Wrapped Up with a Ranger

Chapter 1-1

1

Holt Steele eyed the absolutely packed parking lot of Elvira’s Tavern. “Who decided karaoke night was the way to celebrate the acquisition of our business license?”

His business partner, Jonah Ferguson, drove on past. “Drinks we didn’t pour ourselves were the designated celebration for the approval of our business license. It just so happens that the lone drinking establishment in Eden’s Ridge is hosting karaoke night on the day it happened.”

From the backseat, the third member of their trio, Brax Whitmore, snorted. “He’s conveniently not mentioning it’s an opportunity for the two of you to seek out some prospective female companionship, and that he’s shamelessly willing to take advantage of those pipes of yours to impress the female population with your karaoke prowess.”

“Hey, we can’t all be as lucky as you,” Jonah protested. “And anyway, you still owe me a drink or something for dragging your a*s down here so you could reconnect with Mia in the first place.”

“And again, I remind you that you didn’t know she’d be here.”

They were both right, but none of them were under any delusion that Brax would have reconciled with his wife if he hadn’t come to Eden’s Ridge and been forced to overcome a decade’s worth of stubborn misconceptions when she’d turned out to be the contractor hired to renovate their building.

“Details. You still wouldn’t have been here if not for me.” Jonah slid the truck into a space a block away with the practiced ease of a country boy used to squeezing an extended cab pickup into the tight confines of a street that had been built when vehicles were considerably smaller.

“I suppose I can buy you a pity drink since I’m the only one of us currently having my bed regularly warmed by a beautiful woman.”

“Hey, I could have options if I wanted them.”

“And does the not wanting have something to do with a certain blonde who just headed back to Syracuse last week?” Holt asked.

Jonah scowled and slid out of the truck. “I told you, there’s nothing going on with Rachel. We’re just friends.”

Holt hummed a noncommittal noise and glanced at Brax, who smirked. They both had eyes enough to see the tension simmering between their buddy and the woman who’d taught them all to bake as part of an experimental therapy program last year.

“Besides—” Jonah started back toward the tavern. “Since it’s my hometown, I’ve gotta be discreet. Doesn’t matter that I’m over thirty. Any of my shenanigans get back to my mama, I’m gonna hear about it. I don’t look forward to that any more now than I did when I was sixteen and she somehow found out that Ashley Chapman relieved me of my virginity in the backseat of my car. No man should have to endure a safe s*x talk with his mother more than once in a lifetime.”

They all shuddered, though they shared a mutual adoration of Jonah’s mom, Rebecca, who’d unofficially adopted Brax and Holt when they’d moved to town to go into business with her son.

“See there, Broadway, you’re morally obligated to impress some tourist women with your voice to improve Jonah’s odds. Especially if he gets enough beers in him to try singing himself,” Brax added.

Holt had no intention of getting up and singing. He wasn’t embarrassed and didn’t have stage fright. He just didn’t want the attention the whole thing would bring. Women liked men who could sing. While he might appreciate some companionship, he didn’t relish the looks of pity or revulsion when they found out his military service had claimed part of his leg. He’d made peace with being an amputee and outstripped all of his doctors’ expectations with how he’d taken to the different prostheses, particularly the carbon fiber running blade that was his favorite. But there were plenty who’d view him as less of a man for the loss, and he wasn’t much up for screening the potentials.

Then again, with their bakery about to open, maybe he should get up there as a form of free advertising. If people were intrigued, it might get them to show up. Holt knew the food would keep them coming back once they tried it.

Flanked by his friends, he stepped inside the bar. For a few moments, they stood in the entryway, eyes adjusting to the low light, each of them scanning the building in the tactical evaluation that was second nature after their stints in various branches of the armed forces. He’d committed the layout of the place to memory months ago, so it was the crowd he assessed as someone on the little stage performed a rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody” that was so bad Freddie Mercury himself was probably on his way to haunt the tone-deaf son of a b***h. Holt wished he was packing tranq darts just to save the audience from further ear hemorrhaging. He could argue it was a public service. Probably.

“I’m gonna need something a hell of a lot stiffer than beer to endure this,” Jonah muttered.

“Won’t we all.” Holt led the way toward the bar, automatically searching the patrons for a familiar face he knew he shouldn’t be looking for.

Behind the bar, Sariah Hitchens worked the taps with an economical grace. The bottom edge of a Marine Corps anchor tattoo peeked out from the sleeve of her fitted gray t-shirt, but it was the haunted eyes that gave her away as someone who’d served. Like recognized like. She’d come here for the equine therapy program a few months back and hadn’t left. Holt couldn’t fault her for it. The mountains of East Tennessee were a good place to heal and a good place to build a life.

“What’ll it be, boys? It’s Coronas usually, right?”

“Nope, we’re here to celebrate,” Jonah announced. “A round of that twenty-year Macallan that Denver keeps for special occasions.”

Her sleek black brows arched. “What are we celebrating?”

“We’re all official and s**t. Bad Boy Bakers can legally open its doors. Got our business license today.”

Sariah didn’t even try to hide the smirk. “Bad Boy Bakers? That’s really what y’all went with?”

Holt felt his cheeks heat and crossed his arms.

Jonah just shrugged. “I mean, we’ve gotta work with what we’ve got.” He gave an exaggerated flex of his biceps, coaxing a laugh out of the serious bartender.

“Fair enough. Coming right up. And hell, I might grab one for myself just because Jed’s finally finished committing crimes against Queen.”

“Thank God.” As Brax made some creative suggestions about what could be added to the hapless Jed’s drink to ensure he didn’t make it back into the singing rotation, Holt turned toward the stage to see who was coming next.

And there she was.

A familiar, curvy little blonde stepped up, trailed by a couple of women he didn’t know. Cayla Black. Event planner. Their across the street business neighbor. And the woman he couldn’t get out of his head, despite his best efforts. The intro began, and Holt recognized “I Won’t Say I’m In Love” from Hercules. He wondered how many million times Cayla’s daughter, Maddie, had made her watch the movie. Or maybe this had been one of Cayla’s favorites when she’d been a kid. It had certainly been one of his sister Hadley’s.

Cayla launched in, her smooth, clean voice a breath of fresh air after the musical butchery of Jed. Her friends sang backup, the three of them obviously having a hell of a good time. It seemed like this might be some kind of bachelorette thing, because they all wore t-shirts with bling proclaiming I’m with the bride. He tried not to notice how those rhinestones highlighted her breasts and utterly failed. The whole trip across the bar, he lectured himself—again—about how she was absolutely off limits and not for him. As a single mom, she deserved more than what he had to offer. So did her cute-as-a-button kid. But it didn’t stop him from flipping through the song catalog for something that would adequately show off his skills. If he was gonna do the thing, he was gonna do the thing. He punched in his selection just as she hit the last couple of lines.

The crowd hooted and cheered. Cayla took a little bow as her friends waved and began trooping off the stage. Because he was next up, he waited at the edge, holding out a hand for the mic as she neared. Her step hitched, her cheeks pinking as she laid her hand in his. The spark snapped all the way up his arm, singeing his good intentions at the edges as he closed his fingers around hers and helped her down the step.

“Hey, Cayla.”

Those big brown eyes darted up to his and away again. “Hi.”

“Nice pipes.”

The blush deepened. “Thanks.”

Instead of releasing her hand, he held out his other one. “I think I’m next.”

She looked down at the mic, as if she’d forgotten she had it. Her cheeks headed toward fire engine territory. “Oh, um. Sure.”

Damn, she was cute.

Avoiding eye contact, she handed over the microphone and scurried back to her table with several other women in matching t-shirts.

Holding back a grin, he stepped onto the stage himself, surveying the crowd as the opening bars to “Your Song” from Moulin Rouge began to play. Plenty of curiosity out there, both about who he was, whether he could carry a tune in a bucket, and certainly a fair amount of Hello, Soldier from more than one of the women in the audience. But it was really one woman he was thinking about, and he brought his gaze back to hers as he prepared to sing.