Movement on her left caught Megan’s attention. The Irish Creek cowboys were moving in their direction. Great. No one liked the Blackshaws around here. Least of all Nash, the Blackshaw with the loudest mouth.
Like a blessing in disguise, her mom, Loretta, drove up the driveway, hitting the gas when she saw Nash. She was out of the car quickly, holding her typical
calm look as she approached. “Good morning, Nash. It’s so wonderful to see you,” she said, a brown grocery store bag in her arms. “Is everything okay?”
Yes, Megan realized. Everything tense and wrong suddenly became right with her mom there. Loretta Harrison was five-foot-three with soft blue eyes and short dyed-brown hair with auburn highlights. Her physique was round. Her smile, quick and warm. And she exuded love like sunshine on a beautiful day.
Before the yelling could start, Megan explained, “The Blackshaws’ fence got cut, and the cattle escaped onto our property.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Mom said, her eyes wide with honest surprise. “Do you need our help locating the cattle?” she asked Nash.
Dad made a choking sound. “Over my dead—”
Mom handed him the grocery bag. “We’ll send a few of the boys out to the east. Are you good with taking the west?”
Nash nodded, only softness in his eyes for her. “That works, ma’am.”
Mom turned back to the cowboys who obviously were looking to protect Irish Creek against Nash. “Get on those horses and find the Blackshaws’ cattle. I want no trouble today, you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they called in unison before heading back into the barn.
She turned to Nash again and gave her warm smile. “Let us know if you need our help wrangling the cattle up once you’ve found them. You’ve got our number?”
He nodded. But to her father, he glared a silent fuck you before he mounted his horse again.
Megan stood waiting and hoping Nash would notice her there. That for one second, he would stop and give her a smile, a look . . . anything. She needed—no, wanted—to be more important than this bitterness he had toward her father. She wanted to matter. Especially to him.
But that’s not what happened.
He turned and galloped away.
Chapter 3
Long after his day ended and the evening staff at the guest ranch took over entertaining the guests—including a campfire and roasting marshmallows—Nash entered Kinky Spurs, ready to make amends with Megan for earlier. He hadn’t known she would be at Harrison’s, and the last thing he wanted was for her to get caught up in all this.
The bar was busy tonight, and Nash’s nose tickled from the excessive amount of perfume the women he passed wore. That’s what he liked about Megan—she never overdid anything. The country band, which included his friend Dalton who was strumming his guitar and singing a Blake Shelton classic, entertained the crowd on the dance floor. The space was full of half-drunk twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings. Tables were full of customers eating Kinky Spurs’ famous chicken wings that went from mild to so damn hot it would bring spicy food lovers to their knees. Nash had once been among them, always looking for a good challenge.
The noise began to fade as he wove his way through the full tables and spotted Megan behind the bar. Truly, he did not know how such a beautiful and good woman came from Clint Harrison. Sure, Megan had a lot of her mother in her, but the man had helped raise her. And no matter what, the fence cutting stank like Clint and his cold, dead heart. Not long ago, Clint had almost had his greedy hands on Blackshaw land until Emma thought up the idea of the guest ranch to keep the business afloat. Still, Clint’s desire to stay on top would never fade.
Nash knew this about Clint because he understood that type of hunger. Nash had that same intensity for the woman who placed a Foxy Diva, a beer from the local Three Chicks Brewery, in front of him without a hitch to her step. The woman with the sandy-brown hair and the unique eyes. One blue. One brown. And a dusting of cute freckles across her nose. “Not talking to me?” he called out.
She turned, giving him a great view of her magnificent ass in her tight jean shorts that seemed even tighter lately. He liked those shorts. A lot. “What can I get ya?” she said, addressing the customer next to him.
Nash chuckled and took a long sip of the crisp cold beer. This was their game, for more years than he dared to count. A game he liked. And one he had gotten very good at because he knew this woman. He knew her more than he knew anyone. And that came from years of wanting her and watching her every move.
Still, her lack of eye contact bothered him. The one thing he hated more than Clint was that her bastard father came between him and Megan. Certain things he would allow, considering he enjoyed the push and pull between them. But hurting or upsetting her was not something he ever set out to do.
When he lowered the beer, he noticed the tension on her face. Damn, she was pissed. Intent to fix that, when she ducked under the bar’s gate and headed into the back, he took a long sip of his beer then followed her.
No one stopped him as he journeyed into the kitchen. In typical style for a night at Kinky Spurs, the kitchen staff were busy and focused on pleasing Antonio, a chef with a sharp tongue and a bad attitude. Nash held only one focus—making things right with Megan. He moved swiftly, looking for her, and eventually found her bent over in the stockroom.
He leaned against the doorframe. “Is this an invitation?”
Some women would gasp in surprise. Some women might blush. Not Megan. She didn’t miss a beat and said, “Touch my ass and kiss your hand goodbye.”
He chuckled at her weak statement. One touch and she would be putty in his hands. Because as much as he loved this game, so did she. The only thing was, she was better at it than he was. He wanted her. All the time. She was there, in his head, every damn minute of the day.
When she grabbed a beer case and turned, she held his gaze. “Can I help you with something?”