Back in the bar, Remy thought she might be sick. She worked through it, keeping her head down, drowning in her own thoughts.

By midnight, the bar was nearly empty but for a couple of older regulars. The Romans were gone, thank the Lord.

Tossing a towel onto the bar, she excused herself and went out back. Sitting on a stack of milk crates, she leaned her head back against the rusting tin wall and tried to breathe.

She’d barely had a full minute to herself when she heard, “Remy.”

Her eyes snapped open. Sawyer was walking toward her; she could see his flashy black SUV idling in the parking lot. He moved toward her like a prowling jungle cat, big and sleek and muscular. In well-worn jeans and a tight white t-shirt, he could have been walking off of a movie set instead of hanging out in middle-of-nowhere Catahoula.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, pushing up to stand.

“Hey, I come in peace,” he said, raising both hands. He stopped a few feet away, respecting her space.

“Well, I have nothing to say,” she said. “Well, except maybe thank you, for earlier.”

“It was nothing,” he said.

She pursed her lips and watched him. He crossed his arms and stared her down. When she didn’t speak, he looked frustrated.

“Why are you mad at me?” he asked.

Remy scowled. “Who says I’m mad?”

“This isn’t really how we… connect,” he said, frowning.

“We don’t connect, Sawyer. You don’t live here anymore.”

“I do now,” he said, stopping her cold. “And I don’t want there to be bad blood. I’d rather there be something way better between us.”

His words were heated, sending a little chill down her spine. She could imagine just what he might mean by something better… imagine it in vivid, heart-pounding detail.

“Sawyer, you should leave.”

“What if I don’t want to, darlin’?”

Remy didn’t have a response for that, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans. The dark look in his eyes did things to her, made her weak in the knees and… hot. So, so hot, she was almost sweating just from standing this close to him.

Why does this man make me so vulnerable? she wondered.

“Remy,” he said, drawing her name out like Rayyyyy-meee. She shivered; she’d always loved the sound of her name on Sawyer’s lips.

“Sawyer, what do you want?” she asked softly.

“I want things to be like they were,” he said.

“Oh, yeah? How were things, before?” she challenged.

“Well… we were friends, at least,” he said, starting to look uncomfortable. How typical of a man his age, using the word friend to describe a relationship that was so, so much more.

“I don’t want to be your friend, Sawyer. And I need to get back inside,” she said. She turned toward the back door.

“Wait, Remy. Please,” he said.

That one word, please, had her turning back to him. His expression was puzzled and hurt, his eyes shining with some unnamed emotion.

“Is this because I didn’t write?” he asked. “I thought you understood.”

“Understood?” she asked.

“That when I was deployed with the SEALs, I didn’t get much chance to write. I know I only sent you a few letters…” he said.

Remy’s heart dropped. She’d never received any letters, not that it would have mattered.

“Sawyer, it’s not that,” she said, wishing she could turn around and just run away from the whole conversation.

“So, what is it?” he asked, a little bit of pleading in his tone now.

“It’s… not… there’s nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s nothing between us, there’s just… nothing to talk about.”

“I don’t understand. I mean, I didn’t expect you to wait for me, but you’re here, and if you’re not married—”

She had to end this, and quick.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” she interrupted. “In fact, I don’t want to talk at all. Just… leave me alone, Sawyer. Find a new friend.”

His expression darkened at her tone. “Remy…”

“Goodnight, Sawyer,” she said, forcing herself to walk away and close the door behind herself.

When she got back to the front of the bar, it was empty, a few scattered bills on the counter from the regulars who’d left. Relieved, Remy locked up and broke down the bar setup.

She held herself together through the whole thing, swallowing down all the pain threatening to rise inside.

Be strong, she told herself. Be strong for Shiloh.

She finished everything else and grabbed the mop, working it over the floor in hard circles, trying to exorcise the darkness growing in her chest. As she bent low to get underneath one of the tables, giving the whole place the best cleaning it’d probably ever had, she twisted the mop oddly.

“Ow!” she cried, yanking her hand back. A big splinter had split off and jabbed into her palm, blood already welling around it.

She dropped the mop, prying the splinter free and sucking at the tiny cut. Tears welled up in her eyes, though it didn’t hurt that badly.

This is nothing, compared with how I’ll feel if Sawyer finds out about Shiloh.

That thought proved to be too much, after all she’d been through in the last few hours. She could feel it all bubbling up inside, the pain and sorrow that she so badly needed to release.

At least here, at The Speckled Hen, no one would see her break down.

Remy sat down at the booth, hung her head, and finally let herself cry.