He made it through the entire night without any calls and spent Saturday nursing a beer and catching up on things he never had time for during the week. Things like laundry—something that normally didn’t take an entire afternoon, but since he was out of underwear he had to tackle that problem first.

So when the phone rang on Saturday as the sun sank into Stillhouse Hollow, he was both surprised that it had taken until Saturday and disappointed that his momentary reprieve had ended.

But since it was Holly—and he’d started thinking of her that way since that mind-blowing kiss—he couldn’t be too upset. Even if it likely wasn’t a social call.

“I’m heading down to Ropers,” she said. “Your favorite shitheads are about to get arrested. Have I subjected you to my diatribe about how much I hate that bar?”

“Why are you going?”

“Because I’m the first sergeant who drew the short straw tonight to be on call for exactly this situation.”

He almost smiled at the irritation in her voice then frowned when his brain finally registered what she’d just said. “You’re going to a bar fight on your own?”

“Yes? This is part of my duty description as a first sergeant,” she said mildly.

Sal dragged his hand through his short hair. As much as he admired her strength and competence, it was a whole different ballgame when it came to her stepping into Ropers on her own.

“Ah, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” And how was that for an eloquent disaster?

“I’ll let you know how it goes and if there’s anything we need to notify the boss about,” she said.

“Holly.” But the words he needed got stuck in his throat and the line went dead before he unstuck them.

He looked at the phone for a moment, his mind trying to register what had just happened. She was on her way to Ropers. It wasn’t as if she was going to be able to stroll in there in uniform and the crowd would part like the Red Sea, and a bunch of drunk wannabe cowboys would instantly start listening to her like she was the second coming of Charlton Heston. What the hell was she thinking?

But it wasn’t anger that dominated his emotions. It was fear that had him swearing under his breath as he pulled on his boots and a t-shirt and rushed out the front door. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with the seedy dive bar that was Ropers but he damn sure wasn’t about to let Holly deal with his shitheads on her own.

It was a quick ride to Business 195 in Harker Heights, where most of the bars were located on the edge of town. Ropers had always been a country bar but it had changed names at least six times since Sal had been here. The owners kept getting arrested for serving underage girls or not doing enough to keep drugs out of the bathrooms, or a variety of other offenses.

Sal pulled into a dark corner of the parking lot, surprised he actually found a space with all the police cars out front. Whatever had been going on had been going on for more than a minute because there was a crowd of entirely too intoxicated grown men dressed up like cowboys and their girlfriends out front. He scanned the faces for a familiar first sergeant and didn’t see her.

Shutting down his immediate worry, he approached the first officer he found. She was about a foot shorter than he was but looked mean as a pit bull. “Captain Bello, ma’am. I heard you’ve got some of my idiots?”

She gave him a quick look, obviously not impressed by his worn navy blue t-shirt and jeans, before she handed him a clipboard that had a half-dozen military ID cards pinned to it. He sighed and gave them a look. “These two are mine,” he said.

He was going to whip Pizarro’s ass when he got his hands on him. And Baggins was going to get the ass-chewing of a lifetime.

The cop waited for him to tuck the ID cards into his pants pocket. “Good, then you can go in the bar and figure out how to get him out without us arresting him.”

“Is there any reason why you didn’t just go in and arrest him?”

The cop hooked her thumbs into her utility belt. “We like to let you guys handle your own when we can. Too many of y’all are far too willing to pull a gun since the war started.”

Sal ran his tongue over his teeth, not happy with the explanation, even if it made perfect sense. He sighed. “What did he do?”

“Pissed on the bar. On some really angry cowboy’s boots. I’ve got two officers inside trying to get things settled down right now but he’s bigger than the bouncers.”

“He’s going through a rough spot,” he said. She shot him a look that clearly said no shit Sherlock, then held up her hand to motion for him to proceed into the bar.

It was dark and filled with smoke, some of it from cigarettes, some from smoke machines. Jason Aldean blasted from the speakers, overpowering any thoughts he might have attempted to entertain. He realized he was holding his breath, scanning the bar for Holly, then released it. Where the hell was she?

He felt a twisted relief when he found her at the edge of the bar with Pizarro. She’d somehow positioned herself between one mean-looking cowboy and his platoon sergeant. Pizarro was gone, swaying on his feet, and for once he didn’t look like he was going to do violence. He was incapable at the moment, apparently, but it had been a long time since he’d seen Pizarro this wasted.

And Holly stood between him and an almost certain ass whooping that came in the form of a really big pissed off cowboy. Sal ground his teeth and headed over, never taking his eyes off her.

Part of him wanted to throttle the ever-loving shit out of her for putting herself there. Pizarro wasn’t going to be a damn bit of help if Tex and his buddies decided to finish whatever Pizarro had started.

“Look, I’m the unit first sergeant. I’ll give you my number, call on Monday and we’ll get the damages squared up. I can promise you Pizarro will pay for anything he damaged,” she said.

“What seems to be the problem?” Sal said.

Holly looked over, something dark and wild sparking in her eyes. “Pizarro decided to piss on Brian’s boots. I’m trying to keep Pizarro’s teeth in his head at this point.”

“Brian?”

She motioned to the big cowboy in front of her.

“I’m his commander.”

Brian the cowboy sneered and Sal caught a whiff of liquid courage on his breath. “I don’t give a fuck who you are. Shithead pissed on my brand new Tony Lamas.”

“And he’ll replace them,” Sal said. The cowboy’s words were laced with threat. Sal stiffened and resisted the urge to reach for Holly and shove her behind him.

“Goddamned right he will,” the cowboy said. “I’m going to take four hundred dollars out of his ass right now.”

Holly stepped in front of the big cowboy when he tried to go around her. “The guy is obviously in the bag. You really want a piece of a guy who can barely stand up straight?”

“I want my boots cleaned off.”

Sal moved between Holly and the big cowboy. “Listen, bud. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The cops want Pizarro gone. I’m going to get him home. You can take my number and call me on Monday or you can get your teeth knocked in. Either way, you’re not having a go with Pizarro tonight.”

Things did not go as Sal expected.

* * *

Holly was mildly irritated that Sal had opted to walk in at that exact moment. She’d just about convinced the big cowboy to take a walk, but the minute Sal showed up the situation transformed into a dick-measuring contest. Obviously, Holly came up short.

But any hope she had of diffusing the situation took a turn for the worse when Sal decided to lay out the ultimatum. Brian the cowboy hauled off and took a swing at Sal, who dodged easily. Except that the cowboy’s buddies decided to jump into the fray.

Holly remembered moving in front of Pizarro when one of Brian’s buddies dove for the intoxicated NCO and the next thing she knew, she’d been knocked into the bar. She scrambled to her feet and yanked one of the skinny cowboys back.

She didn’t see his fist coming for her until it had already connected. Her jaw exploded with pain and black stars danced in front of her eyes.

She went down without really thinking about it. Her brain screamed at her legs to stay upright but they were suddenly not listening. She sank to her knees as her eyes watered and blinded her to the fight going on around her.

It was over before it began. The cops and bouncers decided they’d had enough and dragged Pissy Boots and his buddies out of the bar.

There was a strong hand on her shoulder. She blinked and waited for her vision to clear, then suddenly wished she was anywhere but where she was.

Sal was pissed. And worried.

And it did interesting things to his eyes. “Can you stand up?” His voice was rough and jagged.

She nodded and he helped her stand. She tried to rotate her jaw and stars erupted again. He led her to the bar and got a towel full of ice from the bartender. “Here.”

He thrust it into her hand. Clearly, he was angry enough to reduce his vocabulary back to single-syllable words.

Okay then. She held the ice to her throbbing jaw and swore a blue streak when it connected with the tender flesh. Her shoulder screamed in protest at the movement and she looked over to see her shirt was ripped. Damn it. This was her favorite white t-shirt.

“Holy crap, Firs’ Sarn’t Washington?”

Holly turned at the voice she wished she didn’t recognize. Sergeant Freeman—not looking anything remotely like the NCO Holly was accustomed to at work—leaned against the bar. Her hair was down, framing her face, her eyes lined with dark makeup. In the darkness, Holly could see the faint shadow of the black eye she had tried to camouflage. Freeman wore a low-cut lace tank top that glowed in the black lights and tight jean shorts that left little to the imagination. That was apparently a popular look for the country bar. More power to her. Holly was just insecure enough that she’d keep her ass in pants, thank you very much.

“Sarn’t Freeman,” Holly managed, trying to ignore the fully pissed off Sal, over arguing with Pizarro.

“Did you get in a fight?” Freeman asked, her eyes wide.

“Not exactly. You wouldn’t happen to be here with Sarn’t Pizarro, would you?”

Freeman’s gaze dropped to the ice that was currently numbing Holly’s jaw. “Can I answer that without getting in trouble?”

She tripped over the word “trouble”, clueing Holly in to her level of intoxication.

“I’m not actually interested in why you’re here with him. You’re violating your no-contact order. Again.” Holly frowned.

“I’m his DD. I’m supposed to be taking him home tonight but he won’t leave.”

“I don’t actually give a shit, Sarn’t Freeman. Get your ass back to the barracks right now. I’ll see you at my office tomorrow morning for your counseling statement. I’ve had just about enough of your do-what-you-want bullshit.”

Freeman ground her teeth and for a moment, Holly thought the younger NCO was going to swing on her. Or stab her.

But she turned and stomped out in a huff. She actually flipped her hair, too. If Holly hadn’t been so pissed, it might have been funny. Who the hell had ever made that soldier an NCO?

Holly breathed out a deep breath as she touched the ice to her jaw again, just in time to see Sal jab a finger in Pizarro’s face and drag him outside. Holly followed, not needing to be in the bar any longer than she’d already been. Sal shoved Pizarro in a cab and barked something at the cab driver before he stalked back over to her.

His eyes darkened as he looked at her holding the ice to her jaw. It was numb now, the cold taking the pain away for the moment. Hopefully it wouldn’t swell too much.

She was not prepared for his reaction.