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As for all the people making those comments to her—she had to keep telling herself it was because he was living on the Baylor ranch, not because they suspected anything was going on between them, or because she had atypically dressed up, in her favorite, rather slinky blue dress—she only nodded and confirmed, “I know the feeling. I was as surprised as you are. But yes, he’s for real.”
And when she’d had to admit it to Jessica, who was gawking as much as anyone at the pool match going on, her friend had the grace to say, “I knew you’d get over it.”
It was the one who asked, “Do you think he’ll stay?” that stirred up the unease in her stomach now. Not only because of the question, but because of who asked it. Kane Highwater, who had unexpectedly shown up. She knew he’d just gottenback from a southwest tour, which, by all accounts, had been a rousing success, spreading the incredible music of the young artist beyond Texas. His story was so exceptional, it only added to the mystique. And she’d often wondered if, after his years of wandering, tortured by an undeserved guilt, he would be able to stay in any one place for long.
And over there was Jackson Thorpe, tortured by an undeserved death, and she was wondering the same thing about him.
“Maybe I should ask you that,” she suggested quietly. “You know what it’s like to have your life forever changed by the death of someone you loved. Although he”—she nodded toward the pool table—“isn’t carrying around a load of undeserved guilt over it.”
“Behind me now,” the youngest Highwater son said with a shrug. “Thanks to Lark,” he added. “She’s sorry she couldn’t make it tonight. She had an appointment with some adopting parents.” He said it with such emotion in his resonant voice it made her ache inside. Not in the way it once had, wondering what it must feel like to be so in love, but in the way of someone who suddenly thinks it just might be possible.
The very thought made her edgy. This was Jackson Thorpe she was thinking about, the guy so famous that, now that word had gotten out he was here, had the saloon filled wall to wall, with most of the crowd straining for just a glimpse of him.
In an effort to get her recalcitrant mind off this track, she joked, “My money’s on Joey.”
“Mine too,” Kane said with a grin that put her in mind of his stage presence, when that wiry, lightning-quick way of moving he had seemed to spark an energy in his audience that was unlike anything she’d seen live before. And then he opened up and that voice poured out—“And on him staying,” Kane added, derailing her thoughts.
She turned her head to stare at him. He shrugged again. “One of the things I learned in my years on the move was to recognize the people who weren’t, the ones who were home. He’s got that look, Nic.”
As he walked away, headed on a beeline to Lark, his words echoed in her mind as so often his songs did, capturing the essence of something so completely, it filled the heart. She watched Jackson as the game progressed, saw the way he laughed, how the others around him joined in, some even good-naturedly teasing him, and he taking it in the same vein. He looked like nothing different than a guy out with friends. Friends he trusted.
“That is a lot happier man than the Jackson Thorpe I first met.”
She turned to see Slater Highwater, who had walked up to where she was leaning against the bar.
“Yes,” she said, allowing herself to believe it. “Yes, I think he is.”
“He’s a good fit. He should stay.”
Okay, that was two Highwaters vouching for him staying. She had the feeling Keller and Maggie Rafferty would also agree. With votes from two of the founding families of Last Stand, it was practically a done deal.
If he wanted it.
*
With a shockJackson realized that the small ache in his ribs wasn’t from working, although he’d been doing a lot he wasn’t used to, it was from... laughing. It had been a very long time since he’d laughed this much. Or enjoyed an evening this much. Not just since Leah had been killed, but even before, when thesudden burst of fame that had enveloped him had made it nearly impossible to have a night like this back in L.A.
Yet here he was, deep into a game of pool with, of all people, the helpful librarian. And if he was honest, she was going to beat his ass. He glanced around at the grinning people closest to the table, the ones who had egged him into this contest. Keller Rafferty, and the artist brother he’d just met tonight, Rylan, who had made the belt Jeremy so loved. He’d been a little nervous when Rylan had introduced his wife, Kaitlyn, mentioning she was a photographer. But the woman had picked up on it immediately and whispered quietly to him, “You’re safe, don’t even have a phone camera on me.”
He’d blinked, but smiled despite himself. “Thanks.”
“I wouldn’t, anyway. You’re off duty here, as it were.”
He was diverted by the amazing idea that maybe, just maybe, this was a place where he could be the guy he’d once been, and not the superstar Hollywood had made him—whether he liked it or not—simply for doing the one thing he was best at.
Sometimes he thought this place was too good to be true.
Then he caught a glimpse of Nic in that almost shiny blue dress she’d worn tonight, that little number that flowed down over her curves and flipped sassily up at the bottom, a couple of inches above her knees on those long, long legs. And that totally distracted him from what he was doing. So much so that he missed his shot, and essentially handed the game to Joey. And judging by the whoops from the encircling group, they all knew it.
The sexy librarian—and saloonkeeper’s wife—cleared the felt of stripes with one last shot. As the gathering cheered, Jackson put on his most humble expression and bowed to her, his cue held out crossways on his palms as if he were a knight offering his sword in surrender.
It went over well, the crowd cheered, and Joey said in regal tones, “You may rise.” Then she grinned at him and said, “Nice game.”
Slater came up and slipped his arm around his wife. “Indeed,” he agreed, looking at Jackson. “Now you should get back to your lady.” He nodded back toward the bar.
His lady?
He turned, and Nic was right there on the edge of the crowd, in that damn dress. She smiled, not the quick surface smile of a casual connecting of glances, but a warm, slow smile that made his pulse kick up with an almost audible thump.
