There was a whoop from the direction of the pool table, and an outburst of laughter in response to the inevitable groans. Good-natured ribbing circulated as the losers were made to pay up, and the regulars gloated without shame. The shuffle rippled through the bar as quieter side bets were settled, most concerning the number and size of the debts to be collected.

Willie shook his head, privately amused by the frequency with which the scenario repeated itself. She didn't look like your typical pool shark, it was true, but who would play against someone who did have the look? Criminals didn't get by with a dishonest face.

Not that she ever gambled herself. She said she wouldn't take other people's money when they didn't have a fair chance. More's the pity, really... she deserved to get at least as rich as her supporters.

"Willie." One of the newbies swung onto a nearby stool and gestured to him. It was one of the ones who'd had the sense not to get involved in the game, so Willie didn't bother to hide his smile as he ambled over.

"Get you something?" he offered, clearing a napkin from the bar while he waited.

"Depends," the man replied. He jerked his head toward the pool table, where the crowd was only now starting to dissipate. "What's she drink? Can you tell me anything about her?"

"Yeah," Willie said, his smile widening. "She doesn't, and you're out of your league with that one. If you want my advice, give it up now and save yourself some trouble."

"Come on," the man scoffed. "The trouble's half the fun. What else d'you know?"

He shook his head, but she didn't need him to watch out for her. As with pool, she'd been taught to guard her heart by the best. So she had another admirer. At least this one was smart enough not to go up against her with a cue stick.

He told the man what most of the regulars already knew: she'd been coming to Willie's for a little over a year, and it was a rare weekend that didn't see at least one pool king hopeful put in his place. She played, danced, and--on one memorable occasion--sang, but she didn't drink. And she always, always, left alone.

That didn't deter this most recent interest in the slightest, so Willie shrugged inwardly and gave the man what he wanted. Favorite song, favorite color, and even her favorite flower gleaned from the circlet she used to wear in her hair. It couldn't hurt. At least his attentions might make her smile, and at most they might shake her up a little.

Picking up an empty glass, he watched the man set off across the room determinedly. Willie busied himself at the sink so he wouldn't be on the receiving end of another reproving look when she realized what had happened. As the jukebox clicked over to a new request, he grabbed a dishtowel and fixed his gaze on the glass in his hand.

There were a couple of chuckles from the other end of the bar, and Willie grinned to himself. They could all see why "We're Here To Love" was playing now. He chanced a look at the pool table and was pleased to see her greeting the stranger with her new polite reserve. The former expression of immediate and unveiled compassion had been too often misread.

He caught Sam's eye and raised glass, nodded once. Setting down the now-clean glass, he pushed through the kitchen door in search of the unspoken request. As he retrieved the bottle he'd set aside, though, his gaze fell upon the smaller of the two refrigerators and he paused.

Merrick's handwriting was distinctive. His unpracticed penmanship covered the three postcards stuck haphazardly to the door, and the last one was still unanswered. He had been debating with himself for several weeks now: to show her or not?

She had never shown the slightest interest when he mentioned, casually or less so, that he had received a postcard. But each time she left early, and he wouldn't see her for days afterwards. He hadn't dared to inquire whether she too received such infrequent updates.

He snagged the postcard with his free hand and headed back out to the bar. Whether he'd made a decision or not, he was going to answer the boy's question. There had been questions before, polite inquiries about the business, the bar, even the weather. This time the postcard ended with three straightforward words: "How's the princess?"

Willie watched the far corner with one eye while he refilled Sam's glass. She had one hip hitched up on the pool table, displaying a lack of respect that would have made the person who taught her wince. She smiled indulgently at the man who was trying not to stare as the old Ronnie Milsap song launched into its second verse.

No, he wouldn't disturb her. Whatever peace she found here, it was hers and hers alone, and he wasn't going to take it from her tonight. Not even for her Ranger lover.

Taking one of the Roadhouse postcards from its iron holder behind the counter, Willie cast about for a pen. He picked up the one by the phone, reading the postcard one more time. He scrawled responses to the first two sentences, then came up short on the last question again.

The sound of a break made him look up, and he shook his head. The man she had been talking to was now making his way around the pool table, lining up his second shot. He probably didn't even know that agreeing to a game had made him just one more face in the crowd.

Only one person had ever beaten her. Not because she had always been good, but because she had never played against anyone else until he left. Willie suspected that her first game against another had been a disappointment. And every one after that, no doubt. She couldn't expect everyone to be as good as he was... but surely she expected someone to be.

Bracing his arm against the counter, Willie wrote his own three words in response to Merrick's. Though she had never said it aloud, it was evident in every game she played. Her very presence in his bar meant that it was as true now as it had been the day he left.

"She misses you."