Christine

Sissy finished clearing the table from the last lunch customer and picked up a tray of beer mugs. “Whooee! That was a bigger-than-normal lunch crowd.”

It certainly had been. But why? I shrugged. What did it matter? Business was business. “If it keeps up, I’ll see if I can find someone part-time for lunches.”

Balancing the bus tray on the end of the bar, Sissy popped open the dishwasher and added the mugs. When she looked up at me again, she wore a speculative expression. “How did your day out with Travis McGee go?”

“It had some interesting twists.” I tilted her head and surveyed her friend. “Speaking of twists, did I miss the part of the story where you told me the prodigal son was Grant’s brother?”

Sissy smiled and shrugged. “Did I forget to mention that? Huh.”

I huffed an impatient breath. “Sissy, what’s the real story there? With Bull and Travis?”

Shaking her head, Sissy looked away, her eyes clouded with doubt. “I can’t answer that.”

“Can’t or won’t?” I asked, irritation sharpening her tone.

Sissy shoved the tray further onto the bar. Drawing a deep breath, she whirled to face me and settled her hands on her hips. “Can’t. Because it’s not mine to tell. Besides, I don’t know all the details. The families haven’t gotten along since Grant and I were kids. Travis left when I was twelve and Grant thirteen. I knew Grant was upset, but he wouldn’t talk about it, and my mom told me Travis went to college. Then, the next year I left Pine Haven myself. By the time I got back, things were different between me and Grant. He doesn’t tell me so much now.” Fine lines pinched Sissy’s forehead, and she didn't quite meet my eyes.

Obviously something deep was happening, something my friend found troubling. A twinge of remorse for having pushed her spurred me forward. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” I picked up the bus tray and sighed. “I’m just a little spooked, I guess. I know something is going on, but the town seems pretty closed up about it.”

Like a switch had been pulled, Sissy’s smile flashed with a grin. “You know who you should ask, don’t you? If you want the whole truth, you need to ask Travis himself.”

That couldn’t be disputed. But how would Travis react to direct questioning about an obviously sore subject?

“We probably won’t get anyone in before dinnertime now,” said Sissy, tapping the end of the bar. “I’m going on break so I can run to the bank.”

The breath stalled in my throat, and fine tremors overtook my hands. I stuffed them in the pockets of my long pink sweater. It would be okay. Besides, Charlotte Hains was just on the other side of the silver kitchen doors, prepping for dinner. The cook would have my back, with the sturdy baseball bat she kept behind the door.

“Um, yeah, go ahead.” I stooped and pretended interest in the shelf of beer mugs beneath the bar, hoping Sissy wouldn’t notice her reluctance to be alone.

Apparently my act fell short. “What’s up with you, being all edgy? And what’s with the granny getup? It’s a bazillion degrees outside and not much cooler in here. At least unbutton the sweater.”

I repositioned a few of the beer mugs before looking up. “I must be coming down with something. Go on to the bank, Sissy. I’ll cover.”

After a long stare filled with doubt, Sissy shook her head and left through the kitchen doors. Alone in the bar, I tried to work out my agitation by fussing with a pyramid of beer mugs. After my third attempt to line them up evenly, I impatiently slid them all to the side. The sound of clinking glass was a welcome interruption to the silence. Drawing a deep, calming breath, I started over.

I arranged the first layer, cursing Bull for his late night visit. He’d invaded my home, my sanctuary. I added another layer, then a third. I had no idea what had set his eye in my direction, but it was a fair bet it had something to do with Travis.

After stacking the last layer, I stepped back. The pyramid of beer mugs looked like a child had built it, but I couldn’t bring myself to care, directing my attention instead to the rack of margarita glasses.

* * *

“I sure could go for a cold beer.” Mick’s voice was getting hoarse.

“I’ll have one waiting for you,” I promised. “Or we could go for margaritas.”

“My heart! I’ve met the perfect woman.”

But his words were slow, seemingly spoken with care. Perhaps he was experiencing fatigue… or worse. I wanted to cry but stemmed the tears and forced brightness into my voice.

“I’m far from that. But I can get a thirsty man a beer.”

“And I’ll take that beer, Angel,” he said, his voice stronger. “Then I’ll kiss the most beautiful gal on earth! After that we’ll go find dinner and that pitcher of margaritas, and we’ll spend the night watching the stars. ‘Cause I won’t want to be indoors anytime soon. You ever make out under a starry sky?”

Heat assaulted my face. “No, but I’m thinking you plan to show me what I’m missing.”

“You smiling, Angel? You sound like maybe you’re smiling.”

“I am.” Then I laughed.

“Give me something to picture here. What do you look like?”

“I’m average everything. Average height and build, brown hair, blue eyes.”

“I’ll bet you have a killer smile.”

“I have a crooked smile,” I assured him.

“How long is your hair?”

“Short. Really short.”

“Dang, you got me, girl.” He chuckled. “I was picturing running my hands through it, all chocolate silk, falling around your shoulders.”

“You’d be a day late for that. I just got it cut yesterday. I like it short in the summertime.”

“Do you dance?”

“Not very well.”

“Too bad,” he said. “I wanted to dance at our wedding.”

“I’ll take lessons,” I offered. “Just for you. Besides, after a pitcher of margaritas you might not care how I dance.”

* * *

When the front door opened, my hands jerked, knocking two of the margarita glasses to the floor, where they bounced once, hit the base of the bar, and shattered.

My heart leapt against my throat and I cast a startled glance at the door, breathing out a slow sigh when I recognized the tan uniform and the gold star. Glass crunched under my feet and I muttered a ripe curse under my breath, as I stooped to pick up the mess. The sting of glass piercing my flesh, brought on a new round of cursing, as I watched the drops of blood well, like red tears, from the base of my thumb.

“You okay, Christine?” Sheriff Dirk Cooper, affectionately known as DC —since childhood, according to the rumor mill —hurried over. He took my hand and hissed in a breath through his teeth.

“It looks worse than it is,” I assured him.

Emitting a noncommittal grunt, he nodded. “Yep, you’ve got two little cuts here. They don’t look deep, but they ought to be cleaned out. Got a first-aid kit?”

I pointed to a green box beneath the sink, as I dumped the pieces of glass into the tall trash. “I can’t believe I’m such a klutz!”

DC pulled me to my feet, turned on the faucet, and held my hand under the running water, running his thumb lightly over the parallel red lines. “Does it feel like you’ve got anything stuck in there?”

His touch against my palm created an urge to snatch my hand back and rub at the feathery sensation. A giggle slipped out. “No, but that really tickles.” DC applied a couple of Band-Aids, then pulled my hand to his lips, and made a show of kissing it.

“Lisa insists this makes everything feel better,” he said very seriously. “Last night she fell off her bike and suggested, rather strongly, I needed to kiss her backside.”

“Your toddler essentially told you to kiss her butt?” I didn't bother to fight a smile. “How does a parent handle that?”

“The same way I handle all the dad stuff that scares the crap out of me,” DC replied. “I sent her off to find her mother.”