Christine

A clunky basketful of hygiene products weighs on my arm. Idly I skim the magazine headlines while I wait at the checkout counter for Erin Brinks to ring up Nessie Young’s order. It seems the going rate for each item is a full minute of gossip, while the two gray haired women catch each other up on the goings on in the small town since they have last talked.

“No mistake! It was Travis, all right.” Nessie insists. “Bold as brass he walked into Ed’s and placed a considerable order for lumber and nails. Ed said he drove up all arrogant like in his big city sports car.”

“Do you think the old man knows he’s back?” Erin asks in a loud whisper.

“If he doesn’t, he will as soon as Henry makes the delivery. S’pose to take it out this afternoon.”

Erin glances at the line, makes brief eye contact with me and lowers her voice until it is barely audible. “What about the others?”

Nessie shakes her head slowly. “I was wondering that myself.” She opens her giant black purse and pulls out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. The gossip fest is apparently over.

Finally, it’s my turn at the checkout, but it seems Erin is no longer in the mood to be chatty, which was just as well, since it got me out of the store about ten minutes quicker.

The line at the bank is even longer than the one at the drugstore. It would appear it was training day for new hire Beth Wright. James Horton, the youngish bank manager, was showing incredible patience, even when he had to void each transaction and repeat it himself. Given the direction in which his eyes repeatedly strayed, though, I suspected him to be more concerned with the young girl’s deep cleavage than her banking abilities.

Standing behind Allan Cross and Adam Reed, I gathered more gossip of the day.

“He just drove into the garage with a mangled tire. Said there was an extra hundred in it if he got a new one by tomorrow,” said Allan, owner of Cross’s Auto Repair. “I had to send young Scott up to Jackson to get one. Damned fancy things. Got no use for something like that on my racks.

“Came by my place, too,” Adam announced. “Picked out some high-end tack. Ask me, the way he’s taking charge, I think he’s back to stay.”

Allan shook his head as he walked up to the next teller, grumbling. “Never thought that day would come. Now I s’pose there’ll be the devil to pay.”

By the time I got to Valentine’s Bar, I’d already learned a lot about the hometown prodigal son named Travis, back after a long absence, and by all reports walking the streets like he owned them. Apparently, no one knew exactly why he’d left home fifteen or sixteen years back, though there is speculation it has to do with his father and the MacKay family. On two points, however, the entire town seems to agree. No one expected him to ever return to Pine Haven, Wyoming; and now he is back, trouble has likely come with him.

I am fairly certain I’ve already had a taste of the man’s particular brand of trouble the evening before. And I was beginning to wonder if that one taste might have only primed my appetite for more.

The snatches of conversation I’d overheard have been tantalizing, but I suspected they were only the tip of the iceberg. Maybe it is time to delve just a bit below the surface of that sleeping giant. And I knew just the person to ask as we prepped the bar for the Friday evening crowd.

“So, what’s the story on this gentleman who’s come home…Travis?” I ask, leaning one elbow on the bar striving for nonchalance.

A cynical snort, matching the inward rolling of Sissy Browns lips as she shoves a stack of napkins into a holder, is the first thing I hear. “I don’t think anyone here’s ever called Trav a gentleman before.” Her short cap of pale cloned hair flashed almost white in the glow of the neon bar sign, as she glanced up with a grin. “Lots of other references. Though.”

“So, what’s his story? I ask toying with a bottle of mixer. “Lots of talk going around town.”

“Talk’s overrated.” A scowl creases Sissy’s forehead. “I really hate gossip.”

Time to turn on the charm, though I had to admit that usually worked better with customers. And men. Still, I smiled. “Give me a break. I’m not on the main grapevine. So, either I have to skulk around the supermarket or get it from you.”

Sissy’s giggle echoed through the bar. “You wouldn’t have to skulk if you gave a little information back once in a while.”

A blast of chilly air whispered across my hand as I opened the mini fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “I never have anything to say.”

One delicate eyebrow arched, as Sissy stopped fussing with the napkins and looked up. “Honey, you’re the head bartender at the only watering hole in town. Trust me, everyone knows you hear the really good stuff.”

The bottle cap twists off with a tiny hiss and I take a long drink before I answer. “Some of that’s personal.”

“Exactly. The good stuff.” Another stack of napkins found its way into Sissy’s hands. Really the girl worked like a mechanic on an assembly line.

“What do I have to do to stop being the outsider here?” As I take another drink and stare across the bar, I slowly draw one finger along the polished brass edging. It’s one of the few things that survived the renovations of Valentine’s. “I’ll bet if this bar could talk it would spill a lot of stories,” I mused aloud.

Heaving a sigh, Sissy toyed with a napkin, rolling it into a tube then smoothing it flat again.

A sudden tingle of awareness raced through me. She’s trying harder than I am to be casual.

"Look there's not really much to tell." Sissy flipped the napkin into the trash. "Trav’s kind of the town bad boy. Got in a fair share of fights, but it usually wasn’t him starting them. He just never seemed to be able to walk away. He had girlfriends but he wasn't the marrying type." 

The guarded tone accompanying Sissy's words alerted me to something beneath the surface, something my friend wasn't saying.

A gasp slips out before I can stop it. “Sissy, you and he weren't… where are you?”

A short burst of laughter dispels the thought of me? “Oh, goodness no! I was just a baby when he left. Well, I was 12. I guess I had kind of a crush, him being so handsome and all. But I don't think he ever noticed me.”

If he was male and breathing, he certainly was going to notice the pretty bartender now. Won't that complicate the excruciating slow burn between Sissy and Grant?

“Everyone seems so surprised he's come back here.”

“Truth is no one really knows why he left,” Sissy admitted. “Lots of speculation, but his family kept quiet, wouldn't talk about it. Wouldn't talk about him. Then, when he didn't come home, folks started thinking he wasn't going to.”

The smile tugging at my lips bloomed into a grin. Gotta love small-town mysteries. Everyone has a theory and everyone absolutely knows his or her particular presumption is the only one and only truth.

I open the dishwasher, lean back while the steam spills out, then unload the beer mugs and expertly stack them behind the bar. “You know,” Sissy pulls a handful of menus from the wicker basket next to the old fashion cash register and begins sorting through them. “He's probably still real easy on the eyes.” She turns one of the menus to match the rest of them and sweeps her gaze up towards mine. “And he is rumored to be unattached.”

“Whoa!” I take a step back, holding up my hands in a defensive measure. “I'm not looking for anything like that.” Tipping her head down, Sissy simply shrugs. Her light blue eyes seem to dance. “Maybe you should be. Go for little human companionship instead of always hanging out with that wild horse of yours.” She winks, “Get a little, you know, companionship of the right kind… scratch any lingering itches.”

Heat swamps my face, but I resist the urge to fan myself “Cloud and I do just fine,” I mutter. “And speaking of my horse, I need to run out to Hawk MC to pay for Cloud's board. Unless you want to run it out for me?” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively and finish in a singsong voice. “You could say hey to Grant.”

“I'm just fine right here setting up,” Sissy murmurs, her neck and cheeks sustaining a faint rose color.

“I thought you liked Grant.”

“I do,” Sissy answers steadily, without looking up. “And I want him to like me, which is why I'll just wait for him to come in to see me tonight instead of me going out there looking for him.” When Sissy finally glances up her pale blue eyes twinkle “I like to give him little opportunities to figure out he misses me.”

With a good-natured chuckle, I grab my purse from under the bar. “Okay, then. I won't be long.”

The gas gauge on my truck indicates that it will take a little longer on my errands then I planned. I swing into the gas station and swallow over the knot of unease in my throat. The huge white pick-up parked at the inside island takes up two spaces. The pump nozzle is jammed into the open gas tank door. The truck's hood is up, but the owner is nowhere in sight.

I ease my pick up to the other side of the island, casting a wary look for Robert McKay. Finally, I spot him under the hood, the oil dipstick in his hand. He lifts his head from his task and meets my eyes with a look so dark it freezes my blood. Quickly, I avert my eyes, pretending I hadn't noticed him. I let the icy chill roll through me, accepting it for what it apparently is: an inexplicable sense of nervousness I always feel in Robert McKay's presence.

Calling myself a coward for avoiding the man, I ease behind his truck and start across the parking lot to the mini mart. For the first time I'm actually grateful that Kenny Gordon has never installed credit card readers on his pumps.

I set my gaze on my goal and keep walking towards the door. The same metal and tempered glass door has probably hung at the entrance since the original service station was built in the 1930s, and now hangs on the building that replaced it in the late 1960s. I pull the heavy door open and step into the stuffy building.

Sliding a 20 across the counter, I think about the bottle of water I left sitting on the bar. “Hang on a sec, Kenny. I need something to drink.” 

I step around the end of the aisle, heading for the cooler at the rear of the store, and nearly barrel into Stella Jinks, the sheriff's secretary, and… oh great. Phyllis McKay stands next to Stella, a scowl marring her face. Both women abruptly stop talking.

“Christine,” greets Phyllis, in her well-modulated voice. “Are you in a hurry to get someplace?”

I laugh hoping I mask my unease. Why did I feel like I was interrupting some covert spy operation? “Oh, you know me. I hurry everywhere. I'm just on my way to pay Grant McGee for Cloud's board before my shift at the bar starts.”

Was I imagining things or did Phyllis's lips thin just before she lifts them into a chilly smile? 

“Well, then, we'll just let you pass so you can get going.” 

I grab the first soda I lay my hands on, hoping it’s something I can stomach. Then I force myself to take more sedate steps back to the register, wondering how Phyllis manages to look and sound so unpleasant and disapproving at the same time.