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The jukebox had been playing nonstop in the honky tonk since five o’clock, nothing unusual for a Friday night. People got off work for the weekend, ranch hands started filtering in, the beer began flowing and soon the postage-stamp-sized dance floor was filled with bodies gyrating to old and new country tunes. Cade Thompson sat with his brothers, Justin and Mark, at a table in the corner of Treble Shooters watching people move to the music—faces flushed, hips wriggling, practically having sex with their clothes on while Travis Tritt and Lady Antebellum echoed off the wooden walls of the honky tonk. They’d spent a hard week with the hands moving cattle from one pasture to the other and culling those for branding. Tonight they’d decided to give themselves a break from the ranch and hang out at the bar they’d bought when the previous owner died. Spring Valley was small enough as it was, with few entertainment options. They didn’t want to see the only real place their hands could hang out close down. Getting a full-time manager on a permanent basis, though, had been harder than they’d expected. Apparently the list of people who wanted to relocate to Spring Valley was a short one. The men had been burning both ends of the candle—running the Treble T ranch during the day and taking turns running the bar at night—when fortune had finally smiled on them. Now Cade looked over at the bar, watching as Marti Jensen poured three drinks at once without breaking a sweat, and gave silent thanks once more for the day she’d walked in. He admired the way she kept her cool with all the chaos around her—the raised voices, the clicking of pool balls, the heavy thump of a bass and the squeal of the slide guitar, the lone waitress fighting for her attention along with everyone crowded at the bar demanding their drink now. She was tall, maybe five ten. Just right for three brothers who all top six four. Stop! What are you thinking? But he couldn’t take his eyes away from her lush body. The way the Treble Shooters T-shirt fell softly against her ripe breasts and the jeans clung lovingly to the finest ass he’d seen in a long time. The way her riot of curly black hair cascaded down her back and framed a face with high cheekbones, violet cat’s eyes and full, sensual lips. He’d wanted to fuck her since the day she’d walked in with the San Antonio classified rolled up in her hand and said in her saucy tone of voice, "Someone in here looking for a manager?" And ever since, he’d done his best to try and push the thought out of his mind. She’d had excellent references and they still wondered why the hell she’d wanted to come to a tiny spot in the road like Spring Valley. But all she’d tell them was it had been time for her to move on. She had moved into the furnished apartment over Treble Shooters and taken over the bar as if she’d been running it forever. Nothing seemed to faze her—not the normal complement of drunks, not the cowboys who came on to her, not the over the top crowds that jammed the place on weekends. She was a godsend, delivered up to them as if by fate. And he still wanted to strip her naked and fuck her blind. Damn, damn, damn.