Between Sisters by Kristin Hannah Page A

plate of nachos. By the time the second order of food came, the band had started. The first song was a bone-jarringly loud rendition of “Friends in Low Places.”
    “It sounds like Garth Brooks got caught in a barbed-wire fence,” Claire said, laughing.
    By the time the band got around to Alan Jackson's “Here in the Real World,” the place was wall-to-wall people. Almost everyone was dressed in fake leather Western wear. A group was line-dancing in a thigh-slappin' way.
    “Did you hear that?” Claire leaned forward and put her hands on the table. “It's ‘Guitars and Cadillacs.' We
gotta
dance.”
    “Dance?” Gina laughed. “The last time I danced with you two, my butt hit an old man and sent him flying. Give me another drink or two.”
    Karen shook her head. “Sorry, Charlie. I danced until I hit a size sixteen. Now I consider it wise to keep my ass as still as possible.”
    Claire stood up. “Come on, Charlotte. You're not as damn old as these two. You want to dance?”
    “Are you kidding? I'd love to.” She plopped her purse onto her chair and followed Claire to the dance floor. All around them, couples dressed in denim were dancing in patterns. A woman pirouetted past them, mouthing
1-2-3
along the way. She clearly needed all of her concentration skills to keep up with her partner's moves.
    Claire let the music pour over her like cool water on a hot summer's day. It refreshed her, rejuvenated her. The minute she started to move in time with it, to swing her hips and stamp her feet and clap her hands, she remembered how much she loved this. She couldn't believe that she'd let so many quiet years accumulate.
    The music swept her away and peeled back the layer of motherhood years. She and Charlotte became their teenage selves again, laughing, bumping hips, singing out loud to each other. The next song was “Sweet Home Alabama,” and they had to stay for that one. Next came “Margaritaville.”
    By the time the band took a break, Claire was damp with perspiration and out of breath. A tiny headache had flared behind her left eye; she stuck a hand in her pocket and found an Excedrin.
    Charlotte pushed the hair out of her eyes. “That was
great
. Johnny and I haven't danced since . . .” She frowned. “Jeez. Maybe not since our wedding. That's what happens when you try like hell to get pregnant. Romance hits the road.”
    Claire laughed. “Believe me, honey, it's
after
you get knocked up that romance changes ZIP codes. I haven't had a decent date in years. Come on. I'm so dehydrated I feel like a piece of beef jerky.”
    Char nodded toward the back. “I need to use the rest room first. Order me another margarita. And tell Karen this round is on me.”
    “Sure thing.” Claire started to head for the table, then remembered the aspirin in her fist. She went to the bar instead and asked for a glass of tap water.
    When the water came, she swallowed the single pill, then turned away from the bar. As she started to head back to the table, she saw a man walk onto the stage. He carried a guitar—a regular, old-fashioned guitar that didn't plug in or amp out. The rest of the band had left the stage, but their instruments were still there.
    He sat down easily on a rickety bar stool. One black cowboy boot was planted firmly on the floor, the other rested on the stool's bottom rung. He wore a pair of faded, torn jeans and a black T-shirt. His hair was almost shoulder length, and shone blond in the fluorescent overhead lighting. He was looking down at his guitar, and though a black Stetson shielded most of his face, Claire could make out the strong, high bones that defined his cheeks.
    “Wow.” She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a man who was so good-looking.
    Not in Hayden, that was for sure.
    Men like him didn't show up in backwater towns. This was a fact she'd learned long ago. The Toms, the Brads, the Georges of this world lived in Hollywood or Manhattan, and when they traveled, they stood behind