but he’d said he was just passing through. The disappointment almost hurt.
You’re leaving for college in three days. Did you expect him to be waiting here for you when you came back on spring break?
She sighed, which only made her sink more cozily into his arms. How terrible, to be so fascinated by a man whom she might never see again.
Might never see again. It depended where he was going. It depended where he’d come from.
“You’re just passing through on your way to where?” she asked.
The roaring of motorcycle engines made an answer impossible. Five motorcycles or maybe more pulled in, from what Emily could see through the thin gaps between the wood planks of the fencing. The moment they killed their engines, the patio conversations resumed.
Not hers. She felt the tension return to Graham’s body. He let go of her, keeping only one hand on her waist, the position he’d taken just before they’d run from the bar fight.
“We should go,” he said.
“Bikers stop here all the time. They like to ride out here because there’s no traffic. It’s scenic in the daytime.” She hated to see him this tense again. She smiled, but she refrained from giving him another reassuring horse slap. “They aren’t as scary as they look. They’re just hanging out with their clubs. They’re sure going to be surprised when they open that door and walk in to that fight.”
Graham didn’t smile with her. “They’re not out for a Sunday ride. There’s a difference between a club and a gang. Whichever these men are, there are at least two different groups here tonight. Two different jackets.”
She looked around the patio crowd. Even Jason had come outside, abandoning his bar after calling the police, no doubt. None of the bikers had come outside. “You think this is a fight between gangs?”
“It’s no coincidence more bikers just showed up. This is going to get worse before it gets better.”
Graham had that aura of readiness about him again, the one that said danger was coming. He’d been right last time. She wasn’t inclined to question him now. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”
“Is there anyone you came with that we need to get out?” Graham asked.
Just as she said no, there was another commotion at the doorway. Mike came barreling toward them, crashing into Foster, pushing him another foot closer to Emily.
“Where were you? Where the hell were you, Foster? Doug?” Mike was spitting out their names. His lip was bleeding. His eye was swelling shut. “You gotta get me out of here, now. They’re pulling out brass knuckles and chains. Knives, man, knives.”
“Is he a friend of yours?” Graham’s voice was back at her ear, level and patient, but his stance was ready to move, chomping at the bit to head for the fence.
“Not really. We go to the same college.” But Mike looked like hell, and she felt sorry for him, so she stepped just far enough away from Graham to tap Mike on the shoulder. “Hey. We’re leaving. Follow us.”
Then Graham’s hand was at the small of her back as they walked directly toward the section of the fence he’d already chosen. He escorted her as courteously as if she’d been dressed in high heels instead of cowboy boots. But since she was in boots, she made a little run at the fence when they were still a few feet away, wanting a bit of speed so she’d have the momentum to run halfway up and reach the top with two hands. To pull herself over, she had to walk herself up the planking, hoping for some traction between the leather of her soles and the grain of the wood. She felt one strong, warm hand on her backside, giving her that extra lift that made it easier to haul herself up and over. She dropped onto the dirt of the parking lot on the other side of the fence.
She tugged her dress back in place. More hands grabbed the top of the fence. Mike’s battered face appeared at the top, but he, too, was struggling to get over. One second later, he got almost too much of a boost to handle. He landed next to her, barely keeping on his feet. Foster came over next, same way. Doug.
The police arrived, red and blue lights shining on the planks of the fence as sirens screamed through the parking lot, passing them on their way around the building to the front of the bar. Emily shielded her eyes from the flashing and looked up to the top of the fence. When it was dark once more, Graham came sailing over the top, just one hand on the fence, clearing it cleanly, as if he’d flipped himself up and over a ten-foot fence a hundred times before.
You, Tarzan. For sure.
Mike grabbed Foster’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s go. I can’t get a police record. You know what my father would do.” Doug and Foster took off toward the parking lot with him, but Mike suddenly changed direction and stuck his hand out to Graham for a quick shake. “Thanks, man.”
Then Emily was alone with Graham in the dark. The planking of the fence was all that stood between her and the sounds of turmoil and outright violence on the other side. She stood next to Graham and felt safe.
“Where’s your car parked?” he asked.
Her heart fell a little. She didn’t want him to pack her off in her car, but what was the alternative while the police raided the bar? To hide here in the shadows of the red and blue lights and continue their little get-to-know-you chat?
“I’m parked around front.”
More motorcycles entered the parking lot. Another sheriff’s car pulled in right behind.
Graham’s hand on her waist came as no surprise. “Mine’s back here. I’ll drive you around the front.”
Ask me to go somewhere else with you to get a drink.
But he didn’t. His car was actually an SUV, new and expensive, an exotic European brand. He shadowed her all the way to the passenger door, shutting her into the leather-upholstered luxury before jogging around the front of the vehicle to reach his own door.
The upscale SUV meant two things to Emily. First, Graham had money, which she should have guessed. He was a man who knew what he was doing and how to handle the world around him. It made sense that he’d be on top of his financial world, too. Second, the sexiest man in her world really was just passing through. No one drove a vehicle like this in ranch country. She sat in her bucket seat, feeling a million miles away from him on the other side of the extra-wide console.
He started the engine. “What kind of car am I looking for?”
Ask me to go out for a bite to eat.
“I drive a pickup truck.” Not the most feminine thing to drive, but she did live in ranch country—or she would, when she finished her degree and her mother had no more leverage to wield over her choices.
Graham’s hands looked strong on the smooth leather of the steering wheel as he casually backed out of the parking spot. Emily would have hated to get a scratch on the paint, but he seemed completely oblivious to the fact that his vehicle cost as much as some people’s houses.
“That doesn’t narrow it down much,” he said. “Three quarters of this parking lot are pickup trucks.”
“Mine’s red,” she said.
With a hitch to tow a horse trailer, because, unlike you, I am from around here.
She told him the make and model, an entry-level truck. She’d bought it from her brother-in-law, a bargain with only seventy thousand well-cared-for miles on it. She’d added another ten thousand miles, driving it to Oklahoma and back at the start and end of every semester, and from her mother’s house to her uncle’s ranch every chance she got—like this weekend. She’d come to spend her last weekend of the winter break back at her uncle’s ranch. She’d be mucking out stalls tomorrow morning. Voluntarily.
Emily flicked one of her ruffles into place. Yeah, her girly evening was rapidly coming to a close. Being taken care of by a man who was tough and strong had been sexy. Being taken care of by a