The Maverick's Summer Love

Shelby Jenkins could be thinking about any of the male patrons at the Ace in the Hole tonight, but no, the man who continued to occupy her thoughts, even a day later, was Dean Pritchett.

All because she’d caught him looking her way more than once last night.

Despite the fact he’d had a pretty girl practically sitting on his lap, kissing him. The same pretty girl he’d left with a few hours later.

Okay, so Shelby would admit she’d been looking at him first when their gazes had met in the mirror behind the bar, but only because she had finally counted the money he’d left behind on the counter when he, his brother and their friends had moved to a table.

A 100 percent tip on a bar tab for four beers?

Her first thought had been to give the cash back to him. She was well aware of the many barroom games and Shelby wasn’t interested in being a player.

Or being played.

Then again, her bank account needed every dollar she managed to squirrel away and if the handsome blond cowboy thought a hefty tip was going to score points, she had no problem letting him think that way.

Or setting him straight if he tried to use his generosity to his advantage.

Shelby looked over the dwindling Friday night crowd as closing time approached, automatically double-checking the beer taps to make sure they were shut down. Last call had been twenty minutes ago and she was already deep into her nightly routine, knowing all the necessary steps by heart.

Being eighteen and needing a job that kept her days free, she’d started working at the Ace in the Hole as a waitress. Moving behind the bar a couple of years later had been a breeze as she’d easily picked up the necessary skills watching the other bartenders and practicing after hours.

Along the way, she’d also learned a few hard lessons about hooking up with a random cowboy or two. After two attempts at human companionship failed even before the first dates ended, Shelby decided casual sex just wasn’t for her. She didn’t enjoy being a means to an end.

Besides, once they found out she wasn’t as wild and unattached as they first thought, their interest in her vanished quicker than morning dew. So, being lonely was something she’d learned to deal with.

She’d suspected the Pritchett boys had been talking about her long before the ladies joined them, especially after the way Dean had held tight to her hand when they were introduced, but she never let on. She was used to the gossip—it’d been tailing her since she was sixteen—but it made her sad that even newcomers seemed to judge her.

Then again, Dean had almost come to her rescue last night when Courtney, one of the bar’s newest waitresses and one of Shelby’s oldest enemies, had walked right into her with a tray full of drinks. She’d held her tongue when Courtney hissed the accident was all her fault. Then made it clear to the cowboy she could handle things like she always did.

On her own.

She’d cleaned up the mess, played to the crowd as expected and even smiled sweetly at the cowboys when delivering a fresh set of drinks, courtesy of the house.

She flinched remembering the hot, sweaty touch from one guy who got a little too friendly. Something one too many of her customers felt they had a right to do from time to time.

Small towns. Born, raised and vilified as one of Rust Creek Falls’ fallen angels, Shelby had just about all she could take of small towns.

Which was why her long-held goal of getting out of Rust Creek Falls had moved up from someday to as soon as possible.

“You keep rubbing the bar that way, you’re going to put a hole clean through it.” The raspy voice drifted over Shelby’s shoulder. “Or make the last few cowboys in this joint jealous.”

Realizing she’d been wiping down the same section of the scarred surface for the past few minutes, Shelby tossed the rag into the sink. “I thought you had headed home, Rosey.” She turned and eyed her boss. “Don’t you have company waiting back at your place?”

“Sam kept me waiting for the last three months. He can keep his pants zipped for a few more minutes.” The owner of the Ace in the Hole walked around the end of the bar, pausing to easily flip over a couple of the stools so that they rested upside down on the bar’s surface. “Besides, I can’t head out without the proper send-off. Just wouldn’t be right.”

A nearby table of cowboys didn’t bother to hide their obvious stares as Rosey, looking mighty fine in her tight jeans, blousy pirate-style top and cinched leather vest, walked by. With her shaggy, jet-black hair brushing her shoulders, high cheekbones and slender build, Rosey looked years younger than someone who’d recently celebrated her sixty-fifth birthday.

Still, their low groans filled the air when Rosey stopped in front of the jukebox, digging into her jeans pocket. Anyone still in the bar knew what was coming.

The musical tastes of the Hole’s clientele ran strictly country, from the old standards of Johnny Cash and George Strait to the latest hit from Nashville’s newest queen, Taylor Swift, but not Rosey. A child of the sixties, Rosey loved her golden oldies, especially the doo-wop classics.

Shelby propped her elbows on the bar and grinned. By the time her boss deposited four quarters and started punching in her choices, a group of people in one booth headed out. When the first “shoo-doop, shoo-do-be-doop” filled the air, one of two tables packed with cowboys finished the last of their beers and departed, as well.

“Really, Rosey? Must you play those old songs every night?”

The sweetness of the feminine voice coming from the corner booth didn’t hide the snarkiness that easily wiped the smile from Shelby’s face.

High school antics reared their ugly heads again.

“Nobody likes that ancient music,” the prissy blonde, sitting across from two of her friends, continued. “Except maybe for those born back in the dark ages.”

Rosey stopped by a recently vacated table and cleaned up the mess left behind. Walking past the booth, she waved an empty beer bottle in the girl’s direction. “Finish up your froufrou drinks, ladies. It’s past your bedtimes.”

The smiles disappeared from their faces and they went back to talking among themselves. Shelby took the bottles from her boss and deposited them in the nearby recycling bin, pleased that she’d somehow managed not to break a single one. “How do you do it?”

“Hey, I’ve been dealing with wiseass remarks from customers barely over the legal drinking age too long to let one that lame bother me.” Rosey leaned in close and gave her a quick bump, hip to hip. “Don’t let them get to you.”

Easier said than done. Even with years of practice.

Shelby forced a smile back to her face as she turned to her boss. “I’m barely over the legal drinking age, remember? I went to school with those girls.”

“Yes, but you’ve got an old soul. Not to mention a totally different perspective on what’s important in life. More so than that cosmopolitan crew over there.” Rosey jerked her head toward the booth. “Although they’ve been pounding the drinks pretty hard tonight. You okay closing up alone?”

This time Shelby’s smile was genuine as she leaned in and gave Rosey a quick hug. She considered her boss one part Cher, one part Betty White and 100 percent best friend despite the years separating them.

“It’s just the sorority girls and that last table of cowboys in the corner, new hires out at the McIntyre ranch.” She took a step back. “I’m sure everyone will be gone before Elvis leaves the building.” Rosey always ended her selections with a love song from the King. “I’ll be fine.”

“Ah, excuse me. Am I too late to get a beer?”

The deep male voice had Shelby spinning around.

Dean Pritchett.

He stood just inside the bar’s front door dressed more casually tonight in faded jeans and a simple black T-shirt. A ball cap that had seen better days sat perched on his head.

“I thought you might be closed,” he continued, tipping up the cap’s frayed brim as he moved farther inside a few steps. “Then I heard the jukebox and decided to try my luck.”

“Last call is done, gone and put to bed.” Shelby’s standard answer fell from her lips even as her mind registered that he was alone. No brother and no pretty blonde friend in sight. “Sorry. We’re closing in less than fifteen—”

“We-e-ell, we might be able to find a spare cold brew,” Rosey drawled, interrupting her. “That is, unless you have a problem with the music selection?”

Cocking his head to one side, he seemed to listen intently for a moment before he spoke. “How can anyone have a problem with The Tokens? ‘In the Still of the Night’ is a classic.”

Rosey’s face lit up with a bright smile as she pointed a perfectly manicured fingernail at him. “You can stay. Shelby, get this man a beer.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Oh, please, don’t ‘ma’am’ me. The name’s Rosaline Marguerite Shaw with too many other former last names to get into.” The older woman stepped forward and held out her hand. “Everyone calls me Rosey.”