Allister, J. Rose - Disowned Cowboys [Lone Wolves of Shay Falls] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (11 page)

When she leaned down to smooth wrinkles from her brushed cotton skirt, she noticed a wide hole that had torn through the lower leg of her nylons. “Great,” she muttered.

Glancing around, she ducked back into her car and closed herself inside long enough to wriggle off the ruined pantyhose and drop them on the floorboards. Too bad she had no panties beneath, but it wasn’t like anyone would notice. The skirt was plenty long enough to hide it. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but feel decidedly wicked and naughty as the folds of her skirt swished around her, bringing occasional breezes against her naked pussy. Some virgin she was.

She pushed aside her ridiculously oversexed thoughts as she entered the Wild West Bar, which appeared more small town than cowboy on the inside. There was no sawdust on the floor, no mechanical bulls or other gimmicky western decor in the dim interior. There were heavily lacquered wood tables and chairs, a pair of giant elk antlers mounted behind the bar, and a series of black-and-white photos dotting the walls that appeared to have been snapped at local ranches. A jukebox in the corner played an old fifties tune instead of standard cowboy fare.

An antique-style sign on a wrought iron stand greeted her just inside the door, and after coming in from the bright sun she had to squint to make it out.
Seat yourself
, it read, so she glanced around the dining area that was dark enough so that one could not see clearly from one end to the other. She found a table for two nestled in the corner farthest from the long bar and headed toward it.

There came a familiar knowledge that several pairs of eyes were following her, but she ignored them as she made her way over. Aimee had received a fair share of male attention since she was old enough to understand what it was, not that she responded to it. This time, however, it was more likely that she was drawing stares because of her out-of-place attire. Who dressed up in Sunday clothes to have a burger in a mountain dive bar? If they only knew about the little secret she was hiding beneath her skirts.

A private smile flicked across her lips while she sat down and grabbed a plastic-coated menu from a metal holder on the table. As hungry as she was, even the basic grease-joint fare sounded delectable. Deciding on her order took more doing than she’d thought, but she picked out the fish and chips basket and then glanced around the bar while she waited for someone to come take her order. Late lunch for her meant dinner for a lot of other folks, and early-bird diners took up several tables. A number of male eyes slid over her, and she knew from experience it was best not to engage them. It gave the wrong impression.

She let her gaze shift to the decor on the wall next to her and focused on a photo of two cowboys staring out at her while standing on opposite sides of a black horse. One held a black hat in his hand and had his head turned at enough of an angle to see a shaved strip of scalp with some sort of markings beneath—a tattoo, perhaps. The other wore his light-colored Stetson at a jaunty angle that reminded her of someone else. An odd sense of recognition flickered in her pulse, but as she peered harder, it was clear that the men were not Kyle and Dillon. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a commonality beyond cowboy spirit. She leaned closer to the photograph, staring into the men’s serious, frozen expressions and half wondering whether their eyes would glitter with pale flecks of gold if the photo had been rendered in full color.

The scribbled inscription beneath bore last year’s date and the words
Taken at the Winchester-Saratoga Ranch
.

She frowned. Winchester. She’d heard that name before.

“Hi.”

The voice jerked her around on her hard, wooden seat. A thin, freckle-faced man with pale brown eyes and a crooked grin stood over her, smiling down as though they were the best of friends. She doubted he was the waiter, as he held no pad or pencil and was wearing street clothes. His Jack Daniel’s T-shirt hung loose on his lanky frame, and his eyes were a bit too clear to believe he was truly a frequent friend of the brand.

“Um, hi,” she said.

He nodded toward the picture. “Saw you lookin’ real intent-like at that photo,” he said. “Just so happens that’s the ranch where I work. My name’s Hank, by the way. Hank Junior to those who know my daddy.”

She nodded, wondering how to get rid of him nicely. “I see.”

“That there’s Kade.” He reached out with a skinny arm to point at the cowboy with the tattooed scalp. “The other one’s Chaz. They own the ranch together.”

Kade. Her breath caught as the name clicked.

An outsider named Kade Winchester challenged Blaise for alpha rights. He won the right to take over
.

She blinked at the image. The man in that photo had been Dillon’s alpha. He’d been the one to break up the pack and doom Dillon to roam the mountain, alone and hated. And she’d just happened to sit right down in front of that image. An eerie prickle shot up along the back of her neck.

“I ain’t just a hand there, neither,” the man went on. “Been the WS’s cow boss for goin’ on five years now.” His neck jutted up from the top of his shirt, his Adam’s apple bobbing strangely with every word. “Mind if I join you?”

“Oh.” She glanced around. “I really wasn’t looking for any company. I just wanted a quick bite to eat.”

“Then you shouldn’t have outta worn that dress.” He hooked his thumbs through the loops in his worn blue jeans. “You look mighty more prettied up than someone who came in here to be alone.”

The appearance of an apron-wearing waitress filled Aimee with gratitude. “Will there be one of you, or two?” the woman asked.

“It’s only me,” Aimee said before Hank could intervene, and his face fell. “Sorry, but I’m just passing through. Nothing more.”

He retreated to the bar and hunched over a pint of beer. She ordered her meal and a root beer at a half shout over the din of Elvis crooning “Heartbreak Hotel” from the jukebox, then willed herself to blend into the background as she watched the waitress saunter off. Aimee glanced down at her noticeable cleavage and had to concede that Hank was right. A sleeveless, low-cut dress didn’t exactly scream
leave me the hell alone
. She would have drawn less attention if she’d kept on her dirty white coat and galoshes.

“I don’t blame you one bit, darlin’,” came a voice from the table beside hers.

She turned to find an older man with rheumy eyes and greasy salt-and-pepper hair leering at her. “Excuse me?”

His gaze slid without apology to her breasts. “If I had a set of titties like that, I’d spend all my time starin’ at ’em, too. And grabbin’ ’em.”

Her mouth fell open as her arms shot up to fold across her breasts. She shoved her seat back loudly and stood up with a pointed glare. Then she stalked off to take a seat several tables away. As she stormed off, she heard him cackle and call after her. “Aw, come on, sugar. Don’t leave.”

She plopped down in the new seat with a scowl. Coming here had been a bad idea.

Her waitress scurried by, and Aimee waved her down to apologize for moving. “And could I change my root beer to an actual beer?”

A smile quirked the corner of the waitress’s mouth. “Bottle or tap?”

“Tap, please.”

The mug plunked down in front of her a couple of minutes later, and she sipped the brew through a stout head of foam while wondering why she’d ordered it. Beer had never been her favorite beverage, nor was she much of a drinker. Plus she had the long drive back on a twisting mountain road. One wouldn’t hurt, though, especially one she had no intention of finishing.

Foam clung stubbornly to her lips as she continued to drink, and as she swiped at it with her tongue, she wished her food would hurry up so she could get the hell out.

She had barely relaxed enough to sigh in relief before someone grabbed her arm. Beer from the mug she held sloshed down her cleavage. “Hey!” she shouted.

“Dance with me, honey.”

She jerked back with a gasp at the unshaven, beer-bellied lout that leaned over her. His mop of black curls appeared not to have seen a comb that day, perhaps not for quite some time before that. His dingy white T-shirt appeared to have been similarly denied a tumble in the laundry.

“No, thank you,” she said, her voice shaken. “I’m not here to dance.”

“Me, neither,” he said, crow’s feet wrinkling around the corners of his dark eyes as he grinned at her. “But a gal like you can’t just sit here drinkin’ alone. That’d be a double damn shame, and a criminal act to boot.”

Irritation snapped like a hungry crocodile inside of her. “What the hell’s wrong with everyone in here?” Her voice barely crested over the music. “I just want to eat my damn food and go home. You got a problem with that?”

“Not if you take me with you.” He reached down and pulled her up out of her chair by the upper arm. “Come on. Just one dance. Elvis is the King, you know.”

The song ended on precisely that note, and she yanked away. “Stop that.”

Why was this bar full of horny morons? She’d never been harassed this much by the male persuasion before, not even when her best friend had shoved her inside the boys’ locker room as a senior prank when she’d heard Aimee was still a virgin.

To further screw with her day, a crooning love song struck up on the jukebox. The jerk took that as an invitation to grab her waist and swing her around. “Don’t be like that. It’s just a friendly dance.” She took hold of his upper arms and tried to wriggle away as his hand slid down to cup her bottom. “Jesus, would you feel that sweet ass?”

She lashed out to slap him full in the face, and as he staggered backward, an anomaly caught her attention over his shoulder. She blinked at the odd, pale-yellow dots looming in the blackness in the dim, far corner of the room. The pair of golden orbs rose higher, brightening to a gleam as they moved forward until a familiar face emerged from the shadows.

“Dillon,” she whispered.

He looked just the way he had when she’d left him that morning, except his hat and coat were gone. He’d paired a red corduroy shirt with his brown jeans and wore a savage expression that had her suddenly afraid for the man who’d regained his balance and was again coming toward her.

The man never made it. Dillon gripped his shoulder and reeled him around. “Back the fuck off, dicktard. The lady don’t want your company.”

“What are you doing here?” Aimee asked, breathless with gratitude.

He turned to her. “I could ask you the same, but I guess I can see what you’re doin’ here. Look at you, darlin’.” His eyes roamed over her. “All dressed up and ready to attract these drunk, leerin’ assholes.”

She folded her arms and sneered back at him. “Don’t suppose you could have stepped in two drunk, leering assholes ago?”

“This one got out of line with my last nerve.”

“Fuck you, cowpoke,” the man spat, quite literally, considering spittle flew out from between his crusty lips. “This is between me and her.”

Dillon took hold of the man’s faded T-shirt and raised a fist. “The only thing between you and her is me.”

Aimee stepped around. “Dillon, don’t. Stop it.”

He lowered his fist but whirled on her with a wild look of undulating golden eyes. “No.
You
stop it.”

“Stop what?”

He grabbed her upper arm and strode off toward a hallway in the back, dragging her along beside him.

Aimee tried to pull away, but he held her fast. “Dillon, cut it
out
. Where are you taking me? Stop!”

Dillon yanked open a red door marked
Ladies
and pushed her inside. She was still protesting when he followed her in, pausing only long enough to shove the door lock into place. He turned and stalked toward her, and she retreated backwards until he had her pressed against the chipped black-and-white tile wall.

“
You
stop, Aimee.” He was close enough for her to smell the tang of hard liquor on his breath. Combined with his male musk and proximity, the effect wound him tightly through her senses. “Stop intoxicatin’ men with your scent.”