Free The Rancher's Dance by Allison Leigh

and more food were ordered.
    It was hectic, it was chaotic, it was loud and boisterous. It was Friday night at Colbys. It was home.
    And later, as couples began drifting off—to the dance floor to grab a romantic moment free from babies and kids, to the pool tables to grab back bragging rights, even to other tables to catch a word with an old friend—Lucy sat at the table with her foot propped on an empty chair and soaked it all in.
    When she was in New York, she’d felt like she was home. When she was here? She felt like she was home, too.
    But which one was?
    She toyed with the stem of her wineglass and her eyes drifted over the bar. It was more crowded than before, though the families who’d brought kids to eat in the restaurant were being replaced by young adults—most on the obvious prowl.
    â€œRefill?” She glanced away from the dance floor to the Strauss boy and shook her head. “I’m good, thanks.” He quickly moved on and when he did so, Lucy found herself looking straight at Beck who’d come up behind the server.
    Her nerves went as tight as piano wire.
    There was no use pretending that he’d just happened to notice her. Their tables weren’t on the way to anywhere. Not the exit. Not the restroom. Not the long bar itself.
    His gaze focused on her leg stretched over the chair between them, the folds of her dress hiding her knee. “Overdoing it seems to be a habit for you.”
    The fact that he was right didn’t mean she had to acknowledge it. Instead, she lifted her wineglass and thepale chardonnay that still filled the bottom of it glistened. “Good evening to you, too, Beck.”
    His lips twisted and he looked away as his hand closed over the wooden back of the chair. “Looks like they’ve all abandoned you.”
    â€œNo more than you’ve been,” she pointed out. His son, Nick—a thinner, younger version of him—was dancing with Courtney. His father—a shorter, slightly stockier version—was dancing with Susan Reeves who’d arrived along with her nephew Jake, who was J.D.’s husband.
    Beck gave a silent faint nod, acknowledging the point.
    She sipped her wine, studying him. Up until now, she’d only seen him wearing T-shirts and worn jeans and tool belts. Tonight, though, he wore a beige button-down shirt that her experienced eye recognized as silk with black jeans and polished boots. He looked casual, sexy and as comfortable now as he did when he was hefting around power tools and lumber that weighed nearly as much as she did.
    And just as disturbing.
    She drew her leg off the chair. Thanks to the icing she’d given her knee before she’d come into town and the dose of aspirin, it wasn’t as painful as it had been earlier that day. For which she was grateful. It was bad enough knowing she’d pushed too hard the day before—again—without letting that fact show to Beck. Again.
    â€œWould you like to sit down?” It seemed only polite to invite him, which didn’t explain at all the way she held her breath, waiting for him to shake his head and move on.
    He shook his head. Only he didn’t move on.
    He lifted his chin toward the dance floor. “I thought maybe you’d rather be out there.”
    She hesitated, surprised. “Are you asking me to dance?”
    His lips thinned again. “I thought about it.” His gazeskimmed over her. “Not that I figure you ought to be, considering your bad knee and all.”
    Something inside her stomach skittered around.
    He looked like he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
    So naturally she set down her wineglass and pushed to her feet. “Well, then,” she said sweetly. “How could I possibly turn down such an irresistible invitation?”
    As if it were the most natural thing in the world, she wrapped her hand around his wrist, pulling his clamped hand away from the chair and headed toward the dance