Chapter Seven

Zoey figured since she was stuck here overnight, it wouldn’t hurt to have her car checked out to be sure there weren’t any lingering problems from the accident.

Garth Newell, the mechanic at some shop down the road from the veterinary office, kept the shop open an extra hour for her while he inspected her Mercedes. To her great dismay, he had bad news.

“Just as I suspected—not even thinking about the body work you’re gonna need on this thing, right now you’ve got to deal with transmission damage. Looks like it’ll be at least two days till I get the parts in that I need to fix it.”

“Two days?”

“Could even be longer with the weekend coming up.”

“What if I take my chances and get it fixed when I get to Banff?”

He shrugged, holding his greasy hands palms up. “Ma’am, you can do what you want. But you start having slipping problems with your transmission, and you’re going to regret not getting that thing fixed.”

She scowled at him. “Well is it dangerous?”

He laughed. “Sure, it can be dangerous. You might start having internal parts rattling around in there, which messes up your shifting, and the transmission could get stuck in a gear or shift into the wrong gear. You run the risk of broken pieces of metal falling into your coolant and being forced through the cooling system, which is going to give you a whole load of more grief than you already have right now.”

This day was devolving rapidly and Zoey wasn’t happy about it. All she wanted was to get up to Banff and settle in and relax, have a couple of glasses of wine while soaking in the hot tub, and have some long-needed sleep. The last thing she wanted was to be trapped in this cow town.

“So,” she said, tracing her toe along a large splotch of oil on the garage floor. “You’re telling me you’d wait it out for the repair?”

He nodded. “You betcha.”

Well, crap. Here she was, stuck in this darned town, with both her cat and her car in jail. What the heck was she going to do now?

She reached into the back seat for her overnight bag. She was gonna have to trust that the rest of her stuff would be safe with the mechanic. In the meantime, she was going to roll her wheeled suitcase down Main Street until she could find a spot to pull over to make some calls in search of a hotel room.

After walking about a block and a half, she found a coffee shop, which seemed as good a place as any to do a hotel search. She opened the door and the bell attached to the hinge chimed as she entered. It was like a coffee shop she’d expect to find in the land of ranches and cowboys and wide-open spaces. A smattering of stuffed animal heads mounted on the warm, cedar walls, with a massive bison and a few of those sheep with the massive horns that get into big fights on cliffs peered down at her. It was a coffee shop-slash-gift shop, and they had cute little knickknacks of local flavor: dish towels, cattle horn (because what self-respecting mantel would be without one?), stuffed bears, and buffalo and the like. It was a cute shop, and in one corner, a fire blazed, even in mid-June. But then again that was very LA of them—everyone she knew had a fire going in their house despite how hot it was outside. It made for a cozier scene.

As she approached the gleaming pine counter, a woman who looked to be about thirty-five, her skin tanned, her smile white, her hair in two long braids, came out from a back room.

“Oh, hey,” she said, pursing her lips. “I hate to tell you, but we’re closed for the evening.”

Zoey looked around and realized there weren’t any other patrons in the place.

“Sorry, I meant to lock the front door but hadn’t gotten to it yet.”

Zoey knit her brows. “Well, is there someplace you’d recommend I could go to get on my phone and find a hotel?”

The woman thrust her lip out in a pout. “It seems I’m the bearer of bad news tonight.” She leaned over the counter, handing her a copy of a small local paper. “The Western Governors’ Conference starts here tomorrow. I’d be surprised if you could find a place to stay right now.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Zoey rolled her eyes. Of course it figured. She was in the middle of nowhere and couldn’t find a place to rest her head. Not even in her car!

“It’s Wednesday night,” the lady said. “They have music on the rooftop at Harry’s. It’s a fabulous view, really nice folk, and they’ve got Wi-Fi. Why don’t you head up there for a while, relax, and get on your phone and try to find some places maybe outside of town a bit.”

“I don’t even have a way to get out of town. Do you have Uber around here?”

She laughed. “We have Uber ish.”

“Uber ish?”

“Yeah well, there’s Uber when someone decides they need some money and they’re gonna drive. If it’s your lucky night, you’ve got yourself a ride.”

Zoey refrained from muttering curses because it wasn’t this woman’s fault. No sense in shooting the messenger.

“I do have one other idea that might work. There’s an outdoor store about a block away from here. They’re open till eleven. They have a tent display in the back of the store. I bet if you’re really quiet, you could park yourself inside one of those tents and no one would even know you were there.”

Zoey burst out laughing, then squinted at her. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

The woman nodded and held out her hand. “Sorry, should’ve introduced myself. I’m Susy Russell. Hate to be such a bearer of bad news, but I hope my advice can help you a little in a bind.”

Zoey struggled to imagine in what world would she sleep illegally in a tent in a retail store. Shit. Well, she was going to get on the phone and keep calling till she found something. Surely there would be something, somewhere, that would have a bed and bathroom for her for the night.

After taking the wrong turn out of the coffee shop and ending up in the parking lot of a grocery store, she entered the name of the bar into the GPS on her phone and followed the path for the next two blocks till she happened upon it. The only good news about this town was it was so small you’d never get lost. When she got to the bar, there was a line with a good twenty people in front of her. Figures, the whole town goes to the only bar in town, duh. The hostess told her it would be a forty-minute wait, which helped to cement Zoey’s sour mood. With no place to sit, she parked her butt on the curb in front, near a few squalling children who’d gotten into a race and ended up with skinned knees.

She pulled up her favorite travel app and started searching for hotel rooms. At first she was excited—there were some nice-looking hotels in the area. It turned out the town was the base to a ski resort as well as close enough to Glacier National Park, and the town attracted gobs of tourists, plus a lot of outdoors enthusiasts. Which meant it was even less likely she’d find someplace to rest her weary head. God forbid she have a fender bender in a normal damned town.

But her enthusiasm melted into a puddle of doom and gloom at her feet as she discovered that everything was indeed booked. Next she opened her Airbnb app, assuming surely somewhere there would be a bed available. Her face fell when she learned the only available place remaining within a hundred miles was a teepee—seriously, a damned teepee—that someone built for fun in some remote woods. Which would mean she’d be alone in the woods with probably a couple of psychopaths looking to murder lonely women, and also she’d have to pee in the woods and would get poison ivy or a rattlesnake bite on her ass. Or maybe a bear would carry her off to her lair where she would feed her, piece by piece, to her babies.

She was greatly relieved when the hostess called her name and she was offered entrée into the coveted sanctuary of Harry’s rooftop bar. After climbing four flights of steps—and gasping for air by the second flight—she arrived at the rooftop bar, which was indeed crowded. She scoured the scene, trying to figure out where to go. She didn’t want to stand because, well, first off, she had her damned suitcase with her and that would be particularly weird, and secondly, a woman standing alone at a bar with a suitcase smacked of desperation. She noticed the one end of the bar had people clustered together chatting and laughing. The other end featured a guy seated on a stool with one of those mics on those extender arms in front of him, strumming a guitar while wailing about some girl who done him wrong or something like that. Zoey needed a drink because some guy had sure as hell done her wrong. So, she figured the patrons down at this end of the bar were her people.

As luck would have it, there was one seat open, which faced the beautiful tableau of Rocky Mountains with the waning sun, washing the sky with its apricot light. Okay, so this wasn’t so bad. Pretty view. Weird to have your back to the entertainment but also made it easier to avoid small talk with strangers, which was fine by her. Last time she made small talk with a stranger, she brought him home to LA and got engaged to him. Everyone knew how that one worked out. No command performances, thanks.

Zoey tucked her suitcase in close to her feet beneath the long countertop where she sat. She didn’t want to be completely rude and turned herself partially so it wouldn’t appear she was ignoring the entertainment. The guy with the guitar was good-looking, with scruffy caramel hair, maybe a little in need of a haircut. His green eyes were the color of some semiprecious stone that was probably once mined near here. He had that air about him that he was imminently likable, the kind of guy you’d confide in and complain to about your boyfriend.

She shook her head. She clearly had been alone for too long, considering she was creating an entire life around a strange dude with a guitar. The waitress came by and took her order. Zoey was ready for a fat burger and a cold beer. One nice thing about being away from LA was not having to worry about people judging you for what you put in your mouth. If she were back there, she’d have ordered the microgreens with chia seeds and would probably go home and eat Ben and Jerry’s out of the carton while standing by the kitchen sink. It was good not having anyone around who cared about you. Well, good and bad.

“That’s my seat, you know.” Zoey glanced over her shoulder to see a grizzled-looking thirty-something guy with spittle-coated lips pointing at her.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” She frowned at him, hoping to send him the “get the hell out of here” juju so he’d leave her alone.

“I got up to take a dump and I come back and you’re in my seat,” the guy said, his words carrying the distinctive slur of someone on his umpteenth drink. She decided the best reaction was no reaction, so instead, she pulled out her phone and opened up Instagram.

As she scrolled down, Drunky McDrunkster kept hammering away at her.

“You think because of who you are you can do this to me, you’re wrong,” he said.

Which made her wonder who she was. Not like anyone on the planet would know her as anyone but Zoey Richards. She’d made it her job, all those years ago, to fly wayyy under the radar after that time when she slugged that kid at that movie premiere. She thought it would be one and done, but no, the press latched onto that forever, calling her all sorts of nicknames, like Muhammad Ali of Rodeo Drive, which was stupid because they were nowhere near Rodeo Drive. Someone pegged her Sugar Ray Slammer, and for a long time, even kids at school called her Slammer. It was all very humiliating because it was an accident and then that kid, whatever his name was, ugh, he blubbered on and on and wouldn’t accept her apology and her parents barely spoke to her for a week afterward.

After that, her mother made her stop with the tomboy stuff—her stylist showed up one day with the most prissy outfits that her mother made her wear. All Zoey wanted to do was be herself and not have to deal with all the awfulness that came with her parents being famous movie stars. Next, it was bows in her hair and those horrid patent leather shoes and velvet and satin and it was sheer torture.

“Hey, lady. Hey, lady.” She felt someone poking her in the side of her ribs. The drunk guy.

The waitress brought Zoey’s burger and beer and Zoey gave her a “help me” glance, but the waitress shrugged and told Zoey the guy was harmless. Sure, harmless until the spit splattering her from his one-sided conversation ended up in her burger. Maybe she’d get some communicable disease from him and waste away and die before she got a chance to stop at the adorable pie shop she’d passed on her way to Harry’s. Because, well, pie.

Wrapping her mouth wrapped around her burger, ready to dig in for a big bite, she felt the strange man’s hands on her shoulders. Hands she was certain didn’t get washed in the restroom when he’d gone in there, despite the signs posted in every restaurant bathroom in America urging patrons and employees alike to maintain a modicum of sanitary practices. Was that so much to ask for?

The man was pulling at her and he’d raised his voice even more, insisting she give him back his seat. She wanted to eat her burger in peace, darn it!

Then she felt him trying to physically lift her up and she’d had enough. She turned her body and reflexively drew back her arm, in a move that offered muscle memory from many years of boxing at the gym. She had a mean cross. Well, the whole world once knew that: the first time she ever hit anything was that dumb kid whose parents’ house she’d been dragged to. But it wasn’t till she grew up that she got into boxing for fun and exercise. It made her feel strong, which she loved.

“Hey, lady,” the guy slurred even louder as he grabbed at her yet again, just as she’d positioned herself, poised to cross her left arm straight across to nail him.