Page 23 of The Cowboy Comes Home

“He was a sad, sad boy,” Ariel agreed.

“And then one day Emily showed up at the ranch,” Chance said, “and he went berserk trying to get to her.”

Now that I can understand.

Tucker bit the inside of his lip to keep from saying it out loud.

“Turned out to be the second fastest turnaround I’ve ever seen in any of the dogs we’ve had.” Chance was grinning now. “The first being our own Tri, when Ariel arrived.”

The woman smiled at her husband, and Tucker felt an urge to step back, out of the path of the current that crackled between them. Just like with Jackson and Nic. And a little later he noticed the same thing when the pool shark arrived, and the electricity between the librarian and the saloonkeeper was palpable. Quite a place, this Last Stand.

He was pretty sure it was Jackson who dropped a word to Slater Highwater, because only Jackson had the kind of persuasive power that would make this happen. Well, since Chief Highwater wasn’t here, he mentally amended. But however it had happened, he found himself seated on that piano bench.

It had been a while—a long while—and for a moment he just sat there, looking at the keys. Remembering those first days when he’d been so distracted by the idea of making up a coherent tune that the fumbling of his fingers had taken second place. He needed to build new pathways, the therapist had said. Teach other nerves to take the place of the ones that weren’t working right. It could be done, the man had insisted in the face of Tucker’s doubts.

And he’d been right. It hadn’t been easy, it hadn’t been quick, but he’d done it. And the first time he’d played something recognizable as almost a song, he had felt triumphant. And he’d kept at it until those new pathways were automatic. It had helped him say goodbye to that part of his life that was over. He still plunked, as he called it, now and then just to be sure things were still working.

“Come on, bro, haven’t heard you play in a long time,” Jackson said, leaning on the top of the upright portion of the piano.

He wanted to say no way. He didn’t want to do this, not in front of a crowd. But it was Jackson asking. And it was noisy enough in here that maybe nobody more than a couple of feet away would hear it anyway.

“Remember you asked when I start hitting all those wrong notes,” he muttered. But still he reached out, focused enough on the keys to almost ignore the people starting to gather. He glanced at them, then looked up at Jackson. “No point making a fool of myself to an empty room, right?”

“Always my philosophy,” Jackson agreed with that famous grin.

He looked at Slater, who was standing on the other side of the instrument, the classic bartender’s towel slung over his shoulder. Then he glanced at the rest of the gathering. He grimaced. “Y’all might want to have someone standing by the jukebox to drown this out. It’s been a while.”

That got him some chuckles, but nobody moved.

Welcome to Last Stand.

With the same sort of feeling he used to get in the chute before they opened the gate and let the bull out, he reached for the keys.

Chapter Eleven

Emily laughed ather friend Sage Highwater’s tale of her new reining prospect, and how the brilliantly athletic but sometimes recalcitrant mare would only cooperate if Sage’s husband Scott was there to cheer her on.

“Can’t fault her taste,” Sage said, grinning as she took a sip of whatever concoction smiling bartender Slater Highwater had mixed up for her. The new father seemed to wear a constant smile these days.

“Indeed,” Emily agreed, fighting the inward pang she felt. These Friday nights at the saloon were something she could only take now and then, but since next week—rodeo week—was going to be crazy, she’d come.

She really was so happy for her friend, happy that she and her high school sweetheart—who was also a friend of sorts, since he helped run the shooting range where Emily had to qualify regularly—had gotten back together years later. But she couldn’t seem to quite beat that inner emptiness she felt sometimes when she was around them.

It shouldn’t happen. Sage was four years younger than her so she had been only aware of her before, but they had become friends when Emily had started working at Last Stand PD and Sage had been the fill-in emergency dispatcher. She didn’t do it anymore because her own life was too full, because the department was fully staffed now, and because her big brother Shane was wary of how having yet a third Highwater working there looked. Not that anyone in Last Stand would really care, given the Highwaters were darn close to royalty around here.

But their friendship had lasted through all the changes, and if Emily felt a bit of a tug at her friend’s obviously beyond happy marriage, well, that was her own fault, wasn’t it?

Not very friendly of you. You should be constantly delighted for her.

And she was, really. It was just that pang she felt now and then. Envy? She hoped not. Wishfulness? Maybe so. Even though she thought she’d given up that kind of wishing long ago. On the day Andrew had walked out of her life, specifically.

“I can’t believe you want to stay in this nothing little town.”

“It’s my hometown.”

“Exactly why you should want to get out of here!”

And so what she’d thought was the love of her life had ended. She no longer regretted it, they had clearly not been a good match, but that had been much harder to accept at twenty-two than it was now, at thirty-one.

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