Sage Creek by Jill Gregory Page A

months.
    Since he was sitting with a bunch of hands from the Hanging W, Rafe guessed he must have recently landed there.
    But not for long, based on the way all the other wranglers seemed to be glaring at him.
    “Holy crap, look what just walked in all alone,” Decker muttered, coming to a dead halt as they wound their way toward the booths. “I swear, if I wasn’t a happily married man—”
    Rafe followed his glance. A few feet ahead, a tall, long-legged beauty in a leather jacket, jeans, and boots had just swept into the Double Cross. She was gorgeous, a knockout, her rich tumble of caramel hair tousled by the wind, her walk swift and graceful, like she knew exactly what she wanted and where she was going.
    Only she didn’t.
    She paused five feet inside the door and scanned the booths, obviously hunting for someone.
    A lucky someone.
    And it was then that Rafe realized with a thud of shock who she was. Not a supermodel or Hollywood actress from one of the fancy mountain homes celebrities were building all the hell over Montana. No, she was his kid sister’s pesky best friend. Sophie McPhee.
    All grown up.
    And how .
    He recognized the perfect oval shape of her face, the wide-set eyes, and the delicate nose. The coltish gate he remembered from that young girl was now a graceful, lusciously female stride.
    “Hey, isn’t that Lissie’s friend—Sophie? Sophie McPhee?” Deck recognized her a fraction of a second after Rafe did. “Heard she was back in town. Divorced.” He dug an elbow into Rafe’s ribs. “That means she’s available. You should go for it, you lucky dog.”
    He and Deck were actually angling toward her as they slipped into a slim opening in the crowd. Sophie was moving too, edging deeper into the cavernous room—at the exact moment one of the Hanging W ranch hands—Wade Holden—shot to his feet, fists clenched, with Crenshaw doing the same. Crenshaw surged up from the table so violently he sent his chair tumbling backward.
    In an instant, he and Holden were charging at each other, their fists swinging. Crenshaw slugged Holden in the jaw and sent him spinning on a path that led straight toward Sophie McPhee.
    Rafe leaped without thinking, jumping between them. He took the brunt of the collision, which barely seemed to touch him as he shoved the off-balance wrangler aside.
    Rounding on Buck Crenshaw, Rafe’s gaze was flinty in the dimly lit glow of the bar. “You and Holden want to fight, take it outside, Crenshaw. Now.”
    “You heard the man.” Deck was right beside him, ready to rumble. “Get out.”
    “I don’t take no orders from you—either one of you.” Crenshaw’s brown eyes locked on Rafe. “Not anymore.”
    The fool’s drunk. Rafe recognized the boozy braggadocio and overbright glare in Crenshaw’s stare. He was swaying slightly on his feet and looked like he wanted nothing more than to hurl himself in uncontrolled fury straight at Rafe.
    “Bad move, buddy. Don’t even think about it,” Rafe warned quietly. He had four inches and twenty pounds on the man—Crenshaw would have to be as drunk as a skunk to even consider taking him on.
    “Get the hell out of here while you can still walk. Don’t make me toss you out that door myself.” His voice was low, meant for Crenshaw only, but his face was as hard and unflinching as iron.
    “Best not to force him to say it again,” Decker drawled.
    Crenshaw wavered. Fear warred in his eyes with drunken pride. Suddenly Big Billy Watkins, the owner and bartender of the Double Cross, strode up, 225 pounds of muscle, fat, whiskers, and wild mustang tattoos.
    “You heard ’em, Crenshaw. You too, Holden,” he boomed with a glance at the ranch hand Rafe had shoved aside, who was just now staggering to his feet. “I want the both of you outta my place. Now. ”
    Wade Holden headed for the door, head down. But Crenshaw glared like a bull from Rafe to Decker to Big Billy, and suddenly seemed to slink into himself.
    His shoulders