by Meg Muldoon
“Shoot,” I muttered.
Lyle would know that I was home, what with my car sitting out in front and smoke coming from the chimney.
I was just going to have to buck up and deal with him. I rolled up off the floor and opened the door, preparing for the worst.
Finding out shortly after that there was no need to.
Chapter 29
“I’m afraid you might have the wrong impression of me,” I said, nodding to the whiskey bottle he was holding in his hands.
“I’m not implying nothin’,” he said. “I just thought you might need something after finding your boss dead this morning.”
“Former boss,” I said.
“Former boss,” the stranger said, correcting himself. “Still, you probably cared for the man.”
“Cared might be too strong of a word,” I said. “But I am sorry he’s dead.”
“Let me buy you a drink?” he said.
I thought about it for a few moments, assessing the situation.
Inviting men I didn’t know into my humble abode was not something I did—for safety reasons, gossip reasons, and general moral reasons. But it was a cold and snowy night, and it had been one hell of a week already. And should the stranger be a psychotic serial killer, he’d have Hank to contend with, and I’d put my money on Hank to win that one any day of the week.
Plus, the stranger wasn’t exactly a stranger anymore.
I knew his name now.
“All right, Fletcher Hart,” I said, holding the door open. “Come in out of the snow. But I’m warning you that I’m fresh out of orange soda, grape soda, and basically about any fruity flavor there is.”
He smiled.
“That’s okay,” he said. “I wasn’t that thirsty anyway, Bitters.”
He walked in, and I stood silently in surprise for a few moments.
I hadn’t ever told him it, but he knew my name too.
He went right over to Hank.
Hank hit the ground and rolled over on his back for belly pets, like the two of them were old, old friends.
Chapter 30
“That’s one hell of a way to die,” he said, looking down and shaking his head. “Death by a mounted ox. My lord.”
I sighed, betting Dale never gave two thoughts to Old Velma sitting above the bar.
All these years, death had been looking down on him, just waiting for the right moment to strike.
The thought sent shivers down my spine.
“I never knew Old Velma had it in her…” I said, trailing off.
I took another sip of whiskey. It went down smooth and filled me with a pleasant warmth. The stranger had brought over some really high-end, expensive stuff. The kind that we didn’t even stock at The Cupid these days because locals never ordered it, and Dale wasn’t about to stock something that—
I shuddered, the thought of his dead, lifeless body flashing into my mind like a strobe light.
I bit my lip and rocked slowly back in forth in the old, rustic rocking chair that Lawrence had given me when he’d moved into the nursing home after his stroke. The stranger was sitting on the other side of the small room, in the chair closest to the fire. He had his feet stretched out in front of him, his cowboy hat sitting on the arm rest next to him. He wasn’t drinking.
We sat for a few moments in silence, but it wasn’t that awkward silence that so often accompanies conversation with a stranger. It was an easy silence, one that held no expectations. It just kind of floated like a cloud.
“I like your place here,” he said, glancing around the walls. “It’s real pleasant.”
“Thanks.”
“You’ve got a lot of friends,” he said, his eyes taking in all the happy, smiling couples in the photo frames.
“Not really,” I said.
I cleared my throat.
“So what were you doing at The Cupid this morning?” I said, meeting his eyes. “Seems early to be at a bar. Especially for someone who only drinks fruity soda.”
“I was meeting someone there,” he said.
“Oh?” I asked.
“Yeah.A business-related meeting.”
“What kind of business are you in?” I asked.
“I’m not in anything right now,” he said. “But I’m looking to be.”
My heart sank a little. He was dodging the question, and when people did that, it usually meant that whatever they did wasn’t above board.
“Something illegal?” I asked.
He smirked.
“Now I think you’re the one with the wrong impression of me, Bitters,” he said.
I shrugged.
“Sounds mysterious, is all,” I said. “Which in my experience, usually means illegal.”
“It’s not,” he said.
“I’m not sure if I believe you. This whiskey isn’t cheap. It’s something a drug dealer might drink.”
“Well, pardon me saying so, but I think a gal like you should only be drinking the best.”
I nearly snorted.
“And now I know you’re a schmoozer,” I said. “My mother always said to watch out for those types.”
“That’s a good piece of advice right there,” the stranger said.
I smiled.
“What kind of name is Bitters anyway?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“One that stuck a long time ago when I started bartending.”
“Hmm,” he said, rubbing his chin. “You know, I don’t think the name fits.”
“Maybe you just don’t know me well enough,” I said.
He shrugged.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I got a sense about these things.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. And when I look at you, I just don’t see a Bitters.”
“Well, what do you see?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I’ll tell you when I do.”
Another silence settled in over the conversation. We both stared at the crackling fire. I took another sip of the whiskey.
Damn, this was some mighty fine stuff.
“So where’s home, Fletcher?” I asked.
“All over,” he said, without missing a beat. “Mostly Tennessee, but I’ve never really put stakes down anywhere. You get used to a certain way of living, you know?”
There weren’t too many jobs that you could do that with, I thought.
Dealing drugs might have been one of them.
“But if you want to know the truth, I don’t care much for talking about myself. I’d rather hear about you,” he said. “What do you do for fun in a town like this?”
I lifted my eyebrows up in surprise, and then looked back at the fire.
Fun. I didn’t know the meaning of the word lately.
“Not much to do in a town this size,” I said. “The Cupid was the best thing about Broken Hearts Junction. When I was a kid, I used to go there all the time just to listen to the music. That place used to be magic.”
I felt a sour expression settling in over my face.
“Now it’s just a rundown joint in the middle of nowhere.”
“Well, what else do you do for fun?”
I thought about my matchmaking for a second.
That used to be what I did for fun. Nothing made me happier than the thrill of making a match, of bringing two people together who otherwise might have missed each other without me intervening.
But things had changed. When I thought about Beth Lynn and helping her find her mystery soulmate, I felt dread, not excitement.
The truth was, I didn’t really like making people happy anymore.
I didn’t have much fun these days.
I shrugged.
“Maybe I’m just a serious person,” I said, staring into my nearly empty drink.
He got up, grabbed the bottle and poured me another.
“I don’t see anything wrong with that,” he said.
He sat back down in the chair and stared at me a few moments.
“You were
saying something the other night,” he said. “When I dropped you off. Something about some sort of super power you have.”
My cheeks flushed, and it wasn’t because of the spirits.
“I really shouldn’t drink so much,” I said. “I was saying a lot of nonsense the other night.”
“You were saying that you can see a person’s soulmate,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Wasn’t that it?”
I looked away. Me and my big mouth.
“And as I recall, you looked at me like I was insane,” I said.
“I don’t think you’re insane,” he said. “You were a little tipsy, maybe. A little crazy. But not insane.”
I didn’t see any reason to keep on lying.
Any harm I’d done to myself I’d already done. And Fletcher Hart was either going to think I was a nutcase, or he was going to have an open mind about it.
“Well, I won’t lie to you then. Everything I said the other night is true,” I said. “I’ve got a gift for helping people find their soulmates.”
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
“You’re pulling my leg,” he said, looking more interested than skeptical.
I nodded to the wall of photos.
“Not a bit. All those people can attest to, uh, my gift,” I said. “I helped each and every one of them find their true loves. And you know what? They’re all still together. Each and every one of—”
He followed my gaze, back up to my monument to madness, and I noticed his eyes fell upon one photo in particular.
The one of Jacob and me.
“Is that him?” he said, looking back at me.
I bit my lip, nodded, and took another long sip of whiskey.
“I mean, just about all of them are still togeth…”
I trailed off.
He scanned my face, like he was trying to gauge just how deep the pain ran.
I cleared my throat.
Fletcher sat back in his chair, looking at the fire for a few moments, probably deciding how to politely get out of this crazy woman’s home without making too much of a scene.
I leaned forward, resting my head on the palm of my hand, regretting that I had told him in the first place about my ability.
It was out of character for me. Even drunk, I had enough of a handle on that particular secret to keep it. But I don’t know. Something about the stranger had made me feel like I could talk to him, like I could tell him things.
He had an easy way of listening.
“I’m not expecting you to believe me,” I said. “Most people don’t. Not even my mom does, even though she’s benefitted from it.”
“Does it really matter whether I believe you?” he said. “I mean, seems to me you’ve got a lot of proof.”
He looked back up at the wall.
“Maybe only one misstep.”
He looked at the photo of Jacob and me again.
“Well, maybe the verdict’s still out on that.”
“Oh?” Fletcher said, lifting his eyes.
“Just because you find your soulmate doesn’t mean that life with them is easy as pie,” I said. “People still have problems, you know.”
That insight hung in the air for a little while. The stranger got up and put another log on the fire, beating me to the punch.
The flames crackled with the new infusion of fuel. I glanced out the window to the front porch and saw that the snow was continuing to pile high on the railing.
You never knew what to expect with the weather here in Broken Hearts. The weather was a lot like love. Stormy one moment. Bright and sunny the next.
“You know, I’ve never liked that term much,” he said.
“What term?”
“Soulmate,” he said. “Makes it sound like people are meant to be together, like it’s pre-ordained or destined. I’ve never been too fond of that idea.”
My whole life had been built upon the idea, I realized.
“Well, what do you believe in, then?” I asked.
“Free will,” he said. “An open road and a wide blue sky. And not being tied down to anything or anyone.”
“Sounds nice.”
He cleared his throat.
“Least that’s what I used to believe,” he said.
“Not anymore?” I asked.
“I couldn’t stay true to the idea,” he said. “I got waylaid by a bad woman, once. She took the notion right outta me.”
He stared down into the fire for a moment, a strange look on his face. I was about to ask him more about it, but he interrupted me before I could begin.
“But that’s a story for a different time,” he said.
I nodded, and he sat back down in the chair near the fire.
“You think his wife’s going to be okay?”
It took me a moment to realize he was talking about Courtney: he had changed the subject so abruptly.
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Those two had a lot of problems, but I think she loved him, in her own way. I think it’s hitting her pretty hard.”
I flashed again on Dale’s body spread out on the barroom floor.
“You know, Dale and I didn’t get on all that well,” I said. “But he wasn’t a bad man. He didn’t deserve to die in a freak accident like that.”
The stranger didn’t say anything for a few moments, but I could tell something was on his mind.
“What?” I finally said.
“You know that it wasn’t no accident, don’t you?” he said.
Chapter 31
Even though she’s gone, he still feels those sharp dark eyes of hers boring into him.
Those large, full, brown—almost black—eyes flecked with amber always kind of had a way with him, made him think about and do things that he knew he shouldn’t be thinking about or doing.
He watches as she crosses the deserted fairgrounds parking lot, dodging the shadows cast by the streetlights before finally disappearing into those shadows at the edge of the woods. He sits in the truck bed, all alone, his eyes fixing on the last place he saw her before she vanished into the forest.
Coward.
Her words echo in his head. They have a steel edge to them that he didn’t think she was capable of, and their steeliness drills into him like a rusted nail.
Maybe she’s right.
About him being a coward.
But things are complicated. A lot more complicated than she makes them out to be. There were people looking to him, things that he couldn’t afford to sacrifice.
Lines that couldn’t be crossed.
She had been a mistake.
That’s what he had told her. That she was just a big mistake. That he’d been drunk that night when…
That she didn’t have any right to him, and the best thing to do was to pretend it had never happened.
None of it.
He sits there in the empty parking lot, feeling the negative space of her presence. Small fingers of guilt tug at his barrel chest.
But it isn’t the kind of guilt he usually feels when he breaks somebody’s heart. He’d known what that felt like, and the feeling never lasted all that long.
No, this guilt is of a different kind.
That feeling you get when you tell a lie, and see someone else suffer for it.
That’s the feeling he has now.
His eyes grow damp when he thinks about the pain on her face.
He swallows back spit, gets out of the truck bed and opens the door to his truck, his body aching as he climbs in.
He thinks about the guys and what they’d say if they ever found out what he’d been doing with her.
He’d never live it down.
And that’s something he just can’t afford.
He starts up the engine, the sound of it rumbling off the asphalt.
He throws his foot down on the accelerator and peels out of the parking lot.
It still feels like she’s watching him. .
Maybe he would talk t
o her tomorrow.
Maybe he would be honest with her.
Maybe she would be worth it.
Chapter 32
I looked out at the frozen landscape.
The juniper trees were encased in a thin layer of ice. A low fog had rolled in and hovered above the snow drifts that now covered the sage brush-dotted ground.
I sat on the sofa, drinking a cup of strong black coffee, thinking about the strange dream I’d had. How it had almost felt like one of my visions, except none of it made any sense to me.
It didn’t fall in line at all with the ones I’d been having of Beth Lynn’s mystery man.
The dream had an entirely different atmosphere to it.
But I never got a look at the boy whose thoughts I was hearing. I never got a real good look at the girl he was watching, either.
But though the vision had left me with a strange feeling, I hadn’t been thinking too much about it this morning. Mostly what I’d been thinking about was what the stranger had said the night before.
That there was no way Dale’s death was accidental.
And the more I thought about it, the more he seemed to be right.
Old Velma had been sitting above that bar for years without so much as shifting. The chances of her falling just as Dale was walking by seemed like a one and a million shot.
Plus, perhaps the most damning of all of it was the song skipping on the jukebox.
I knew it was Tex Ritter singing, but I didn’t know much about the song itself.
Fletcher did.
It’s about a cowboy whose head gets bashed in by a bronco, he had said.
And it seemed like a rather large coincidence that that song, of all songs in that old jukebox, was the one skipping over and over when I discovered Dale’s body.
No. That did not sound like an accident to me either.
Fletcher had left shortly after dropping that bombshell on me. I had been worried about how he was getting back to his hotel in the snow, considering he was without a car.
I had told him he could stay until the snow let up. On the couch, of course.
Maybe that had been foolish of me, willing to let a stranger stay over like that. But I had Hank, and besides, there was something about Fletcher that felt trustworthy.
