The Firefighter's Refrain. Loree Lough
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are out of the picture, either in prison or dead. Eden and I are working with the state to become legal guardians.”
“For all of them?”
“All but the one.”
No doubt he was referring to Thomas, the kid who’d set fire to Nate’s barn, nearly killing himself, Nate and four of his horses. If Sam closed his eyes, he could still see how pale and weak his big, burly cousin looked after his release from the hospital. The only time he’d seen him in worse shape had been after the accident that had ended his major league career. Sam would have worried a whole lot more about Nate...if not for Eden.
Sam didn’t ask what had become of the boy. That, like news of the partnership, could wait until he got back to the Double M, and they could talk in person.
“Real reason I called,” Nate said, “was to ask if you’ll be my best man.”
“Of course I will! Does that mean you guys have set a date?”
“No, not yet. But you’ll be one of the first to know when we do.” Nate paused. “Speaking of dates and stuff, are you seeing anybody?”
“Nah.” Finn’s image flashed in his brain, and he slapped a hand to the back of his neck. “No time for stuff like that.”
Nate laughed, but his tone changed when he added, “What was it you told me when I said that?”
“When the right one comes along, you’ll make time.”
“It was good advice then, it’s good advice now.” There was a moment of silence on the line. “What do you want in a woman anyway? Perfection? If that’s the only reason you’re still single, well, you’re old enough to know there’s no such thing.”
“Present company excluded, of course.”
“Well, that goes without saying.”
“To be honest, I never gave much thought to what kind of woman I’m looking for. A hard worker, I guess. Independent. Good sense of humor. Five foot two or three, big brown eyes, dark curly hair...” The words stuck in his throat. He’d just described Finn.
“Whoa, dude. That’s pretty specific for a guy who hasn’t given it any thought. You sure you aren’t seeing somebody? I wouldn’t tell a soul. Not even Zach. Trust me.”
“I trust you, and if there was something to tell...”
He diverted the conversation back to the wedding, and while Nate elaborated on the plans, Sam came to an undeniable conclusion. It was time to figure out why he’d allowed a near stranger—no matter how gorgeous and appealing she was—to dominate so many of his thoughts, and take up such a big portion of his heart.
“MAN. IT IS pouring out there.” Mark shook rainwater from the brim of his Stetson as the door swung shut behind him.
Torry slid a tall black stool to the center of the stage and leaned into the mic. “Weather dude says we’re in for a long, bad night.”
His foreboding tone reverberated through the nearly empty club, inspiring a chuckle from Dirk, the Marks Brothers’ drummer.
“Long as the river doesn’t rise again, I can handle it.” Mark hung the damp ten-galloner on a gooseneck mic stand, and bent at the waist to adjust knobs and dials.
Sam remembered when more than thirteen inches of rain fell during a two-day period, breaking decades-old weather records and sending the Cumberland over its banks and into the streets. The whole town had become a murky water world, and the flood had damaged homes, businesses and historic buildings...including the Grand Ole Opry.
“The leg’s bothering you, eh?”
Until Torry mentioned it, Sam hadn’t realized he was massaging the thigh. “Nah. It’s fine.” In truth, it almost always ached to one degree or another. Complaining didn’t make it hurt less, so he’d taught himself to stay busy enough to ignore it.
“Y’know, I don’t think I ever heard how it happened.”
At first, Sam couldn’t talk about the accident that had taken him off the truck and put him into the classroom. Then he talked until people’s eyes glazed over. These days, he simply delivered the well-rehearsed speech that summed up the whole miserable event in less than a minute:
“House fire was out of control when the truck rolled up, but neighbors said the owner was still inside, so I entered through a basement window and found the woman unconscious in her kitchen. I’d just handed her off to EMTs when the ceiling collapsed, trapping me in the grid work. When I came to, I was in the ICU, covered in bandages, and found out I’d lost a quarter of my calf and thigh muscles.”
Torry’s eyes widened. “Whoa.”
Sam summed up with his usual closing line. “The old lady is still kickin’, and so am I—not as high, but kickin’—so there’s a lot to be thankful for.”
“Still, that’s rough, dude. Sorry you had to go through it. But hey, maybe with some practice, you could turn that limp into a wicked swagger.” Torry crossed the stage and demonstrated. “I mean, that’s what I’d do.”
“Like this?”
Torry cupped his chin, watching as Sam attempted the strut. After letting out an exaggerated sigh, he shook his head. “Well, at least you can sing.”
“Speaking of singing...”
Sam and Torry turned and met Mark’s glare of disapproval.
“The show starts in half an hour,” the club owner said. “Are you guys ready?”
They exchanged a puzzled glance. It wasn’t like Mark to snap the whip. In fact, he was more likely to goof off than anyone at The Meetinghouse. Sam wondered what had happened in the past few minutes to prompt the out-of-character grimness. It could be anything from concerns that the roof would leak to a breakup with his latest lady to a band member calling in sick.
Sam made his way to the steps leading down from the stage. “We’re good to go,” he assured Mark.
Rain sheeted down the windows, and lightning flashes brightened the club’s dim interior. Standing beside Mark, Dirk glanced at the ceiling. “Good thing you reroofed the place after that last storm.”
“Yeah.” He walked toward the bar. “C’mere, Sam. There’s something I want to show you.”
Torry drew a finger across his throat and mouthed, Uh-oh as Sam followed.
Mark climbed onto a stool and thumped the newspaper that lay open on the counter. “Take a gander at this article.”
Sam settled on to a stool. “Which article?” he asked, picking up the issue.
“The restaurant review column. That guy gave The Right Note five stars. Five. For a diner!”
He scanned the piece, making note of the writer’s opinions on the menu, service, cleanliness and ambiance. Was there a diplomatic way to tell Mark that he agreed? Sam didn’t think so.
“So you’re saying we should make some changes in food? Or keep our emphasis on folks who come in for the music?”
“That pricey neon sign outside says Food and Entertainment to Feed Your Soul.” Mark leaned forward, lowered his voice. “If we improved the menu, we could easily double our profits.” He tapped the newspaper again. “But not unless we change this guy’s mind.”
The “Eat or Run” syndicated column had earned an audience of millions—thanks to the writer’s blog and regular TV appearances. He could make or break bars and restaurants with one great or ill-timed review. While he’d praised the waitstaff and performers, he’d given the club’s