He’s a man who wants it all...if only he could have it

Dreams of stardom took musician and firefighter Sam Marshall far from his Colorado roots. Starting fresh in Nashville hasn’t been easy, especially after an injury on the job, but he’s working his way to the Grand Ole Opry one open mike at a time, teaching at the fire station to make ends meet. Yet Sam’s intentions are shaken when he meets the lovely owner of a local café. Suddenly, Sam’s dreams are filled with her. Too bad that as the daughter of country-music wannabes, Finn Leary’s been there, done that. She’ll never choose a musician. So how can Sam possibly get the girl and keep the guitar?

With his fingertip, Sam traced the contour of her jaw.

“You can do anything, remember?”

Finn held her breath; the last time he’d looked at her this way, he had kissed her. Or had she kissed him? Not that it made any difference. Standing in the circle of his strong arms, she’d felt vulnerable and safe and more womanly than she ever had before...all at the same time.

And because it scared her, she’d tried putting some distance between them to figure out if she could trust him. Until this moment, looking into eyes lit with kindness and caring—for her—she hadn’t considered the possibility that he might be battling the same fears.

“Thanks, Sam,” she said, taking a half step closer.

“For what?”

Finn shrugged, wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his chest, hoping the gesture would be answer enough. She wasn’t ready to say the words out loud.

At least, not yet.

Dear Reader,

Close your eyes for a moment and picture your first crush. Call to mind the way it felt, knowing you were falling in love with him—and had no idea how to admit it. If you’re like me, you were terrified. What if you put your heart out there and he rejected it! Far better to keep your feelings hidden.

Then one night, perhaps he tenderly tucked your hair behind your ears, or confessed that he couldn’t talk to anyone the way he could talk to you, or kissed you as you’d never been kissed before, and you thought, This, this is the time! But when he looked surprised and uncomfortable instead of happy, you faced a whole new challenge: hiding your disappointment and heartache long enough to get home, where you could cry yourself to sleep.

Remarkably, your second crush came along, and yet again, your heart drummed with the sweet beats of new love. But this time, you were older and wiser: Why risk a repeat performance of that agonizing moment by blurting out “I love you”?

That’s pretty much the dilemma faced by the main characters in The Firefighter’s Refrain.

Finn Leary has learned the hard way that living by the saying “better to love and lose than never love at all” is dangerous and reckless. Sam Marshall, the product of a big, loving family, believes the exact opposite, and his impatience with her guarded behavior threatens to end them before they can begin.

Thankfully, we needn’t remain prisoners of the past. My wish for you, dear reader, is that you’ll open every dark corner of your heart to the possibility of love.

Hugs from me to you,

Loree

The Firefighter’s Refrain

Loree Lough

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LOREE LOUGH once sang for her supper. Traveling by way of bus and train, she entertained folks in pubs and lounges across the United States and Canada. Her favorite memories of days on the road are the hours spent singing to soldiers recovering from battle wounds in VA hospitals. Now and then she polishes up her Yamaha guitar to croon a tune or two, but mostly she writes. With over a hundred books in print (sixteen bearing the Harlequin logo), Loree’s work has earned numerous industry accolades, movie options, and four- and five-star reviews, but what she treasures most are her Readers’ Choice Awards.

Loree and her real-life hero split their time between Baltimore’s suburbs and a cabin in the Allegheny Mountains, where she continues to perfect her “identify the critter tracks” skills. A writer who believes in giving back, Loree donates a generous portion of her annual income to charity (see the Giving Back page of her website, loreelough.com, for details). She loves hearing from her readers and answers every letter personally. You can connect with her on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.

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This story is dedicated to firefighters everywhere, and to the committed instructors who prepare them for the dangers they’ll face every day of their lives.

It’s also dedicated to songwriters, singers and musicians whose tenacity makes the world a better place with every note they produce.

Last, but certainly not least, this novel is dedicated to Jesse Spencer, whose wholesome good looks and spot-on portrayal of a firefighter inspired the descriptions of Sam Marshall.

Acknowledgments

My thanks to Torry Martin, actor, author, comedian and all-around terrific guy, and Mark Ligon, singer and guitarist, who graciously consented to appear as themselves in this story.

A big thanks to all the friendly and knowledgeable people at the Nashville Chamber of Commerce. The list of individuals is too lengthy for the space allowed here, but you know who you are! Your input and guidance helped lend authenticity and realism to every street, shop and museum that makes Music City one of the world’s most sought-after tourist attractions.

My heartfelt gratitude, too, to my friends and family, for tolerating my crazy-weird schedule and putting up with countless recitations of “the exciting, fascinating stuff I learned” while writing this book.

I love you all!

Contents

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

INTRODUCTION

Dear Reader

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

SAM WROTE HIS name on the whiteboard, wincing when the dry-erase pen squeaked across the polished surface.

He recapped the pen. “Sorry, and I hate to admit it, but that happens all the time.”

“It’s because you’re left-handed,” said the student sitting nearest the door. “Left-handers hold things...weird.”

The female cadet beside him knocked on her desk. “It’s weirdly,” she said, “not weird.”

For the moment, Sam was more interested in the left-hander than proper grammar.

“Yeah, yeah,” the student said. “I was with the ditzy blonde on Monday.”

Sam had lucked into a slot on Open Mic Night at the Bluebird Café, a lifetime dream made more fantastic when the crowd had stood to cheer the song he’d written and performed. Amid the applause and whistles, a cute woman had climbed onstage and wrapped him in a hug that belied her size...while her wide-eyed date had looked more stunned than Sam felt.

“When the lieutenant straps on a guitar, he turns into a babe magnet.” The student smirked. “My girlfriend says it’s all his fault that she clung to him like a plastic wrap.”

Laughter traveled through the room, and Sam felt the beginnings of a blush creeping into his cheeks.

The young woman piped up. “Wait. You got a standing O at the Bluebird?” She flipped a copper-red braid over her shoulder. “That’s one tough crowd, so...” She frowned slightly. “If you’re that good, why are you here?”

Much as Sam loved the department, he’d trade his badge for a guitar in a heartbeat...if he thought for a minute he could survive on a musician’s salary.

“Somebody’s got to teach you bunch of knuckleheads how to get cats out of trees.”

His students snickered.

“Fair warning—laughing at my bad jokes won’t earn you extra credit, but showing up on time might.” He dropped the pen on to the chalk ledge. “Any questions before we get started?”

“Were you injured putting out a fire?” the redhead wanted to know.

A flash of memory took him back to that night when the ceiling literally caved in on him, and he believed life as he’d known it was over.

“You know, your limp?” she continued when Sam didn’t say anything. “Is that muscle or bone damage?”

She looked a little like Sophie—the only Marshall in generations born with auburn hair and brown eyes. Sam hoped the resemblance was purely physical, because his youngest sister’s questions could drive a Tibetan monk to drink.

“What’s your name, cadet?”

“Jasmine Epps, Captain.” She sat at attention. “If I graduate, I’ll be the first woman in my family to become a firefighter.” She lifted her chin. “And there are a lot of firefighters in the Epps family.”

Anyone who’d ever walked the long hallway down at headquarters recognized the name. But it didn’t matter. For her sake and safety, Sam needed her to understand that her name would not buy preferential treatment, and that included off-track interruptions and distractions.

He straightened to his full six-foot height. “I’m here for the same reason you are,” he said, addressing the entire class. “To whip you into mental and physical shape to become firefighters. And we only have three months to get the job done. You’re all equals in here, so I’m not going to waste time worrying about the balance of male versus female pronouns.” He met Epps’s eyes. “You okay with that, recruit?”

“Yessir, Captain Marshall.” She giggled quietly. “I’m surprised that you’re so well acquainted with parts of speech. I have a degree to teach English, you know, so I’ll have something to fall back on, just in case?”

Was she testing him, to see how much he’d let her get away with?

“That, people,” he announced, pointing at her, “was the second—and last—self-deprecating comment allowed in this room. From this night forward, we operate on the assumption that at the end of this session, everyone becomes a firefighter.” Sam paused, to give the rule time to sink in. “Got it?”

Following the drone of yessirs, he picked up his clipboard and sat on the corner of his desk.

“Now, then, since we already know that Epps here has a closet full of big shoes to fill, let’s find out who the rest of you are and why you’re here.”

While the guy in the far-right corner stated his name, age and marital status, Sam’s cell phone buzzed. It was Mark, owner of The Meetinghouse and founder of the Marks Brothers. Upon arriving in Nashville, Sam had chosen his hotel for the sole reason that it was walking distance from the club, rumored to be a favorite of agents and producers. Although Sam had put everything into his performance there, no contracts materialized. The next best thing happened, though, when Mark asked him to sub for ailing or vacationing band members. And they’d been rock-solid friends ever since.

He made a mental note to return the call after class. Sam went back to focusing on the students, the last of whom had just finished his introduction.

“Look around you, people. These are the guys who’ll have your back until the session ends...and maybe afterward, if you’re assigned to the same house. Match faces with names. Memorize voices. Anyone care to guess why?”

The guy with the ditzy girlfriend said, “Face-mask drills? Might be the only way to tell who’s who.”

Sam was about to agree and elaborate when Epps interrupted. “Your turn, Captain Marshall. What made you become a firefighter?”

He stifled a groan and wondered whether to set her straight now or explain his expectations privately, after class.

Arms crossed over his chest, Sam said, “I was born ’n’ bred on a Colorado ranch, and when I was sixteen, lightning started a brush fire. If not for some determined firefighters, we would have lost livestock, outbuildings, maybe even some ranch hands. I was impressed. Impressed enough that, first chance I got, I signed on with the volunteer fire department.”

One student wanted to know what had brought Sam to town; another asked if the Nashville department had recruited him from Colorado. How would it look if he admitted that dreams of signing a recording contract—not the city’s fire safety—had brought him to Tennessee?

Sam made a V of his first two fingers.

“One,” he began, “starting right now, in the interest of time and efficiency, we’ll do things like we did ’em in school. If you have a question or want to make a comment, raise your hand. Two—to answer your question—another thing that happened when I was sixteen was spending a week in Nashville with the family. I fell in love with the place and always said I’d come back.” He shrugged.

Epps raised her hand, and when Sam gave her the go-ahead, she asked him how he’d become a captain.

In every training session, one student stood out from the rest. The joker. The know-it-all. The always befuddled. And the chronic question-asker. Oh, yeah, he’d have to nip this in the bud, stat.

“I kept my ears open and my mouth shut.” He met every cadet’s eyes. “Same thing each of you will do...if you hope to advance in the ranks.”

Epps held up a forefinger and prepared to fire off another question, but Sam beat her to the punch.

“Pencils up, people. We have a lot of ground to cover, and I talk fast.”

He instructed them to turn to the blank pages at the back of their workbooks, and after an hour of questions and answers regarding the preliminary qualifications for rookie firefighters, he dismissed class early. He erased the whiteboard as they filed out of the room. How many would he lose between now and the last class? One, if he had to guess: Epps. Her attitude made it pretty clear that she believed her family name would buy certain considerations. The minute she figured out how wrong she was...

His phone buzzed again.

“You know where The Right Note is, right?” Mark asked.

“The diner at the corner of 19th and 20th?”

“How soon can you be there?”

“Ten minutes, give or take. Why?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Bring an appetite. Supper’s on me.”

There had been a certain edge in Mark’s voice, Sam reflected as he pulled into the parking lot. Hopefully, it wasn’t because Eli had gone on another bender. “That’d be a sorry shame,” he muttered. Mark’s younger brother had been clean and sober nearly four years.

Mark was sipping a tall glass of sweet tea when Sam slid into the booth seat across from him. “I’ve been meaning to check this place out for years,” he said, glancing around. “Most attempts at imitating a fifties soda shop fall flat, but I like this. I like it a lot.”

Mark harrumphed. “Well, thank you, Frank Lloyd Wright. I’m sure the owner will appreciate your critique.”

Sam chuckled as a freckle-faced teen stepped up and slid two plastic-coated menus onto the red Formica table. “Sweet tea for you, too, sir?”

“Sure. But hold the lemon, okay?”

The kid hurried off, and Sam pretended to read the dinner listings. “So why am I here?”

“We haven’t even ordered yet. What’s your hurry? Got a hot date or somethin’?”

“Matter of fact, I do...with a stack of lesson plans.” Sam stretched out his sore leg and massaged the taut thigh muscle. Standing for extended periods always made it ache, but never more than when he paced the linoleum-over-concrete classroom floors. “Truth is, I’m curious. Every other time you’ve popped for a meal, I’ve had to work for it.” He closed the menu. “So what can I do for you this time?”

“Sheesh.” Mark shook his head. “You’re such a cynic.” He paused, then said, “I thought you were partial to blondes?”

The movements of a short-haired brunette had drawn Sam’s attention to the kitchen. “With my luck,” he said, averting his gaze, “she’ll turn around and give me an eyeful of hairy moles and missing teeth.”

Mark snickered, then pointed at Sam’s leg. “You keep that roadblock out there, you’re liable to find out. How long since the last surgery?”

Sam did the math in his head. He’d had two operations since the cave-in. “Going on three years.”

“But it’s still bugging you.” Mark leaned back. “Are you gonna talk to somebody about it or keep playing the strong, silent type?”

“I’m talking about it now.” He leaned back, too. “Unfortunately.”

The waiter arrived with Sam’s iced tea and, taking a pencil from behind his ear, asked, “You guys ready to order?”

Mark hadn’t even glanced at his menu. “Turkey burger and sweet potato fries, house salad with light Italian on the side.”

“Holy health food, Batman,” the kid said. “What’s got into you?”

“That crack is coming out of your tip, wise guy.”

Sam read the boy’s name tag. “Go ahead and laugh, Ted. I’ll get the tip. It’s worth every dollar to see this guy squirm.” He tapped his menu. “I’ll have a BLT, a side of fries and coleslaw.” And when Ted walked away, he added, “So what’s her name?”

Mark’s eyebrows rose. “Whose name?”

“The woman who put you on a diet.”

Waving the comment away, Mark said, “Can’t a guy cut back a little without his friends jumping to crazy conclusions?”

“So I take it a best man invitation isn’t the reason I’m here.”

“Man. You’re like a puppy with a bone.” He shook a packet of sugar into his already sweet tea. “All right, Mr. Impatience, here’s the deal—Duke Miller is taking Eli on the road.”

“No kiddin’? Well, good for Eli. It’s about time the guy caught a break.”

After leukemia took his little girl, Eli’s heartbroken wife had committed suicide, and he’d found comfort at the bottom of a bottle. Hard to tell how long he might have stayed there if Mark hadn’t made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: if Eli could shape up and kick the addiction, he’d make him a full partner at The Meetinghouse. Which he had.

“He leaves in two weeks. Just enough time to get his affairs in order.”

“Will Torry replace him as manager?”

“Well, he’s on the road more than he’s here in Nashville.”

Sam pictured Torry Martin, the big red-haired comic whose stand-up and movie career had taken off in the past year. “But Eli’s still your partner, right?”

Mark shrugged. “Therein lies the rub, Sherlock.”

“Wish I had a dollar for every time that line was botched.”

Mark looked up. “Huh?”

“For starters, it’s Shakespeare, not Sherlock Holmes... Hamlet, to be specific.”

“Gimme a break,” Mark kidded. “You know as much about the bard as I do. Which is zip.”

“Says you.” Sam launched into the story of how, back in high school, the object of his affections had signed up to play Gertrude in the annual winter pageant.

“Claudia’s family owned the ranch just north of the Double M, and I figured she and I might have a chance to get closer if I drove her home from rehearsals.”

“Closer, literally?” Mark leaned forward. “Or closer, figuratively?”

Sam ignored him. “Claudia loved attention. Positive. Negative. Didn’t matter, long as people were looking at her. She was a cheerleader. Recited the pledge for the morning announcements. Faked migraines and fainting spells in the halls, so guys would have to carry her to the nurse’s office.”

“And you had a crush on a girl like that.”

“I was young and dumb. What can I say? Anyway, it didn’t surprise anyone when she snagged the female lead. I auditioned for the part of Horatio, thinking, fewer lines to memorize than Hamlet. But good old Mrs. Smith had other ideas.”

“Hamlet? You? No way.”

Sam nodded. “Yes, way. You should’ve heard my cousins, mocking every line as I prepped for that part.”

“Well, at least you got the girl.”

Sam took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

“No way,” Mark repeated.

“Yup. I took all that razzing for nothing, since Claudia only had eyes for Bart Isaacs.”

“Captain of the football team?”

“Nah. His dad was a big shot in Denver politics.”

“Ah.” Mark took a swig of his tea. “But I didn’t fall off the turnip truck, my firefighter friend. No way you can convince me you played Hamlet!”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam sat ramrod straight, and began, “‘To sleep, perchance to dream, ay, there’s the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give—’”

A breathy oomph, the shattering of plates and the clatter of silverware hitting the floor interrupted his monologue.

There on the floor beside him, amid broken dishes, tomato slices and a jumble of fries, sat the most gorgeous brunette Sam had ever seen. Dark, long-lashed eyes flashing, she glared up at him.

“Did it ever occur to you that sticking your leg out into the aisle might trip someone who can’t see over a serving tray?”

CHAPTER TWO

THE GUY WINCED as he stooped to help her pick up the mess. “Man, oh, man. You’re right, I wasn’t even thinking. I’m really sorry.”

The flash of pain on his face looked genuine enough to surprise her, even though she was the one sitting on her rump in the aisle.

Finn flicked a slice of bacon from her lap. “Yeah, well, accidents happen, I guess. Especially when we’re distracted.” She met his eyes. “Right... Hamlet?”

His cheeks flushed slightly, and despite herself, Finn thought it was charming.

“Sticking my leg out that way has become a habit since...” He ran a hand through almost-blond waves. “It’s a bad habit, I’ll admit.”

He made a cup of his right hand and started dropping shards of glass and chunks of stoneware into it.

“Stop, please,” she said, one hand up like a traffic cop. “I’ve got this. I can’t afford a lawsuit if you cut yourself. Besides,” she added, nodding at his leg, “you’re already hurt.”

“A lawsuit?” Blond brows drew together slightly. “Just ask Mark—I’m not sue happy.”

“Sue happy...sounds like the title of a country song.”

He got to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. When she put hers into it, Finn noticed that it was warm and strong...and callused. She’d overhead Mark say that he was a firefighter. Had he earned them on the job? And what about the limp? Had he earned it on the job, too?

Steady on her feet again, she thanked him, then dusted the knees of her jeans. A sliver of glass poked into her palm, and she drew a quick gulp of air through clenched teeth.

“Here, let me see that,” he said, holding her hand up to the light.

He hadn’t seemed tall, seated in the booth or kneeling beside her in the muddle of broken dishes. Bending slightly to inspect the cut, he towered over her, and something told her that even if he hadn’t been wearing stack-heeled cowboy boots, she’d still feel tiny standing alongside him.

“If you tell me where to find some gauze and peroxide, I’ll clean it up and bandage it for you. I’m a firefighter, so I have first-aid training.”

He was talking a lot. Talking fast, too. Her snappish reaction to the fall—and the mess—had clearly unnerved him.

She wriggled free of his grasp. “It’s just a little scratch. I’ll clean it up later.”

His pained expression told her his apology and the concern that followed had probably been authentic. But then, Finn could count on one hand the number of honest and decent men who’d crossed her path, and have fingers left over.

Well, at least he wasn’t a musician, like his pal. Mark, band leader and owner of The Meetinghouse, was a regular customer. He often stopped by alone to hunch over sheet music or ledger pages. Other times, the rest of the Marks Brothers Band tagged along to discuss sets or work out four-part harmonies...much to her customers’ delight. Her years as a waitress had taught her to accept their generous tips with grace and ignore their blatant flirtations without insulting them.

“You’re sure? Because I’m happy to—”

“I’m sure. But thanks.”

“Well, okay. But FYI, peroxide will foam up and help work out any glass particles that might still be in there.”

She hid the hand in her apron pocket. “I’ve cut myself a thousand times, with things way bigger than a splinter of glass. So don’t give it another thought. It’ll be better before I’m married.”

His left eyebrow rose slightly and so did one corner of his mouth.

What a stupid, stupid thing to say! she thought, making note of his dimples. Pete used to say, “Small talk won’t kill you,” but at times like these, it sure seemed as though it could.

“I’ll just get Rowdy to, ah, redo your order.”

“No need to go to all that trouble.”

Other customers were watching and listening, so yes, she did.

“Hey, Teddy? Bring me the broom and dustpan, will you, please? And send Bean out here to help with this mess.”

Discomfort sparked in his eyes as he shifted his weight from his bad leg to the good one. He’s a little careless, she thought, staring into eyes as blue as cornflowers, but he sure is easy to look at.

She focused on Mark. “You guys sit tight, okay? We’ll have your new order out here before this mess is cleaned up.”

The kids appeared as if on cue, freckle-faced Ted carrying the broom and dustpan, tall, reedy Bean holding a plastic tub. The firefighter took a step forward, as if planning to return to his seat. Instead, he bent again and retrieved silverware and one unbroken plate. He eased them into the girl’s tub, then relieved the boy of his broom.

“If you’ll just hold the dustpan, son, we’ll have this cleaned up in no time.”

Finn was about to repeat, Thanks, but I’ve got this, when Mark shook his head.

“No point trying to stop him,” he told her. “Ol’ Sam here can’t help himself—he’s a public servant, through and through.”

Funny. He didn’t look like a Sam.

The cook stepped around the fragments—and the group of Right Note employees still gathered in the aisle—and delivered the replacement sandwich. “Here y’go. Just give a holler if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Sam said as Rowdy, Ted and Bean made their way back to the kitchen.

“Well, don’t just stand there takin’ up space, Marshall,” Mark said. “Take a load off, why don’t you.”

He slid onto the bench seat and gazed up at her. “When you bring the check, let me know what I owe you for the stuff I broke, okay?”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“I’ll just have to guess, then.”

“Things get broken in here every day.” Finn shrugged. “So forget it. Really.”

The slight lift of his chin told Finn that he meant to reimburse her no matter what she said.

“More iced tea?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Finn turned, picking up a few empty glasses on the way to the service counter. Did he practice that dimple-exposing grin, or was the guileless expression genuine?

She added the glasses to the washtub as Ciara waved from across the room, reminding her that it didn’t make a whit of difference if Sam Marshall was interested or not, the real deal or as phony as a used car salesman.

Because romance and Finn Leary didn’t belong in the same sentence.

CHAPTER THREE

SAM GLANCED ACROSS the diner, where the gal he’d tripped stood talking with the cook.

“You sure know how to make a first impression,” Mark said, following his gaze.

“Yeah, well...” He squeezed a dollop of catsup on to his plate. “At the risk of sounding redundant, why am I here?”

“Good grief. You’re about as patient as a kid on Christmas Eve.” Mark rooted around in the briefcase beside him, withdrew a black ledger and slid it across the table.

Sam flipped it open, but peripheral vision told him that the pretty brunette was watching, making it all but impossible to concentrate on column headings, let alone dollar amounts.

“So what’s her story?”

Mark scrubbed a palm over his face. “Her name is Finn Leary, and she owns this place. Now quit worrying about that mess and the lousy first impression you made. It’s history.” He tapped the ledger. “This isn’t.”

Sam did his best to focus. In the left-hand column, a list of monthly expenses—food and beverages, utilities, insurance, taxes—for The Meetinghouse. In the center, the club’s employee roster and salaries. On the right, end-of-year profits split by Mark and Eli.

“Are these numbers accurate?”

“Yep.”

“It’s good to see how well you’re doing—” he slid the book back to Mark’s side of the table “—’cause it means you can afford to pay me in real dollars one of these days.”

“Owners get paid last.”

“Poor, poor, pitiful you,” Sam teased. He pointed at the impressive after-taxes total. “My heart bleeds for you and Eli.”

“Yeah, well, it’ll be good news for you, too...if you say yes to my offer.”

The girl with Finn laughed, too long and too loud. She looked perfectly normal, but her actions and reactions said otherwise. He ran down a mental list of possible explanations for her behavior. Autism. Asperger’s Syndrome. Brain damage...

“I booked a flight on that rocket ship to Mars. How ’bout if I buy you a ticket, too?”

“Ticket?” Sam sat up straighter. “Wait. What?”

“Man. When you take a trip to la-la-land, you really go, don’t ya?” He leaned forward, tapped the tablet again. “I’m trying to cut a deal with you, here, so quit gawking at Finn and pay attention, okay?”

“I wasn’t gawking.” But Mark knew better, so Sam humored him. “What kind of a deal?”

“Let me cut to the chase—while I still have your undivided attention. Eli asked me to buy him out of the business so he can use his share for a new guitar and amp, a mic and gooseneck stand, clothes to wear onstage.”

“And you want me to take his place? As partner?” Sam laughed. “Maybe I need to show you my year-end total.” He shook his head. “I’m a city employee. Trust me, it’s nothing close to that!”

“I know it’s last minute, so I don’t need the whole shebang right now. I can deduct your share out of your weekly paychecks until you’re full in. Or you can skip paychecks altogether and get there sooner.”

Sam had some savings, but between fire department responsibilities, performing and auditioning for producers every chance he got, where would he find the time to comanage a place like The Meetinghouse?

“Business is booming,” he told Mark. “Why not keep the profits all to yourself?”

“Workload, man. Workload. Takes hours to manage the place.”

“Just how many hours do you need from me?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I’d still have time for the Marks Brothers?”

“Absolutely.”

Well, that certainly sweetened the pot. The rumor he’d heard upon arriving in Nashville had proved true: agents, producers and other career makers often paid surprise visits to The Meetinghouse. Maybe if he was in the club more often, one of them would make his career dreams come true.

“If help is all you need,” Sam pointed out, “I can do that without the whole partnership thing.”

“You know the old saying, in for a penny, in for a pound?”

Sam got it: Mark believed he’d work harder if he had more to lose.

“But why me? Torry already knows the business.”

“True, but with the movie roles he’s been getting, he wants the freedom to come and go as he pleases.”

“He said no?”

“He said no.”

Sam chuckled. “Not sure I like being second choice.”

“Does that mean you’re in?”

Finn stepped up to the table. “Do yourself a favor,” she said, refilling their glasses, “and say no.”

“Why?”

One perfectly arched eyebrow rose. “Because it sounds like a pipe dream, and nothing good ever comes of Nashville dreams.”

Finn turned to leave, pausing just long enough to add, “The sandwiches are on the house.”

Sam watched until she disappeared into the kitchen, then looked at Mark.

“What was that was all about?”

Mark picked up a sweet potato fry. “Y’got me by the feet, but don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. You probably broke ten bucks worth of dishes.” He took a bite. “So? What do you say? Can I count on you?”

Sam glanced toward the serving counter, where Finn was engaged in an animated conversation with the cook. She shot a glance over one shoulder and locked gazes with him. He’d read somewhere that according to Indian legend, when a man and wolf locked eyes, their spirits merged. In that mind-numbing, heart-pounding instant, he understood how that might be possible.

Somehow, he found the strength to look away.

“I thought you were picking up the tab...partner.”

CHAPTER FOUR

FINN REFILLED MARK’S coffee mug. “How long have you known that guy you brought in here the other night?”

“Which guy?”

She could tell by the teasing look on his face that he knew exactly which guy.

“The firefighter you were in here with the other day.”

“You mean Sam?” He grinned. “Guess you haven’t heard that curiosity kills that cat, huh?”

“Then, I guess it’s a good thing I’m not a cat.” She winked. “So what’s his story?”

“Story?”

Finn held the coffeepot over his lap, and Mark laughed.

“Okay, all right, I’ll talk...if you sit down.”

Sliding into the booth across from him, Finn placed the coffeepot on a napkin.

“Sam came to Nashville for the same reason as most of us did,” Mark explained. “And when he couldn’t find a label to sign him or a band to hire him, he parlayed his volunteer firefighter skills into a full-time job.”

Part-time musicians, in her opinion, were more determined—maybe even desperate—to become full-time entertainers.

“Don’t include me in your motley ‘most of us’ group. I was brought here—against my will, I might add—by parents who didn’t give a fig about anyone or anything but a recording contract.” Finn glanced across the way, where her younger sister was laughing and chatting with Rowdy. “Not even Ciara.”

“But you made the best of a bad situation...”

True enough. Especially considering the aftereffects of Ciara’s head injury—the one she’d sustained in the accident that had nearly killed the entire Leary family. If not for the firefighters, on their way back to the station after a call...

Finn pictured Mark’s friend in head-to-toe gear and wanted to know how he’d hurt his leg. Instead, she asked, “Is he any good?”

He smirked. “You’re talking musically, right?”

“Of course, musically.” What had she said or done to leave him with the impression that she was interested in anything else?

“Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

“What’s his last name again? Maybe I’ve heard of him.”

“Marshall. But it isn’t likely you’ve heard of him. Sam’s talented, but remember...he keeps a low profile. Besides, he spends too much time in front of a classroom to make a name for himself onstage.”

A wannabe musician who didn’t flaunt his talent at every turn? Finn didn’t believe it for a minute.

“Where’s he from?”

“Big ranch just outside of Denver.”

“So no family here in Tennessee?”

“Not that I know of. I think he was the first Marshall who didn’t devote himself to The Double M.” He grinned. “You want his cell number, so you can interview him yourself?”

She came this close to saying yes, then heard Ciara giggle.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” My life is already complicated enough without adding another self-centered musician to the mix.

Mark shrugged, as if to say it wasn’t any of his business anyway.

“Did he say yes?”

“Did who say yes to—” Mark nodded. Shook his head. Sighed. “Oh. You mean Sam. And the partnership deal. Like I said, he’s a very private guy, so that’s something you’ll have to ask him directly.”

In other words, Sam had said yes. Her fleeting interest in him died. Entertainers were trouble enough, leaving shattered hearts and disappointment in their wake. It was one of the only life lessons her parents had taught her, and she’d learned it well. But a musician with access to all the power brokers who frequented The Meetinghouse?

Finn got to her feet, grabbing the coffeepot. “Coffee’s on me this morning. Have a good one, Mark.”

Head down and determined to blot the memory of Sam’s arresting smile from her mind, Finn made a beeline to help the middle-aged couple at the cash register...

...and plowed right into Sam Marshall.

Big hands took hold of her shoulders and held on until she was steady on her feet.

“Good thing that’s half empty,” he said with a nod at the coffeepot, “or you’d have a burn to compound what happened the other night.”

He was right, but Finn had no intention of admitting it.

Bean passed by with an empty tray. “Want me to take that off your hands, Finn?”

She put the pot on to the tray and winked at the girl. “Thanks, sweetie. Add five minutes to your a.m. break.”

Bean had to stoop to dole out a thank-you hug. “You’re the best, boss. The best!” she said, and hurried away.

Finn exchanged a few pleasantries with the couple at the cash register, and as they exited, two more diners entered. Bean raced up to lead them to a table.

“Meeting your partner for breakfast?” Finn asked him. Maybe changing the subject would change her attitude, too. She saw no reason to treat him any differently than any other paying customer.

Sam looked over her left shoulder and fixed his gaze on Mark, who seemed oblivious to his presence.

“I’m surprised he told you.” He met her eyes again. “He’s usually tight-lipped, especially where the business is concerned.”

“Funny, he said pretty much the same thing about you.”

“Did he, now? And yet he spilled the beans about our meeting.”

“Actually, he didn’t. I put two and two together.”

“Don’t defend him,” he said, grinning.

“I wasn’t—”

“Hey, Marshall,” Mark called. “Is this block-the-aisle thing becoming a habit?”

Sam snapped off a light salute. “I’d better get over there before he takes a second whack at breaking the sound barrier.”

She started a fresh pot of coffee, then leaned her backside against the stainless-steel counter. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, so why did it feel like midnight?

Ciara copied her stance. “Who-who-who’s that man?” she asked, pointing at Sam.

“A friend of Mark’s.” Thankfully, the men were deep in conversation, and she could stare to her heart’s content...for now.

“Is he—is he new to Nashville?”

“Mark says he’s been here for a couple of years.”

Her sister—a younger, shorter version of their once-beautiful mother—hid a giggle behind pink-and-black polka-dot fingernails. “I’d remember if he was in here before, because he’s handsome,” she said, drawing out the word. Shouldering Finn, Ciara added, “Is he one of those movie stars who lives in town?”

“I don’t know anything about him, except that his name is Sam Marshall. His family has a ranch out west somewhere. He’s a firefighter, and hurt his leg, probably on the job. He sings a little, and unless I’m mistaken, he’s part owner of The Meetinghouse.”

“Sounds to me like you know almost as much about him as his mama does,” Rowdy teased, leaning his beefy forearms on the serving counter.

Ciara grinned as Finn pointed at the revolving order rack. “By my count, you have half a dozen orders to cook up.” She grabbed her pad and headed for the dining room. “Better get busy, because I’ll be back in a minute with a couple more.”

Ciara feigned a look of disapproval. “Now, Finn, is that—is that any way to talk to your assistant manager?”

“Hey. Whose side are you on?” Finn wrapped her in a fierce hug, then finger combed Ciara’s wavy brown bangs. “You have customers, too, sister dear,” she said, turning her toward the counter. “You’d better get crackin’, too.”

Rowdy filled the twelve-slice toaster and pushed the lever. “Don’t mind her, kid. Finn’s old before her time, but it ain’t her fault.”

“I know,” Ciara said.

Before the accident, her sister had been an athletic, straight-A student. Afterward, she’d become a stumbling, stuttering girl who didn’t remember the drunken argument that had made their dad stomp on the gas until the already battered Jeep rolled end over end before coming to a screeching, grinding halt alongside the highway. She didn’t remember spending weeks in the hospital, enduring six operations, the months of physical therapy that followed, or the fact that Misty and Connor had left town instead of dealing with their parental duties or taking responsibility for what they’d done to her.

But Finn remembered. And she’d never forgive them for it.

Shake it off, Finn. They’ll never change. And, as Pete loved to say, What’s done is done, so just accept it. Besides, she’d played a small role in the accident, too...

Finn stepped up to Mark’s table. “What can I get you gents?”

“Sweet tea and a burger,” he said. “Medium rare, with a side of fries.”

“For breakfast?” Sam chuckled. “Broke up with the dietician already, did you?”

“Mind your own business, smart guy. This pretty young gal has better things to do than watch you poke your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Ah, but it does belong. As your partner, I’m concerned about your health.”

Even Finn had to laugh at that.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Sam told her.

“When I deliver your orders,” she said, winking at Mark, “you’ll have to tell me all about the woman who almost talked you into a health food diet.” She pointed her pencil at Sam. “If he starts talking about her before I get back, stop him, hear?”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am.”

Ciara had been half right, Finn thought, clipping the order to a mini clothespin on the order wheel. Sam was handsome...but he had a sense of humor. In her experience, the two didn’t coexist nearly often enough.

“I don’t get it,” Rowdy said, snapping the ticket from the rotating wheel. “Why does Mark eat two meals a day in here when he could eat free at his own place?”

“I know why,” Ciara said, clapping like a schoolgirl. “Mark eats here because he’s bored with the food on his own menu, that’s why!”

Innocence radiated from Ciara’s brown eyes, prompting Finn to draw her into another hug. “You are so smart!”

“Not as smart as you, but—but—but that’s okay, because I’m the pretty sister.”

Laughing, Finn said, “Yes, you sure are.” She was lovely, even with the ropelike scar that started near her right nostril and disappeared in her hair...one more reason to resent their parents.

“Did I tell you that Mommy called me today?”

Finn took a moment to gather her self-control. “Really,” she said through clenched teeth. A call from Misty could only mean one thing: trouble.

“She’s coming to Nashville in a few months, and, and she wants to stay with us!”

There was barely room for the two of them in the apartment above the diner, even before Misty’s suitcases exploded with clothes, shoes, makeup and hair products.

“I’ll book her a room at a nice hotel. We’ll all enjoy the visit more if we’re not stepping on each other’s toes all day and night.”

“But, Finn... Mommy misses us. She said—she said she wants to snuggle and watch old movies together. And eat popcorn.” Ciara raised both shoulders, smiling. “And drink cocoa!”

“It’s August, Kee. Nobody drinks cocoa in August.”

“Why not? We have air-conditioning.”

Oh, if only she had Ciara’s “keep it simple” gift!

“Did she say when she’ll get here?”

“No. She, she need to make some arrange—arrangements.”

“Aha.” Finn recognized it as Misty speak for I’ll be there, eventually...unless someone makes me a better offer.

“Promise me you won’t be too disappointed if Misty can’t come. You know how...busy she is.”

“I won’t be disappointed because she’ll be here! She can sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Finn and Rowdy exchanged a wary glance.

“You’ll see,” Ciara added. “She’ll come. You won’t—you won’t really make her stay in a hotel, will you?”

“Maybe you ought to book a room for yourself,” Rowdy told Finn.

But his joke fell flat as she recalled Misty’s last spontaneous visit. A local newswoman had reserved the diner for a bachelorette party, and while Finn had worked, Misty had decided to treat Ciara to her first pub crawl. Not only had she forgotten that even one piña colada would interact poorly with Ciara’s medications, but she’d left Ciara alone—supposedly “just long enough for a few dances.” Alone, afraid and out of her element, Ciara had panicked and wandered off. If not for the elderly Baltimore couple who’d coaxed Finn’s number from her...

Finn shuddered at the awful things that could have happened to someone as sweet tempered and naive as Ciara.

Rowdy shoved two plates onto the serving counter. “Order up.”

“Can I deliver it, Finn? I won’t drop anything. I promise.”

She’d assigned Ciara the lunch counter to save her from having to walk while balancing food-laden trays. But this request seemed important to her, and what better way to let her sister prove herself than with two identical orders, delivered to two easygoing guys?

Ciara took a plate in each hand. “Two trips are better than making a mess, right? I’ll be right back for their—for their sweet tea.”

Finn got a little teary-eyed watching Ciara approach the table, then engage in friendly conversation with Sam and Mark. She’d been through so much since the accident, but instead of coming out the other side bitter and self-pitying, Ciara woke every morning smiling, looking forward to the day. Finn plucked a paper napkin from a dispenser on the counter and blotted her eyes.

“Quit worrying about her,” Rowdy said, patting Finn’s shoulder. “She’s a happy, well-adjusted young woman, thanks mostly to you.”

Rowdy thought he knew the whole story, but he didn’t. He meant well, though, so Finn sent him a feeble smile anyway. Keeping a roof over Ciara’s head and food in her belly—well, anyone with a half a heart and a steady paycheck could do that much. Finn believed she owed her the rest. Whoever her sister was—and might become—was due to her own persistence and good-hearted nature. Finn wouldn’t take credit for that.

Rowdy pointed. “Shape up, girl. Here she comes.”

She picked up a clean cloth and spritzed disinfectant on the lunch counter. If Ciara saw her tears, Finn could blame the cleaning product.

“They changed their minds. They—they want sodas instead of sweet tea.” Ciara scooped crushed ice into identical red plastic glasses. “You know, I think that Sam guy likes you.”

“All of my customers like me,” Finn teased.

“Yeah, but he’s the only one who stares at you that way.”

“What way?” Finn looked across the diner, straight into the big blue eyes of Sam Marshall, whose dimple appeared at the same time as his charming, slanted smile. It didn’t seem rehearsed, like the flirtations of so many other rock star hopefuls who frequented The Right Note.

“See there?” Ciara wrapped her hands around the full, fizzing tumblers and started back to the table. “Told you he liked you.”

Rowdy chuckled and went back to his over-easy eggs. “By Jove, I think she’s right.”

“Stow your bow, Cupid.” Finn returned the cleaning supplies to their shelf and faced him. “You’re wasting perfectly good arrows, shooting at the likes of me.”

He put down his spatula and, wiping enormous hands on a corner of his apron, stepped up to the service counter.

“Finnegan Ula Logan Leary...”

She hated Misty’s silly reason for choosing the mostly male names that appeared on her birth certificate: “Your initials spell FULL, and that’s what I want your life to be!” If she’d been the least bit sincere, would she have made choices that left Finn feeling empty and afraid...and alone?

“...why are you determined to make life so hard for yourself?”

Of all people, Rowdy should know the answer to that. He’d been there when Pete had provided a home for her and Ciara after Misty and Connor had taken off.

“Times like these,” Rowdy continued, “I wish Pete was still alive. He’s the only one who could ever talk sense into you.”

She couldn’t deny it. But Pete Maxon had earned the right to scold and advise her since, at the dawn of his golden years, the never-married Pete had accepted the mantle of friend and father to her and Ciara. And he’d done a far better job of it than Connor ever had.

“You have a right to a normal, happy life, Finn. Husband. Kids. A home of your own. She wants that for you, too.” Using his chin as a pointer, he drew her attention to her sister, laughing and joking with a family in the corner booth.

Ciara turned, as if she sensed they were talking about her. When their eyes locked, Finn saw pure childlike love in her sister’s expression. That was what had prompted her to devote herself to Ciara, no matter what. Well, that, and her role in the accident. If doing right by Ciara meant foregoing the white-picket-fence scene, so be it.

“I did some checking,” Rowdy was saying. “Sam hails from a big, tight-knit family out west. Could be just the type who’d love that girl almost as much as you do.”

Ciara stacked dirty plates in her arms and made her way back to the counter. The effort needed to keep things in balance showed on her face. Finn took a step forward, thinking to relieve her of the burden.

“Don’t,” Rowdy said, anticipating her intentions. “She’s doing fine.”

Ciara proved him right by easing the soiled dishes into a tub. And without a word or fanfare of any kind, she carried the whole mess into the kitchen.

“Look, Teddy! I brought—I brought you a surprise!” she announced, sliding the tub onto the dishwasher’s conveyor belt.

Grinning, the boy rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks. You’re my new best friend.”

Heart swelling, Finn fought tears of joy and pride.

“You ought to smile more,” a DJ-deep voice said from behind her. “Because you’re mighty pretty when you do.”

Turning, she met the smiling eyes of firefighter, musician and comes-from-stable-stock Sam Marshall...

...and hoped he couldn’t hear her hard-beating heart.

CHAPTER FIVE

“IF YOU’RE INTERESTED, make a move!”

Sam tapped the mic to test the amp’s volume. “See, that’s your trouble. You make moves without thinking. I’d rather look a few moves ahead.”

“Your chess analogy isn’t lost on me.” Mark leaned his forearms on the edge of the stage. “But Finn isn’t a game player, dude. I’ve known her a while. Watched her interact with people at the diner. She’s different around you. So I say go for it.”

Yesterday, Sam had complimented her smile, and he still hadn’t figured out if her reaction had been more shock or suspicion.

“Thanks, but no thanks. One trip-up with her is one too many.”

“That’s a sorry excuse if ever I heard one. Broken dishes and stuff spilled on the floor is all part of the restaurant business.”

Maybe, Sam thought, but he’d never been one to repeat a stupid mistake. At least, not if he could help it.

“So you’ll be okay without me tonight?”

Mark nodded. “Yeah, Torry’s gonna open with a comedy set, then we’ll play for a couple of hours and he’ll close the show.”

The comic waved Sam and Mark closer. “Little birdie told me a hotshot Hollywood producer is in town,” Torry whispered. “You’d better believe we’re gonna give it all we’ve got tonight.”

Mark patted his wallet and started walking toward the office. “I’m only interested in making this fatter, so knock yourself out.”

Torry pulled his thick, carrot-red hair into a ponytail. “He’ll sing a new tune when one of us gets signed to costar in the next blockbuster movie.”

Sam chuckled. “Not to rain on your parade, but I thought Hollyweird talent scouts went the way of the dodo bird.”

Torry’s exaggerated gasp sent him backward a step. “Silence! You’ll jinx it!” A mischievous grin lit his dark eyes. “Hollyweird, huh? That’s funny enough to use in my act.” He winked. “I may or may not give you credit.”

He climbed onto the stage and shaded his eyes from the spot. “I hate those things. Why do we need searchlight wattage?”

“So the audience can key into your facial expressions. Besides, the audience can’t distract us if we can’t see them.”

The comedian lifted one shoulder. “See, there’s the difference between what you do and what I do. I don’t need them to see the nuance of my facial expressions. What I need is to see their faces, so I can gauge their reactions to my jokes.”

“How long have you known Finn Leary?”

“Whoa. I had no idea you were an award winner.”

Sam didn’t get it and said so.

“Where should we hang your Change the Subject Fast award?”

“How about right beside your Avoid the Subject plaque?”

Torry narrowed one eye. “This club ain’t big enough for two comics. I have a contract, you know.” He squinted at Sam. “Now, what were we talking about?”

Sam opened his mouth to repeat her name, but Torry beat him to it.

“I’ve been chowing down at The Right Note for as long as I can remember. All the way back to the days when Pete still owned the place. So I’ve known Finn for years. Literally.” Arms folded over his broad chest, he frowned. “Why?”

“No reason, really. Just curious.”

“About what?”

“About what happened to her parents, for one thing.”

“Mark didn’t tell you?”

“Nope.”

The comedian sat on a tall stool. “Well, there was a wreck six or seven years ago,” he began. “Bad one. Nearly killed her whole family. Everybody came out of it more or less okay, except for Ciara’s head injury.”

Nodding, Sam pictured Finn’s younger sister. “How old is she?”

“I dunno...twenty-two, twenty-three.” He held up a hand. “Wait. I thought you were interested in Finn. You can’t hit on Ciara. She’s too sweet and innocent for the likes of you!”

“I agree. The little sister is a sweetheart, but I...” Shut up, Marshall. You’ve already said too much.

“Now that you’re management,” Torry said, fingertips drawing quote marks around the word, “you’d better learn how to take a joke.” He leaned forward. “’Cause I’m the comedian, remember?”

Torry studied Sam’s face for a moment, then continued with his story. “Okay, so here’s what I know. Her parents were addicts. Nix that. Are addicts. Which might explain why nobody—not even Finn and Ciara—has a clue where they are most of the time. Pete, who pretty much built The Right Note from the ground up, never married, never had kids—” he gave Sam a playful elbow jab “—that we know of. Anyway, when the Learys split, Pete took pity on the girls and put ’em up in the apartment above the diner. Gave ’em odd jobs to do so they’d feel like they were earning their keep. When he retired, he made Finn his manager, and when he died, he left everything to her.”

“Huh,” Sam said. Under similar circumstances, would he have the backbone and generosity to take care of two nearly orphaned teenage girls?

“Well...?”

Sam looked at Torry. “Well, what?”

“You don’t want to know if she’s married or not?”

“I didn’t see a wedding band.”

“That doesn’t mean diddly. Safety regs and all that, y’know?”

Yeah, Sam had considered that possibility.

“Well?” Torry repeated.

Seemed to Sam he could save a lot of time by just asking, straight out, whether or not there was a man in Finn’s life.

“So is she available?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” The full-bodied laughter echoed throughout The Meetinghouse. He whistled. Flapped his arms. “She’s free as a bird.” And then his expression turned serious. “Not that it’s gonna do you much good. She’s turned down a lot of guys like you.”

“Guys like me? What does that mean?”

“You know. Cowboy types.” He pointed at Sam’s pointy-toed boots and Western-style shirt. His hands formed a rectangle, like a photographer lining up a shot. “More specifically, guys who want to see their names on the marquee at the Ryman and the Opry house. Wannabe singers with big Nashville dreams. She’s antimusician. Big-time antimusician.”

“Oh?”

“Her folks have been in the business for decades.”

The Learys must have done far more than crash a car to inspire her opinion that all musicians were bad news. Frankly, Sam didn’t know if he wanted to learn the details. He already had way too many demands on his time. Besides, how did that old saying go? Take care when trying to fix a broken person, because you might cut yourself on their shattered pieces. Good advice, especially for a person who still bore the scars of saving others.

“Thanks, man. And don’t worry. Mum’s the word.”

Torry got to his feet and made his way down the stage stairs. “I wasn’t worried.” He paused on the dance floor to add, “Except maybe about your sense of humor. Need I repeat, I have a contract?”

Sam returned his smile. “I’m not nearly smart enough to write and deliver jokes night after night.”

“And don’t you forget it...boss.”

He left Sam mulling over an either/or decision: ask Finn for the rest of her story, or find a way to stop thinking about her.

Her likeness flashed in his mind.

An instant—that was all it took for him to realize the latter was next to impossible.

He glanced at his watch. If you don’t lollygag, you’ll have time to head home for a shower and a shave before you go onstage tonight.

Lollygag. One of his dad’s favorite words. It made Sam a little homesick, and he made a mental note to call home first thing in the morning.

“Better come up with some kind of a script before you dial the folks’ number,” he muttered. He needed ready answers for his mom’s predictable questions: “Are you getting plenty of sleep? You’re not eating those horrid frozen dinners every night, I hope?” And his favorite, “Are you seeing anyone yet?”

As usual, he’d tell her that he wasn’t.

But he sure would like to be.

CHAPTER SIX

SAM LEANED INTO the deck rail, marveling at his view of the river. After witnessing the aftermath of the 2010 flood, he considered himself lucky to be on the fourth floor, safe from rising waters should the Cumberland overflow its banks again. He was mildly surprised at how quickly he’d adjusted to life in a nine-hundred-square-foot condo after spending most of his life on a sprawling ranch in the shadow of the Rockies.

The hardest adjustment had been sleep patterns. Back at the Double M, he’d turned in early, bone tired from long days of hard labor. Got up early, too, ready to dig in to the demanding work all over again.

Since injuring his leg, Sam rarely got to bed before three, either because he put so much effort into his lesson plans, lecture notes and handouts, or because of a performance that lasted until two. Lack of sleep was one of the only negatives to life in Nashville.

Except for the occasional bout of homesickness.

Fortunately, the cure was simple enough...

According to his watch, it was six in the morning, Mountain Time. He could picture his folks at the kitchen table, fully dressed and with breakfast behind them, his dad thumbing through the morning paper while his mom scribbled her to-do list for the day.

Sam refilled his coffee mug and carried it to the balcony, leaned back in his deck chair and propped both boot heels on the glass and steel railing.

“You must have ESP,” his mom said. “‘Call Sam’ is at the top of my list today!”

“Oh? What’s up?”

“Let me put you on speakerphone, so Dad can talk with you, too.”

“Hey, son. ’Bout time you touched base. Your mother cries herself to sleep every night, wondering if you’re all right. Sprained her wrist wringing her hands, too.”

He heard a giggle, then a quiet slap. “Clay Marshall, none of that is true and you know it.”

Sam chuckled. He’d always loved watching his parents interact. To the rest of the world, Clay Marshall seemed tough and gruff. But when he gazed at his wife of many years, the rough edges softened. Victoria’s eyes overflowed with indisputable adoration, too. If Sam could find a woman who looked at him that way, he’d—

“Coming home for Thanksgiving and Christmas?” she asked.

“Don’t think I can manage both.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that. But I wouldn’t be your mother if I didn’t try. Besides, you know if I have a choice, I’ll take Christmas every time. The whole family will be here!”

With the exception of Sam, the entire Marshall clan showed up for every holiday. A few of the family’s celebrations were so grand, they’d earned the attention of local media. The slower pace of Thanksgiving had always been more to his liking, but since moving to Nashville, he’d spent the week between Christmas Eve and New Year’s at the Double M. It gave him plenty of time to catch up with extended family.

“Already booked my flight.” And God willing, he wouldn’t face weather or mechanical delays as he had in years past. “So what’s new?”

“Same soup, different day,” his dad said.

“Listen to him,” his mom put in. “We had another cougar running around here for weeks, giving us all nightmares.”

“Yeah, but we took care of him, same as always.”

He’d talked to Zach and heard all about it. “Too bad she took so many horses and cows before you got her.” But unfortunately, that’s life on the Front Range.

“How’s Aggie?” his mother asked.

During their few visits to Nashville, his parents had met his cantankerous landlady. “‘Same soup, different day,’” he quoted. Then he chuckled. “Still bragging that she’s a descendant of Andrew Jackson. If you want my honest opinion, the reason she never married is because she’d have to give up that famous last name.”

“Hard to imagine any right-minded man popping the question. That woman would try the patience of a saint.”

“Oh, now, Clay, that isn’t very nice!”

“The truth hurts sometimes.” He quickly changed the subject. “How’s your leg, son?”

“Fine.” It wasn’t, but they didn’t need to know that. Funny, the way his dad asked about it more often than his mom. Sam wondered how much of that was due to a fear of the answers...

“Have you talked with your cousin Nate lately?”

Sam heard a smile in his mother’s voice, and unless he was mistaken, it meant she was about to disclose a big secret. More accurately, what she considered a secret. During their last phone call, Nate had told him that he’d asked Eden to marry him...and she’d said yes. But why spoil his mother’s fun?

“We talked a while back. Why?”

“He and Eden are officially engaged, and they’re planning a June wedding. Though why they want to be like every other couple out there is anybody’s guess. At least they won’t have to worry about a venue. A very good thing, since they still haven’t chosen a date.” She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I’m not supposed to know, so if he confides in you, mum’s the word.”

Sam heard his father’s good-natured groan. “The boy knows better than that, Vicky.”

He considered telling them that he’d bought into Mark’s club, then thought better of it. The announcement would be less confusing when delivered in person.

The sound of chair legs squawking across the hardwood told him his dad was on his feet. The man was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. Laughing to himself, Sam said, “I’d better get to work and let you guys do the same.”

“Call soon,” his mom said. “And remember, you haven’t heard a thing about the wedding!”

He promised to keep Nate’s news to himself, even though in his opinion, secrets—even small ones—took folks into dangerous territory.

Long after hanging up, Sam remained on the balcony, watching the September breeze rustle going-gold leaves as sunlight flickered on the water’s surface. The shrill call of a bald eagle drew his attention skyward. No doubt it was one of those released along the river a few years earlier. The bird circled as it descended. It had probably hoped for a fat white bass but bagged a crappie.

“Better than nothin’, I guess,” he muttered, getting to his feet. He’d barely had time to lock the slider when the phone rang.

“Hey, young’un!”

He’d recognize Nate’s teasing voice anywhere. “Your ears were ringing, huh?”

“Uh-oh. Who’s been talking behind my back?”

“Just spoke to my folks.”

“Ah. Does Aunt Vicky still think she’s the only one who knows about the wedding?”

“Evidently, ’cause she made me promise to play dumb if I talked to you.”

“I’m not touching that line!” Nate laughed. “Mothers. I think they’re all cut from the same cloth.”

For a reason he couldn’t explain, Finn’s mother came to mind. Not all of ’em, he thought.

“So what’s up, cousin?”

“I was scrolling through my contacts,” Nate said. “When your name went by I said, ‘Give that boy a call.’”

Nate was ten months older than Sam, but to hear him talk, years separated them.

“You guys took down another cougar, huh?”

“Yeah. That’s something those foster kids living in Eden’s grandparents’ house will remember for a long, long time.”

He’d met Eden’s boys twice. Once during a summer visit to the ranch, and again after the fire that nearly killed Nate.

“Will Eden keep her job after you two swap I do’s?”

“Yes and no.”

Sam knew if he waited, Nate would explain.

“We cut a deal. Her greedy landlord sold Latimer House, so she moved them into her grandparents’ place. It beats being homeless, but the house lacks the space they need for classrooms and whatnot. Sooner or later, they’d outgrow it, and those boys need stability. So I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Soon as we’re married, the whole kit and caboodle of ’em will move into my house.” Nate chuckled. “They’re over here most of the time anyway.”

“Mighty generous of you, cousin.”

“Nah. It’s the right thing to do. They’re good kids, for the most part.”

For the most part? Something in Nate’s voice told Sam it was best to let that one slide. At least for now.

“How do their parents feel about you and Eden assuming the mom-and-dad roles in their kids’ lives?”

“Most are out of the picture, either in prison or dead. Eden and I are working with the state to become legal guardians.”

“For all of them?”

“All but the one.”

No doubt he was referring to Thomas, the kid who’d set fire to Nate’s barn, nearly killing himself, Nate and four of his horses. If Sam closed his eyes, he could still see how pale and weak his big, burly cousin looked after his release from the hospital. The only time he’d seen him in worse shape had been after the accident that had ended his major league career. Sam would have worried a whole lot more about Nate...if not for Eden.

Sam didn’t ask what had become of the boy. That, like news of the partnership, could wait until he got back to the Double M, and they could talk in person.

“Real reason I called,” Nate said, “was to ask if you’ll be my best man.”

“Of course I will! Does that mean you guys have set a date?”

“No, not yet. But you’ll be one of the first to know when we do.” Nate paused. “Speaking of dates and stuff, are you seeing anybody?”

“Nah.” Finn’s image flashed in his brain, and he slapped a hand to the back of his neck. “No time for stuff like that.”

Nate laughed, but his tone changed when he added, “What was it you told me when I said that?”

“When the right one comes along, you’ll make time.”

“It was good advice then, it’s good advice now.” There was a moment of silence on the line. “What do you want in a woman anyway? Perfection? If that’s the only reason you’re still single, well, you’re old enough to know there’s no such thing.”

“Present company excluded, of course.”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

“To be honest, I never gave much thought to what kind of woman I’m looking for. A hard worker, I guess. Independent. Good sense of humor. Five foot two or three, big brown eyes, dark curly hair...” The words stuck in his throat. He’d just described Finn.

“Whoa, dude. That’s pretty specific for a guy who hasn’t given it any thought. You sure you aren’t seeing somebody? I wouldn’t tell a soul. Not even Zach. Trust me.”

“I trust you, and if there was something to tell...”

He diverted the conversation back to the wedding, and while Nate elaborated on the plans, Sam came to an undeniable conclusion. It was time to figure out why he’d allowed a near stranger—no matter how gorgeous and appealing she was—to dominate so many of his thoughts, and take up such a big portion of his heart.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“MAN. IT IS pouring out there.” Mark shook rainwater from the brim of his Stetson as the door swung shut behind him.

Torry slid a tall black stool to the center of the stage and leaned into the mic. “Weather dude says we’re in for a long, bad night.”

His foreboding tone reverberated through the nearly empty club, inspiring a chuckle from Dirk, the Marks Brothers’ drummer.

“Long as the river doesn’t rise again, I can handle it.” Mark hung the damp ten-galloner on a gooseneck mic stand, and bent at the waist to adjust knobs and dials.

Sam remembered when more than thirteen inches of rain fell during a two-day period, breaking decades-old weather records and sending the Cumberland over its banks and into the streets. The whole town had become a murky water world, and the flood had damaged homes, businesses and historic buildings...including the Grand Ole Opry.

“The leg’s bothering you, eh?”

Until Torry mentioned it, Sam hadn’t realized he was massaging the thigh. “Nah. It’s fine.” In truth, it almost always ached to one degree or another. Complaining didn’t make it hurt less, so he’d taught himself to stay busy enough to ignore it.

“Y’know, I don’t think I ever heard how it happened.”

At first, Sam couldn’t talk about the accident that had taken him off the truck and put him into the classroom. Then he talked until people’s eyes glazed over. These days, he simply delivered the well-rehearsed speech that summed up the whole miserable event in less than a minute:

“House fire was out of control when the truck rolled up, but neighbors said the owner was still inside, so I entered through a basement window and found the woman unconscious in her kitchen. I’d just handed her off to EMTs when the ceiling collapsed, trapping me in the grid work. When I came to, I was in the ICU, covered in bandages, and found out I’d lost a quarter of my calf and thigh muscles.”

Torry’s eyes widened. “Whoa.”

Sam summed up with his usual closing line. “The old lady is still kickin’, and so am I—not as high, but kickin’—so there’s a lot to be thankful for.”

“Still, that’s rough, dude. Sorry you had to go through it. But hey, maybe with some practice, you could turn that limp into a wicked swagger.” Torry crossed the stage and demonstrated. “I mean, that’s what I’d do.”

“Like this?”

Torry cupped his chin, watching as Sam attempted the strut. After letting out an exaggerated sigh, he shook his head. “Well, at least you can sing.”

“Speaking of singing...”

Sam and Torry turned and met Mark’s glare of disapproval.

“The show starts in half an hour,” the club owner said. “Are you guys ready?”

They exchanged a puzzled glance. It wasn’t like Mark to snap the whip. In fact, he was more likely to goof off than anyone at The Meetinghouse. Sam wondered what had happened in the past few minutes to prompt the out-of-character grimness. It could be anything from concerns that the roof would leak to a breakup with his latest lady to a band member calling in sick.

Sam made his way to the steps leading down from the stage. “We’re good to go,” he assured Mark.

Rain sheeted down the windows, and lightning flashes brightened the club’s dim interior. Standing beside Mark, Dirk glanced at the ceiling. “Good thing you reroofed the place after that last storm.”

“Yeah.” He walked toward the bar. “C’mere, Sam. There’s something I want to show you.”

Torry drew a finger across his throat and mouthed, Uh-oh as Sam followed.

Mark climbed onto a stool and thumped the newspaper that lay open on the counter. “Take a gander at this article.”

Sam settled on to a stool. “Which article?” he asked, picking up the issue.

“The restaurant review column. That guy gave The Right Note five stars. Five. For a diner!”

He scanned the piece, making note of the writer’s opinions on the menu, service, cleanliness and ambiance. Was there a diplomatic way to tell Mark that he agreed? Sam didn’t think so.

“So you’re saying we should make some changes in food? Or keep our emphasis on folks who come in for the music?”

“That pricey neon sign outside says Food and Entertainment to Feed Your Soul.” Mark leaned forward, lowered his voice. “If we improved the menu, we could easily double our profits.” He tapped the newspaper again. “But not unless we change this guy’s mind.”

The “Eat or Run” syndicated column had earned an audience of millions—thanks to the writer’s blog and regular TV appearances. He could make or break bars and restaurants with one great or ill-timed review. While he’d praised the waitstaff and performers, he’d given the club’s menu just three stars.

Mark moved to the other side of the bar and tossed the newspaper into the trash. “Here’s an idea... It’s no big secret that you’re smitten with Finn Leary. Why not see if you can turn that into something bottom-line good?”

It was true that Finn had been popping into his head at all hours of the day and night, but he’d hardly label himself smitten.

“What do you mean...something good?”

“It’s pretty clear she’s taken with you, too. Maybe if you plied her with some compliments, she’d drop a hint or two about her customers’ favorite menu items. And we could rustle up some similar recipes.”

“Whoa. Wait a minute, here. That’s way too James Bond for me, pal. You know as well as anyone that my face is an open book. Even if I was willing to go all double agent for you—and I’m not—I could never pull off something like that. Besides, why are you worried? The Right Note is a diner. This isn’t. No competition.”

“Says you.” He smirked. “Maybe I’ll do it.”

Sam laughed. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

Torry cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry to interrupt, guys, but there’s a young lady here to see you, Sam.”

Epps stepped out from behind him. “Hi, Captain Marshall. If you aren’t busy, I wonder if I could have a moment of your time.”

Every time his dad had caught him red-handed at one sort of boyhood mischief or another, he’d say “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.” That was how Epps looked right now.

“We’re about to go onstage,” he told her.

She glanced around. “And play to an empty room? Ugh. That’s gotta be a major bummer.”

Mark frowned at her. “We’ll just consider it a dress rehearsal.”

Epps gave his paternal tone a second’s worth of consideration before facing Sam again. “Do you mind if I hang around? I’d like to talk to you between sets.”

He had a notion to tell her he minded—minded a lot. Instead, he gave the G key of his MacCubbin Sitka guitar a tweak, then ran a thumb over the bronze-wound strings.

“Nice,” Mark said, strumming his Epiphone Hummingbird. “What say we organize a dueling-guitars night, see which one the audience likes best.”

Sam’s fingers flew over the fret board as he worked out a short lick of their opening number. “You’re on, pal.”

Epps applauded, then beamed up at him, resembling every groupie who’d stood at the foot of the stage, their wide, bright eyes making it known that they’d do just about anything to gain the attention of the Marks Brothers. If Finn had gazed at him that way, Sam would be in trouble. Big trouble.

Days ago, Epps had hinted at needing a tutor to help with the math and memorization portions of the upcoming exam. That very afternoon, Sam had sought out his captain’s advice. It had taken a full minute for the man to list all of Epps’s high-ranking department relatives. If Sam agreed to help her—and the sessions proved successful—he might earn a few brownie points. But if things went sideways? Well, an unhappy Epps meant an unhappy family. A well-connected, powerful, unhappy family. Next day, he’d made it clear that one-on-one sessions wouldn’t be fair to the others. Not clear enough, evidently. Tonight, he’d nip it in the bud. The biggest challenge? Saying no without hurting or embarrassing her.

“So it’s okay if I stay, then?”

Sam sent her a careful, controlled smile. “If you were my kid, I wouldn’t want you out this late on a stormy night, but I can’t tell you what to do.”

“Are you sure?” Mark gave her a quick once-over. “’Cause after that lukewarm review, last thing we need is the cops marching in here, writing up citations and doling out fines because we’re serving underage kids.”

“Forget that article,” Sam advised. “Most people won’t even read it, and the few who do won’t let it keep them away. It’s apples and oranges, remember? And you can quit worrying about the Age Police showing up, too. Epps here is one of my new recruits.”

“That’s right. And Captain Marshall knows I’m of age because I had to include a copy of my birth certificate with my application to the academy.” Epps giggled. “Which way to the ladies room?”

Mark pointed and, once she was out of earshot, said, “I don’t know how you do it, dude.” He glanced in the direction Epps had gone. “Old, young, married, single—women fall all over themselves when you’re around.”

All but one. “You’re crazy.”

“Hmph. If you were a real friend, you’d tell me your secret.”

Sam had known Mark long enough to realize the futility of arguing the point. So he faked a big laugh. “This is the perfect example of the old ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you’ scenario.”

“Oh, man,” Torry said. “It’s gettin’ deep in here.” He backpedaled toward the hall. “If you need me, I’ll be in the office, changing into my waders.”

The men’s laughter echoed through the club.

“What’s so funny?” Epps asked as she returned to the stage area.

“Private joke. Guy stuff,” Sam said by way of explanation.

The adoring glint in her eyes reminded him how essential it was to set her straight tonight.

What were the chances that someday Finn would look at him this way?

CHAPTER EIGHT

“CAN YOU BELIEVE this wind?”

“The rain is falling sideways!”

“You don’t think we’re in for another 2010, do you?”

Ciara, Bean and Ted stood side by side at the window, staring out at the street.

Rowdy used a meat mallet to hammer on the service counter. “Get away from that window, you bunch o’ goofballs. If this storm spins into a tornado like it did in ’98...”

The trio exchanged worried glances.

“You’ll be safe back here, washing up this mountain of dishes. And there’s a shipment of canned goods to unbox and shelve. Don’t make me count to ten, or—”

Finn watched all three hustle into the kitchen and get right to work, smiling because they knew as well as she did that Rowdy’s paternal glare was 100 percent bark, zero percent bite.

Jimmy stopped loading the dishwasher. “What happens if he gets to ten?”

“You ride that conveyor belt,” Rowdy answered. “And get the insubordination washed outta ya, that’s what!”

Ciara laughed. “You’re such a big silly, Rowdy. Everyone knows—everyone knows Jimmy can’t fit through that machine.”

Smiling, Finn went back to the stack of invoices on her desk. Oh, how she loved the people who’d become more family than employees! She and Ciara might not have the most normal parents in the world, but they had a whole lot of other things to be thankful for. A roof over their heads. Overstuffed closets. More than enough to eat. And a thriving business that would—

An earsplitting crash drowned out the kitchen sounds, followed by the unmistakable tinkle of glass shattering.

“I knew they should’ve cut down that old tree!” Rowdy shouted.

“What?” Finn was on her feet and beside him in an instant, staring, slack-jawed, at the still-dripping leaves and branches that filled the entire right side of The Right Note.

Rowdy ordered the diners and staff to stay put, then dialed 911.

Finn glanced around. At still-spinning red-vinyl stools, bent at awkward angles near the snack bar. At bench seats and tables torn from the bolts securing them to the black-and-white-tiled floor. At shards of glass and bits of metal that glittered like diamonds all around her feet. At the neon signs—one designed to resemble a staff and music notes above the words The Right Note Cafe, another that sputtered and buzzed in its futile effort to say Welcome—that hung precariously from their anchors.

Half a dozen customers had decided to wait out the storm in the diner.

“Is everyone all right?” Finn asked.

Nodding, they huddled in The Right Note’s far corner.

“That guy doesn’t look so hot,” Rowdy whispered.

Sure enough, an elderly gent stumbled from his booth.

“Call 911 again,” she whispered back. “He could have a heart condition or something.”

As Rowdy dialed, she put an arm around the man. “Better stay put until the EMTs get here,” she said.

“I’m fine,” he growled, waving her away.

Clearly he wasn’t, as evidenced by his halting, unsteady gait.

Finn guided him back into his booth. “Please, sir, just sit tight. I wouldn’t want you to trip over any of this...” She gestured toward the tree and debris.

He fumbled through his pockets, then cursed under his breath. “Now, where’s that infernal cell phone? I want to call my daughter, let her know I’ll be late.”

She glanced around, saw it in the middle of the table. Finn was about to hand it to him when she noticed his dilated pupils. Pete had insisted that she take CPR classes, so Finn recognized the symptoms of shock: trembling, cool yet clammy skin, bluish fingernails and lips.

“Here’s your phone,” she said. “Would you like me to call her for you?”

Rowdy draped a tablecloth over the man’s shoulders as the red-and-blue strobes of emergency vehicles whirled around the diner’s interior. A moment later, the place filled with first responders.

A burly firefighter approached. “What’s up?” he asked Finn.

She described the man’s symptoms.

“Good job. Thanks. Everybody else okay?”

She looked toward the out-of-town guests huddled in the opposite corner. “Yes, scared, but everyone’s all right.”

He squatted and signaled the nearest paramedic.

“Okay if I get those people into the back room?” she asked, pointing to the rest of her diners.

“Bob!” he bellowed. “Okay if these folks head to the back?” In a softer voice, he told Finn, “He’s just checking for structural damage. Wouldn’t want the ceiling to cave in on you.”

Bob moved closer. “Things look okay out here.” Using his ballpoint as a pointer, he asked, “Gas stove back there?”

“Yes...”

“Just let me make sure the connections are intact and there are no leaks before anybody goes anywhere.”

After poking and prodding, he gave the thumbs-up sign, and Finn waved her customers closer.

“Let’s get some dessert into you,” she said, guiding them to the big stainless table in the storeroom. “What’s your pleasure? Cake? Ice cream? Pie?”

“That’s very kind of you,” a young woman said, “but my husband and I would rather get back to our hotel.”

Members of the other family agreed. “Thanks for the offer, though,” the dad said. “Hope you’ll be back in business soon. We’ve enjoyed all our meals here.”

A cop approached and suggested they leave through the back door. Finn rounded up a few of the umbrellas left behind by former diners and passed them out.

“Sorry for the disturbance,” she said, grinning as they departed.

“Wasn’t your fault,” the mom said.

“Guess even the mighty oak has its limits,” the young woman’s husband said.

“You might want to round up some plywood,” the cop suggested. “And call your insurance agent.”

Finn exhaled a shaky sigh. He was right.

“A city inspector will come by in the next day or two, let you know what he thinks needs to be fixed.” He handed her a business card. “If you get Rick Martin, tell him I said hello.”

Frank Martin, the card said.

“He’s my brother. A real straight arrow. He won’t make reopening any harder than it has to be.”

Finn pocketed the card. “Thanks, Officer Martin.”

An hour later, the engine of a tow truck churned as it dragged the tree from the diner. One by one, the emergency vehicles drove off, leaving Finn and the staff to contemplate their next steps. They came together in a group hug.

“We’re all safe,” she told them. “That’s the most important thing. Once we clean up this mess, things will look a lot better.”

“She’s right,” Rowdy said. “So let’s get crackin’.” He disengaged from the huddle and meted out assignments. “Bean, grab a broom. Jimmy, you get the dustpan. Ciara, you bring the trash can over here so—”

“No, I think you should all go home. Get some rest, and we’ll talk about who does what tomorrow, okay?”

One by one, they agreed.

“I’ll go upstairs,” Ciara offered. “And make us—make us some tea. That always calms you down.”

“That’s a great idea.” Finn hugged her tight. “But don’t make mine just yet. I need to call our insurance agent.”

“You won’t be too long, will you?”

She checked her watch. “I hope not, but if I’m not there by ten, you go ahead and get into bed, okay?”

Ciara popped a noisy kiss to Finn’s cheek. “Okay. Love you, big sister!”

“Love you more!”

It was a game they’d played for years. Ciara had no way of knowing how much Finn meant every word.

When Ciara was gone, Rowdy asked, “What can I do for you, kiddo?”

“You can go home and put your feet up. Something tells me there will be plenty for you to do tomorrow.”

“No way I’m leaving you here alone with that gaping hole in the wall. Anyone with a mind to raid the cash box could just waltz right in and—”

Sam entered, as if summoned by a fairy godmother.

“Holy debris, Batman,” he said. “What happened in here?”

After Rowdy brought him up to speed, Sam got on his phone and, pacing, spoke quietly into the mouthpiece.

“Mark and the guys will be here in a few minutes,” he said, hanging up. “They’ll bring everything we need to close up this wall.”

Glass crunched under his boots as he paced, checking out the damage.

“We?”

Sam stopped walking and turned to face her. Finn blamed the events of the past hour—and not his caring expression—for her accelerated heartbeat.

“Of course we.” He gestured toward the gap. “Not even a superwoman like you can fix this all by yourself.”

“Superwoman, indeed,” she huffed. But he was right, of course, and rather than admit it, Finn said, “I’m surprised you heard the sirens over your blaring music.”

He grinned, and her heart thumped harder still.

“I’ll have you know,” Sam said, cocking an eyebrow, “we do not blare. We merely test the limits of the noise code. Things were slow tonight, and I heard the alert on my cell. Recognized the address and came right over.”

Finn was suddenly thirsty. Very thirsty. She went into the kitchen and fetched two bottles of water from the walk-in cooler. “So you’re still in the loop with the fire department?” she asked, handing one to him.

“Thanks.” He unscrewed the cap. “And yeah, I guess you could say that.”

She held out the second bottle to Rowdy, but he declined it. “Sounds like you’re pretty well set, here. If it’s okay, I think I’ll take you up on your offer to head home early.”

“Feel free to sleep in,” she told him. “There’s no point in going to the farmer’s market at the crack of dawn.”

The big man gave her a sideways hug. “Y’know, I might just do that...if I remember how to sleep past four!”

The place fell silent, save for the drip-drip-drip of rain plopping into the puddles just outside the broken window.

“I’ve seen a lot of destruction,” Sam said. “This looks way worse than it is. It’ll take some time, but you’ll be back in business before you know it.”

“And we’ll help,” Torry said, leading the parade of band members, each toting a four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood.

“This stuff was left over from when we redid the bathrooms,” Mark said. “So don’t look at me like that. You’re doing us a favor, getting it out of the way.”

Regardless of where it came from, Finn intended to repay Mark for every last sheet. Mark and Sam, she corrected herself, since he was an owner now.

While the men hammered and sawed, boarding up the opening, Finn shoved aside stools, tables and benches and swept up glass and bits of metal and plastic that had held the big window in place. Already she could see that Sam had been right. It would take time and patience, but the diner would be good as new before long.

The Right Note had been providing for her since Pete had hired her at the tender age of fourteen. When he’d learned that the Learys were facing eviction, he’d given her a raise, more than enough to keep the wolf from the door while her parents spent the rent money on recording studios, drugs and alcohol. Two weeks after Ciara’s release from the hospital—and three days before Finn’s eighteenth birthday—Misty and Connor had left in the middle of the night. Gig in Chi-town, their note had said. Be good girls while we’re gone! Connor had signed Daddy, though neither she nor Ciara had used the term in years, and left two hundred dollars on the table. He hadn’t provided a phone number, address or the name of the club that had hired them. Two months later, when Pete found out what they’d done, he’d moved her and Ciara into the upstairs apartment. And when the Learys returned eight months after that, expecting to pick up where they’d left off, he’d made it clear they would not.

“Good ol’ Pete,” she muttered, remembering the tongue-lashing he’d given her folks.

“What’s that?” Sam asked.

“Oh, nothing.” She faked a grin. Stop looking so sympathetic, Sam Marshall, she thought, or I’ll lose it. Finn hated few things more than blubbering in front of people, strangers in particular.

What would Pete say if he were here? “Look for the silver lining, cupcake. There’s always a silver lining.” Her eyes misted with tears. Oh, how she missed him!

“Well, we’re done,” Torry said, rapping on the plywood wall. “That’ll hold ya until your insurance agent cuts you a check.”

“Thanks, guys. You’re all entitled to free meals just as soon as we’re open for business.”

Torry took her aside. “Are you crazy, offering this motley crew free food? They’ll eat clean through to the kitchen, and you’ll have to start all over again!”

Laughing, the guys made their way out through the back door.

All except for Sam.

“I know a couple good contractors,” he said. “Recruits turned firefighters who used to work for family businesses. So, just say the word, and I’ll hook you up.”

“Thanks.” She glanced into her office, where the still-unpaid invoices sat on her desk. “I have a couple of phone calls to make.”

“Insurance agent?”

Finn nodded. “Thanks for rounding up that work crew. You’re right. No way Rowdy and I could have done all that alone. Especially not so quickly.”

“Happy to help.”

It was what everyone said, but it rarely sounded more heartfelt.

Sam handed her a business card. “If you need anything, you know, while you’re waiting for the agent to get back to you, call me. Any time. Even if it’s just to talk.” He looked around the place. “Because I’m guessing this hit you pretty hard.”

Why, oh, why, did he have to seem so sincere? Tears stung her eyes, and Finn held her breath. You will not cry. Do. Not. Cry!

Sam took a step closer, stooping slightly to study her face. Why didn’t he just leave? She’d ask him to go...if she could speak around the sob in her throat.

“Aw, hey, it’s okay. You’re safe now,” he said, and extended his arms.

If anyone had told her she’d so willingly step into them, she would have called them insane.

But that was exactly what she did, and safe was exactly how she felt.

CHAPTER NINE

SAM HAD COMFORTED women before. Not so unusual for a guy in his line of work, especially one with a mom, grandmothers, sisters, an assortment of aunts and nieces and a weepy ex-girlfriend or two. Some wailed, others sniffled, a few hiccupped...over lost loved ones and pets, poignant movie plots, thoughtful gifts. But not one had held on so tight he could feel her heart beating against his chest. If not for the tears dampening his shirt and the quaking of Finn’s petite body, he wouldn’t have realized she was crying.

His leg was killing him, thanks to hefting and steadying the plywood while Torry, Mark and the guys had nailed it in place. He could go home, elevate it and apply heat, swallow an aspirin or two and feel relief in no time. But he’d rather endure the pain than let her go.

Common sense told him that useless platitudes were the last thing she needed to hear right now. So he stood quiet and still, and let his presence do the talking.

Thanks to Mark and Torry, he’d learned a bit about Finn’s history. The terrible accident. Absentee parents. Full responsibility for her sister. Employees who relied on her for a steady paycheck. Sam thought of his own mom and dad, whose unconditional love showed in everything they said and did.

The contrasts made him hug Finn a little tighter. She’d grown up without any of that, yet she’d taken on the role of mother, father and older sibling to her special needs sister. If she’d been raised by parents like his, how much more terrific would she be?

Finn pressed both palms to his chest and gazed up at him through long, tear-spiky eyelashes. His pulse pounded when a faint, sheepish grin lifted one corner of her mouth.

“I’m not usually such a big whiny baby. Sorry.”

When she looked away, it felt as if someone had flipped a switch and turned out the light in his heart. Sam lifted her chin on a bent forefinger, gently guiding her gaze back to his eyes.

“You’re not a big whiny baby, and you have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

Finn bit her lower lip to still its trembling, and he admired her all the more for the effort at self-control.

“I meant what I said.”

Dark eyebrows lifted slightly.

“You really are safe with me. Safe to cry or stamp your feet or put a fist through a wall.” He grinned. “Although I don’t recommend that last one.”

“Right...the place has sustained enough damage for one night.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Besides, tears and tantrums are a waste of time and energy.”

Sam read between the lines: she hadn’t come by that mind-set the easy way. How many other hard-earned lessons had life taught her? He fought the urge to pull her close again.

“Don’t know about you,” he said, “but I could go for some strong coffee and a slice of pie.”

She smiled, and the light in his heart went on again.

“Cherry or apple?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where she grabbed two plates from the shelf above the long stainless counter.

“Sorry it isn’t homemade, but it’s not half bad warmed up in the microwave and topped off with ice cream.”

Sam considered reminding her there was nothing to apologize for. Instead, he said, “I’d offer to help, but, man, you made quick work of slicing that pie!” Chuckling, he balanced on a wheeled stool. “Remind me not to startle you when there’s a cleaver in your hand.”

She used the tip of the wide blade to point at a row of knives and scissors stuck to a magnetized strip above the counter. “That’s a cleaver. This is a chef’s knife. It’ll slice, chop, dice, mince or mash—as in garlic cloves. Most useful kitchen tool ever invented.”

It was good to see her more relaxed. “Aha. So that’s why you have half a dozen of them.”

One shoulder rose in a dainty shrug. “Rowdy uses them, too. Sometimes we’re in here together, plating up customers’ orders. Nothing less appetizing than for customers to hear the crew bickering over cutlery.”

He wanted to keep her talking—about anything but the damage out front—so he said, “Ever heard of Aggie Jackson?”

Finn laughed and slid their plates out of the microwave. “Who hasn’t heard of her?”

She dropped a scoop of ice cream on top of each wedge. “How do you know the woman whose main claim to fame is that she’s a descendant of Andrew Jackson?”

Sam thanked her for the pie and reached into one of the bins at the end of the counter, helping himself to a fork. “She’s my landlady. One of these days, I’ll meet someone who doesn’t know she’s the great-great...” He handed her a fork, then cut into his pie. “How many generations back do we need to go to get the right number of ‘greats’?”

Finn sat on the empty stool beside him. “Gosh. I’d need a calculator—or a time machine—to go back that far in history.”

Laughing, Sam made his way to the cooler, doing his best not to limp. When he returned with a carton of milk, she nodded toward his leg. “Overdid it tonight, I see.”

He grabbed two glasses from the drying rack near the dishwasher. “No biggie. It’ll be fine by the time I’m married.”

She’d just taken a bite of pie, and her mouth froze, midchew. Her expression reminded Sam of his cousin Zach’s boot camp graduation photo, stern and no-nonsense. He’d meant it as a joke. Looks like the joke’s on you, Marshall. He handed her a glass of milk, then hid his embarrassment by taking a long, slow gulp from his own glass.

Her laughter started soft and low, then escalated until it bounced off every hard surface in the kitchen. Sam loved the sound if it—rich and throaty and wholly feminine—and his pulse pounded harder.

“Guess it’ll be a while before you let me live that one down, huh.”

Her question implied they had a future together, and Sam liked that. Liked it a lot.

She toasted him with the tumbler. “This was a good choice, by the way. It’ll be hard enough to sleep tonight, even without caffeine floating around in my system.”

Sam doubted he’d sleep well, either...because Finn would be floating around in his system. But she looked tired and understandably stressed.

“I should probably hit the road so you can—”

“How long have you been in Nashville?”

“Going on six years now. Seems half that...” At times like this. “And twice as long.”

Finn nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. My family landed here when I was thirteen.”

“Musicians?”

“My parents are singer-songwriters, and play about half a dozen instruments apiece. But that’s true of a big chunk of the city’s population. Connor and Misty tried all sorts of gimmicks but couldn’t find the one that set them apart from the competition.”

Based on her faraway expression, she was thinking of a far less pleasant time. She’d already gone through a lot tonight, and he felt bad, having opened an old wound. Sam covered her hand with his. For a moment she sat nodding, lost in her thoughts, and he was glad she hadn’t pulled her warm little hand away.

“It’s a rough road,” he admitted.

“Road?”

“The one that leads to a recording contract.”

One eyebrow rose, and she wasn’t smiling when she said, “And you know this because...”

“Because I’ve walked it a time or two myself.”

Coincidence that she chose that moment to take back her hand? Sam didn’t think so.

“It’s nowhere near the top of my priority list anymore, though,” he quickly added. “Family, the department, the academy, then music, in that order. Performing is more a hobby now than anything else.”

She turned on the stool to face him head-on. “Hypothetical question—if somebody with clout heard you perform and offered a contract, would you sign it?”

“Well, sure.”

He’d answered truthfully, but it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, as evidenced by the almost angry spark in her dark eyes. Finn got up, stacked his plate atop hers and grabbed the flexible hose dangling above the dishwasher. She rinsed both plates and stood them in the wash rack, then returned for their glasses. After rinsing those, too, she crossed both arms over her chest.

“Well, it’s late, and I have a lot of phone calls to make in the morning. I appreciate everything you did tonight.”

Sam put all his weight on the good leg as he stood. “No thanks necessary. I was happy to do it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” The word reminded him that he could have counted her heartbeats just moments ago.

Her expression softened slightly. Because she remembered, too?

She uncrossed her arms and walked to the back door. “Are you parked out front?”

“Yeah...”

“Sorry about that. Now you’ll have to walk all the way around the building.”

“Don’t be sorry. It isn’t your fault that Mother Nature decided to park a tree in your diner.”

She held open the door. “Hope the leg doesn’t keep you awake all night.”

It wouldn’t be the leg keeping him awake.

“Easier said than done, I know,” she continued. “But try to get some sleep, okay?”

She glanced into the back lot and thanked him again. Subtle, Finn. Sam grinned. Real subtle. He’d given her his card. Should he repeat his offer to help anytime?

The harsh glare of the street lamps exaggerated the worry lines and weariness on her lovely face. Had he thanked her for the pie? “Thanks for the pie,” he said, just in case. “You were right. It was great, especially warmed up and topped off with ice cream.”

She hid a yawn behind her free hand. “I still owe you a meal, though.”

“Aw, Finn, you don’t owe me a thing. I mean it.”

Several seconds ticked by as those big dark eyes studied his face. Looking for proof that he was just another musician who said things he didn’t mean? If that was the case, Sam had no idea how he’d prove otherwise. But he wanted to try...

“Lock up tight,” he said, “and I’ll see you soon.”

Her lips said, “Okay,” but her eyes said, Not if I see you first.

The door clicked shut, and he listened as the bolts slid into place. Head down and hands pocketed, Sam splashed through puddles as he headed for the front lot. He’d heard about women with more baggage than an airport luggage carousel. Considering Finn’s background, her suspicious nature was understandable. That didn’t make it easier to deal with, though.

His mind went back to the moment when he’d quoted her “better before I’m married” comment, and the roundabout reply that hinted she saw him as something more, something better than a self-centered, music-first jerk. Sam slid behind the steering wheel and started the pickup. While adjusting the rearview mirror, he noticed the almost dry evidence of Finn’s tears on his shoulder. Man, she’d felt good in his arms.

Good enough that he might just start lifting weights again, so he could help her carry that baggage.

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