Here to Stay (2 page)

Zach Harrigan lounged in a far corner of the room, his chair tipped precariously onto its rear legs and his arms folded loosely over his chest as he studied babes with the ease of long practice. Bronco Bart’s was his favorite hunting ground, a popular watering hole that normally attracted a lot of gorgeous women. Problem was, tonight they all looked the same—tall, slender bleached blondes in skintight jeans and figure-hugging knit tops that left little to the imagination. As he took measure of their cookie-cutter bodies, Zack wondered whether a terrorist had spiked the Oregon water reservoirs with a virus that made women want big boobs. A large percentage of the females within his line of sight looked as if they’d gone under the knife. Hell, a lot of the women he’d slept with over the past six months—and that was no small number—had paid thousands for breast augmentation. Some had even suffered nerve damage during surgery. What man in his right mind wanted to suckle a numb tit? In Zach’s opinion, a guy could have almost as much fun nibbling on an overfilled water balloon.

Feeling oddly irritated, Zach reached for his bottle of beer. Empty. Zach glared at it with dark suspicion. Maybe he was drinking too much, but what the hell. He lifted an arm and signaled the new waitress. She wasn’t hard on the eyes, and getting another beer would give him an excuse for a closer inspection.

She nodded, dealt with another customer, and approached Zach’s tiny table. “What’s for you, mister?”

Noting automatically that while she had magnificent breasts, she was also wearing a wedding ring, Zach placed his order. She gave him a knowing smile, stepped away from the table, and soon reappeared with a fresh bottle.

Zach snatched it up and took a long pull. Condensation beaded on the glass, wet and icy under his fingers. The ale had a brassy edge that puckered his tongue and left his throat feeling as if he’d just swallowed a piece of chalk.
What the hell’s wrong with me?
Zach usually loved beer and women. Okay, he always loved beer and women. That was why he was a steady at Bart’s, where the taps ran cold and the babes ran hot. He’d come here to pick out a squeeze, cozy her up in a Texas two-step, and sweet-talk her into bed, preferably at her place. Then he’d scat before two so he could catch a little shut-eye before starting a long day of hard work at his ranch before dawn. As a bachelor, that was his modus operandi. It had worked nicely for years. So why did he suddenly feel bored, disgruntled, and at loose ends?

Maybe, he decided with a vague sense of panic, he was getting too old for this shit. The thought no sooner took root in his mind than he shoved it away.
Old, my ass
. He was only thirty-one. He could still work circles around his hired hands, and the women still went for him. Just why they did, Zach wasn’t sure, but they did. Always had. He’d studied himself in a mirror many times, trying to figure it out, and all he saw was a carbon copy of his dad, Frank—trim, well-muscled build, skin that had turned permanently dark from too much sun, black hair, brown eyes, and the Harrigan nose, which was more along the order of a beak.
You sure couldn’t call either of us handsome
, he decided. Nevertheless, females seemed to be attracted to the package. So he couldn’t be over the hill yet. He was just having an off night.

Just then the dance ended, and a blond sexpot left the floor to undulate between the tables toward him. Zach narrowed his eyes on her face.
Wake-up call
. He knew her. He’d slept with her last Saturday night, an experience he didn’t care to repeat. A year ago, some bozo had gotten too rough with her during sex and ruptured her right breast implant, leaving her with serious hang-ups about any kind of pressure on her chest. She didn’t want to be hugged. She couldn’t lie on her stomach. When Zach bumped accidentally against her breast, she went ballistic. He didn’t mind being gentle with his partners. It was the way his dad had raised him to be. But to his way of thinking, sex should be spontaneous and fun, not a lesson on the proper handling of saline sacs.

“Hey,” he said, knuckling up the brim of his hat, a cowboy’s casual gesture of respect when a lady approached. “How’s it going?”

Without an invitation, she perched her world-class ass on a chair across from him, flashed a smile of pearly white overlays, and batted her mascara-coated eyelashes. For the life of him, Zach couldn’t recall her name. Mary, Sherry, Terry? Something like that.
Shit
. She’d feel insulted, and rightly so, if he couldn’t think of her moniker.

“I’m feeling sad,” she said. “The best dancer in the place is sitting on his duff.” The eyelashes did another spider dance. Her baby blues locked on his. “I thought you might at least come over to my table and say hi.”

Zach forced his lips into a curve that he hoped would pass for a grin.
Terry
. That was her name. “It’s crowded in here. A pretty little gal like you gets lost in the maze of bodies. I didn’t see you when I came in.”

She pursed her lips in a well-practiced pout. “So I don’t stand out in a crowd? Thanks. I had no problem spotting you.”

Zach took another swallow of beer, making a mental note to switch brands the next time the barmaid made table rounds. Maybe it was just a bad batch, but the stuff tasted nasty. As he set the bottle back down, he studied Terry’s face, then dropped his gaze to her deep cleavage, which was seductively exposed by the low scoop of her cherry pink top.
Not interested
. She could hassle some other poor bastard tonight. He wanted no part of it.

“So ... are you with someone?” she asked. “I’m pretty much free for the evening.”

Probably because every man in the bar had slept with her and knew she was about as much fun as a bad case of the clap. “I’m on hiatus tonight. Hurt my back yesterday picking up a foal.”

“Oh, no.” She flashed her dental work again. “I’m a fabulous masseuse. Come to my place, and I’ll make it all better.”

Zach shifted on the chair and pretended to wince. “Give me a week, and maybe I’ll take you up on that. Not tonight, though. A pretty little thing like you deserves a cowboy who can deliver, and I’m out of commission.”

Her eyes darkened, and Zach knew she saw right through him. He hated hurting someone’s feelings. He and Terry hadn’t really connected on a personal level last weekend. It had been only about sex, two consenting adults scratching each other’s itch, only he had come away from the experience feeling unsatisfied. Not her fault. Some guys probably didn’t mind the “don’t touch” routine, but for Zach, it had been a turnoff.

He was about to flip on the cowboy charm and convince her that he truly was interested in seconds some other night. He always began that routine by asking for a woman’s phone number. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, a ruckus erupted on the opposite side of the room. Ever on guard, Zach zeroed in on the commotion. A thin brunette was arguing heatedly with some rhinestone cowboy, waving her hands and yelling. Behind her stood a lanky redheaded man who wore dark glasses and carried a white cane.
Blind?
Zach had never seen a sight-impaired guy in a place like Bart’s, but he guessed there was a first time for everything. And, hello, even the disabled had a right to patronize a bar and listen to a local-yokel band.

The woman turned to take the redheaded man’s arm. As she tried to guide him forward, the cowboy dude grinned broadly, stuck out his boot, and deliberately tripped the blind fellow, sending him into a staggering sprawl that ended with what had to be a painful face-plant on the planks. Zach rocked forward on his chair, bringing the front legs down so fast they emitted a loud popping sound.

Zach didn’t feel himself move, but he could hear Terry calling out from behind him as he pushed his way through the couples who stood frozen on the dance floor. “Don’t interfere, Zach! Someone will call the cops. Let them handle it!”

Yeah, right. Even through the maze of bodies, Zach could see the blind guy regain his feet, right his dark glasses on his bloody nose, and try to step forward again, only to be tripped a second time by that stupid excuse for a cowboy.

“Pardon me,” Zach said as he squeezed past a woman. “Sorry,” he said to her partner.

When he reached the edge of the dance floor, he grabbed hold of the blind man’s arm to help him stand up. “Hey, man. Are you okay?”

The frames of the guy’s dark glasses were now broken, and his bottom lip was streaming blood. Zach’s own blood went from hot to boiling. His father had taught him never to start a fistfight. The only exception was when a bully was harming another person or an animal. Zach figured deliberately tripping a blind man was an offense that fell into that gray area his father so often talked about.
Sometimes, son, you got no choice but to man up and kick ass.

Even so, Zach had no desire to get cuffed and stuffed by Crystal Falls’ finest, or to spend a sleepless night in the local hoosegow. He turned to the grinning idiot who’d just tripped a blind man for the hell of it. Nudging back the brim of his hat, Zach squarely met the dumb fuck’s gaze and said, “Partner, you’re either a little too drunk to be in a public place, or your daddy failed to teach you any manners. Which is it?”

Zach never saw the blow coming. The other man’s fist landed like a wrecking ball right between his eyes. Everything went star bright and then pitch-black. Zach felt his body going airborne and his muscles turning limp. Someone screamed. And then he landed on his back, his spine striking something flat and hard. The next instant the surface broke under his weight, and he tumbled to the floor in a splintering pile of wood. A table, he determined as his vision spun blurrily back into focus.

Dumb Fuck stood over Zach, smirking as he sucked his bruised knuckles. Somehow Zach doubted the man’s hand was hurting as badly as Zach’s face was, but the mean-hearted asshole was about to find out he’d made a hell of a mistake by laying into a Harrigan. When Frank Harrigan read about this fracas in the
Crystal Falls Courier
, Zach wanted him to laugh and say, “That’s my boy. He kicks ass first and takes names later.”

Zach tried to break free of the debris to sit up. As he did, he saw Dumb Fuck lean forward with one fist knotted to deliver another blow. Zach fell back onto the pile of wood, knifed up with one knee, and planted his foot dead center on the other man’s chest. With one hard shove, he sent the bastard into fast reverse, the other man staggering to keep his balance, flailing with his arms, and then sprawling across a table. Zach scrambled to his feet, swiped at his eyes to clear his vision, and then leaped on the guy. The combined weight of two grown men sent the second table into a joint-shattering meltdown.

Zach didn’t have a clear thought in his head after that. Vaguely he realized there was a lot of commotion and screaming, and he felt someone grab his arm from behind. He jerked free and let the creep have it again. His mind came clear only when two other men dragged him off his opponent, saying, “That’s enough. He’s had enough.”

Zach shook his arms free and wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. Blood came away on the cuff. No matter. Dumb Fuck lay on the floor in a fetal position, holding his middle and whining that his jaw was broken.

“Police! Break it up! Step aside. Police!”

Shit. Hoosegow, here I come
. Zach was a little unsteady on his feet and sidestepped to remain standing. A second later, his balance, or lack thereof, didn’t matter. His wrists were cuffed behind him, and a cop held him erect by one arm as he was led from the bar to a waiting police car.

“He hit me first!” Zach protested.

“Tell it to your lawyer, buster. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”

“I know my rights,” Zach interrupted. “I’ve heard them a few times.”

“We know, Harrigan,” the cop said as he cupped a palm over the top of Zach’s head and shoved him down into the backseat of the vehicle. Zach squinted hard to focus. This same guy had taken him in a few months back for jumping in to defend a mistreated bull at the rodeo. He seemed like a decent sort for a cop.

“Wait a minute! Where the hell’s my Stetson?” Zach yelled.

The slamming of the door was the only answer he got.

Three hours later, Zach, still minus his hat, sat on the edge of a jail cot, knees spread, his aching head compressed between his swollen hands. Dumb Fuck hadn’t been brought in yet. He’d been taken to the ER for some stitches before lockup time. Zach had learned minutes ago that the idiot was filing charges against him for assault with intent to kill, or some damned fool thing like that.

Yeah, right
. Zach couldn’t believe this. He was in the clink, faced with serious charges, and all he’d done was step in to defend some blind guy he didn’t even know.

No real worries, though. Zach had used his one phone call to contact his dad. Frank Harrigan had money and connections. He’d have Zach out on bail in a matter of hours. It was the wait between now and then that had Zach’s nerves jangling. He was a little claustrophobic, and being locked up gave him the cold sweats. Of course, he wasn’t looking forward to another chewing out from his dad on the subject of his nightlife, either.

Man
. He couldn’t believe this, just couldn’t believe it. Only, when Zach rewound the scene at Bart’s and replayed it in his mind, he knew he had no regrets and never would, even if he cooled his jets in this hellhole for a week. Sometimes a man couldn’t turn a blind eye. For Zach, the abuse of a disabled person was one of those times. Kick a dog, and Zach was there. Beat a horse, and he came running. No man who called himself a man stood aside with his thumb up his ass while some jerk made sport of an animal or person who couldn’t fight back.

Maybe, he decided, he’d reacted so angrily because of the article about guide horses that he’d read at the dentist’s office last week. The mini horses being trained to guide the sight impaired were amazing, and as a horse trainer, Zach had found the entire feature fascinating. So fascinating that he’d torn the pages from the magazine for future reference, thinking he might try his hand at training a mini himself. The thought had remained with him for a couple of hours, and then he’d forgotten all about it until now.
Typical
. He was so busy with his horse ranch and barhopping that he had little time for anything else.