Cowboy in the Making. Julie Benson

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      “That’s a tougher question. They were very supportive when I contacted Kimberly and Mick, but I was eighteen.”

      “And by then your relationship was established.”

      “Exactly, and I told them searching for my birth mother wouldn’t change that.”

      “What about your birth father?”

      “Kimberly isn’t even sure who that is.”

      Now she’d really stepped in it. She tried to think of what to say, but words failed her.

      “Don’t feel bad about asking. It is what it is.”

      “I wish I knew what to do. How to shake this odd feeling I’ve had lately.”

      “At least call the parents. Explain how you’ve been feeling. Tell them all you want to know is that your son’s okay.”

      She’d never considered that option. Once she knew her son was fine, that nothing was wrong, her life could return to normal. Reminders of her child would pop up some days to throw her off stride, but then the ache would recede again. “There’s one problem. Since it was a closed adoption I don’t think the agency will give me any information on the parents.”

      “If they won’t, I can help. I’ve gone through that kind of search.”

      “You’d do that?”

      “Why’s that so hard to believe?”

      She thought about his question. Why was it so hard to believe someone would offer to help her? Probably because she wasn’t the type of person everyone rushed to assist. Her family assumed she could take care of herself. After all, she’d held her own growing up with three older brothers. She came from strong stock, and that’s how everyone treated her. “I appreciate the offer.”

      She could at least contact the agency to tell them if the adoptive parents expressed interest, she was open to exploring a relationship, as well.

      A knock sounded on the door, followed by Luke poking his head outside. “Our next audition’s here.”

      She nodded. “I’ll be right there.”

      When the door closed again, she turned to Jamie, wanting to say something to thank him for his unexpected kindness, but she couldn’t find the words. What he’d done by listening and really hearing her had helped her process what she’d been feeling.

      When was the last time anyone other than Avery had really listened to her? The past two years it seemed as if when anyone called or stopped by to chat it was because they needed something. Her dad called when he ran out of meals in the freezer. Her grandparents, excluding her Grandpa G, called when they needed a prescription picked up or a ride to a doctor’s appointment. Her brothers called, well, never.

      But no one other than her best friend called to just talk or to see how she was doing.

      Until Jamie.

      Before she could change her mind, she jumped up and wrapped her arms around him for a quick hug. “Thanks for everything. For listening.”

      Then she darted for the door and the safety of the restaurant.

      * * *

      WHEN JAMIE WALKED back inside he watched Emma dash across the restaurant, his body still humming from having hers pressed up against him. His gaze locked on the sway of her hips and he smiled. Who’d have guessed cowboy boots could put the same special something into a woman’s walk that high heels did? He was accustomed to women in designer jeans and expensive stilettos, but he was gaining a new appreciation for a simple pair of Wranglers and boots. They made a woman look real, accessible and damn fine.

      “You ready?” Mick asked when Jamie joined him behind the bar.

      “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Jamie pulled his gaze away from Emma. “Is there anything else we need to go over before the dinner rush hits?”

      “It still gets pretty crazy in here on a weekend night, but don’t worry. Usually no one’s in a big hurry, especially when we’ve got a band. They come for dinner and to spend time with family and friends. Then they hang around to listen to music and dance.” Mick nodded toward the stage. “I sure hope Emma can find someone to take Molly’s place. All that girl’s ever wanted to do was sing country music.”

      “You two gonna stand here jawin’ all afternoon, or can one of you deal with the liquor delivery out back?” Gene said as he stormed out of the kitchen.

      “I never should have made you day manager. You always were the power-hungry type,” Mick joked.

      “Fine. It’s not my business that’ll suffer when we run out of whiskey.” Then Gene turned and headed back through the swinging double doors.

      “Come on, Jamie. I’ll check the order, and you can do the heavy lifting.”

      The rest of the afternoon went faster than Jamie expected, and then the dinner rush hit. After a couple of hours he felt as though he’d met or gotten reacquainted with all of Estes Park’s eight thousand residents while manning the bar. Jamie flexed his hand, stretching out the tight muscles. He’d been amazed how much the repeated motion of picking up glasses had worked his hand, and except for the one dropped glass, he’d done well.

      But his hand wasn’t the only thought plaguing him tonight. His mind kept wandering back to Emma. Instead of leaving after her auditions, she joined a couple of girlfriends at a table that always managed to stay within his sight no matter how many people crowded around the bar.

      As Jamie handed another patron his beer, Mick’s cell phone rang. When his grandfather ended the call a few seconds later, his face lined with concern, he turned to Jamie. “That was tonight’s band. Their truck broke down. They won’t be here for at least an hour.” Mick glanced around the crowded restaurant. “The natives are getting restless, which means they could start leaving. Which means their money walks out with them. How about you play something to settle ’em down until the band gets here?”

      Jamie stared at his grandfather and thought the man had lost his mind. Had he forgotten about his hand? He leaned closer so the customers clustered around the bar wouldn’t hear. “I’m not ready for that. I dropped a glass today because my hand cramped up.”

      “Hell, that happens to everyone.”

      “Even if I felt comfortable playing, my music isn’t the stuff this crowd wants to hear. There would be a stampede for the door.”

      “Then don’t play your fancy fiddle. Use the karaoke machine. You got a good voice.” When Jamie opened his mouth to object, his grandfather continued, “And before you start saying you don’t know how to sing any country-western songs, I heard you singing along to the Willie Nelson songs Gene played in the kitchen this afternoon. Sing one of those.”

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