Page 1 of Forsaken Hearts
Chapter One
The joke in Willowbrook, Wyoming was that there were more bars than churches. But men like Vander Pope didn’t go looking for salvation.
It didn’t matter that there were three other bars within walking distance, or that one of them had better whisky and another had a stage that allowed for live music on weekends.
The Stockyard Saloon and Grill had what Pope wanted—a damn fine steak sandwich, breakfast at midnight when the rest of the town had long since shut down its kitchens, and a back room where a man could always find a seat at a poker table.
And it had Summer Denton.
Pope leaned back in his chair, the worn wood creaking under his weight as he studied his poker hand without really seeing the cards. The back room vibrated with its usual noise of chips clinking together, a few low curses and the scrape of chairs on the old plank flooring. But tonight it was background noise.
The air was thick despite the cool temperatures of springtime in the mountains, and every time Summer bustled in with another round of drinks for the table, Pope felt the heat rise.
The group of regulars he played with were several drinks in, but he always quit after a couple, preferring to keep a clear head just in case.
Across the table, a guy they called Little Mike as a joke because of his tall stature shoved a stack of chips forward with a grunt. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” Pope didn’t bother looking up, just dragged his thumb along the edge of his cards.
Little Mike issued a snort. “You’ve been sitting on garbage all night.”
“Maybe I’m tired of losing.”
That earned a low noise from the man to his right. “You don’t lose. You just wait longer than the rest of us to start winning.”
Pope finally lifted his gaze, letting it glide over the table, the men, the game—and right past them to the main room where the bar lights cast everything in a low amber glow.
And there she was.
Summer moved between tables with a tray balanced on one hand, her light brown hair pulled off her neck in a messy knot that gave the impression she didn’t care when really she spent time tucking the little strands back in place. A few wisps lay on her nape, curling damp against her skin.
He filled his lungs with enough air to outweigh the throb of desire in his veins, but that didn’t work when he saw the way her tank top clung to her back and the jeans hugging her curvy thighs in a way that made a man think of those legs wrapped around him.
She laughed at something one of the regulars said, head tipping enough to show Pope the line of her throat, and his gut clenched.
He shifted in his seat to ease the tightness of his jeans and forced his attention back to the table before anyone caught where it had drifted.
Little Mike tapped the table. “Your play.”
He pushed his chips into the pot without another glance at his cards.
“Damn, he didn’t even look. You see that, Little Mike?”
“Didn’t need to look. I know what I have,” Pope drawled.
“You’re either about to take everything”—Little Mike narrowed his eyes—“or you’ve lost your damn mind.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
His focus slipped to theone reasonhe didn’t mind losing control, but he didn’t look at her again.
Summer backed through the door with a tray balanced against her hip. She’d been in and out of this room all night, keeping the drinks coming and collecting empties before they stacked too high.
But it was always the small things that got him.
The way she brushed her knuckles against his when she set down his glass, just enough contact to shoot sparks through him before she pulled away. Or the glance she sent his way—quick and gone before it could mean more.
Except it did.
