bartender’s attraction to her.

Apparently not.

Blake was the first man she’d been attracted to in a long time—even before her forced abstinence during her reign as Miss Firecracker. She had no clue what to do about the attraction. Men like him didn’t usually give her the time of day, let alone the I-wanna-lick-you-up-one-side-and-down-the-other sexy stare.

Forget about it
.

Grabbing the bottle of disinfectant spray, she blanked her mind to everything but scrubbing the scum from the tables, when she noticed the chunks out of the wall.

Her stomach clenched. What if she had connected with Norbert’s head? She might’ve killed him. What could he have done or said that’d caused her to swing a barstool at him?

Willow traced the deep gouges and scratches with her fingertips. Evidently she’d held onto the seat portion and the chair’s legs connected with the wall. Repeatedly. Luckily she could fix the damage with Sheetrock mud instead of having to cut out the ruined section and install a new piece, which would require taping and lots of sanding.

Blake’s footsteps stopped behind her. “It could’ve been worse.”

“Yeah, I could be in jail for attempted murder.” Willow faced Blake. Or rather his chest. Her gaze traveled up his broad torso until she met his remarkable eyes.

“Old Norbert hit the ground pretty fast the second you picked up the barstool. So in your defense, I don’t think you meant to hurt him, just to scare him.”

“Why? Do you have any idea what he said that might’ve made me act so…rash?”

“Mandy, the cocktail waitress, said Norbert propositioned you.”

“Eww! He’s older than my dad!”

Blake’s mouth hardened. “Dirty old man. Mandy also claimed he grabbed your butt and tried to bury his face in your cleavage.”