"I doubt I'll be late," she told her grandfather as he walked with her past the kitchen table set with Tom Jones place mats.
"You look lovely." Stanley helped her with her coat. "If you drink too much, promise to give me a call."
"Thanks. I will," she said, but she didn't have any intention of drinking much at all. She fished her keys out of her backpack and reached for the door.
"And Kate."
She looked up into her grandfather's eyes. "What?"
"Don't beat all the boys at pool." He laughed, but Kate wasn't sure he was joking.
The outside of the Buckhorn Bar looked like a lot of the businesses in Gospel, made of split logs, with a green tin roof. But unlike the other establishments, there were no striped awnings or planters to soften the rough appearance. No wooden Indian or gold leaf lettering on the blacked-out windows. The door handle was made from a horn, and a big neon sign with an elk on it hung over the worn porch. Cement patched the holes in the old logs, but slices of dim light and the whine of steel guitar slipped through a few cracks and into the darkness outside.
Walking into the Buckhorn was like walking into a hundred other small-town cowboy bars. It was a second home to the regulars, and anyone new was eyed with suspicion.
The owner of the bar, Burley Morton, weighed in at about three hundred pounds and stood just over six-feet-five. He kept a Louisville Slugger and a sawed-off shotgun behind the long bar. He hadn't used the Slugger since '85, when a flatlander had attempted to rob him of a case of Coors Lite and a pack of beer nuts. He hadn't had trouble of that nature in years, but he kept both items handy just in case. Occasionally, one of the locals got riled up and developed beer muscles, but it was nothing he couldn't handle with a call to the sheriff's office or his own two fists.
The door to the Buckhorn closed behind Kate, and she was reminded of a lot of the older hotels and casinos in Vegas. The bar smelled of alcohol and old cigarette smoke that had seeped into the wood like varnish. The owner's attempt to cover it up with cherry deodorizer didn't help.
On the jukebox, Kenny Chesney sang about a big star while a few couples danced in the center of the large room. Kate wasn't a huge fan of country music, but Kenny was a big improvement over Tom. Green shamrock garlands decorated the long bar and several of the red booths. A bulletin board filled with multicolored flyers was nailed to the wall to Kate's right.
Kate hung her backpack over her shoulder and moved toward the bar. She wove through a few tables and found a stool near the neon Coor's light.
"What can I get ya?" the owner of the Buckhorn asked around the cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth.
"Do you have a winter wheat?"
Burley's thick black brows pulled together, and he looked at her as if she'd ordered a Shirley Temple with extra cherries.
"I'll have a Bud Lite," she amended.
"Good choice," he said, and a thin plume of smoke followed him as he moved away to the beer spigots.
"Aren't you Stanley's granddaughter?"
She turned her gaze to the man on the stool next to her and instantly recognized Hayden Dean, the inspiration for the Mangy Rat poem.
"Yes. How are you, Mr. Dean?"
"Good." He reached for his beer, and his shoulder brushed Kate's. She wasn't so sure it was an accident.
Burley returned and set two glasses of green beer in front of her. "Two-fifty."
"I only ordered one," she said as the song on the juke changed and Clint Black poured from the speakers.
He took the cigar out of his mouth and pointed to a sign behind him. "Wednesday night is twofer night."
Wow, twofer night. Kate hadn't enjoyed twofer night since college. These days, pounding beer didn't hold the appeal it had in her early twenties, when she'd been a champion keg stander and beer bonger.
"I haven't been in here before," she said to Hayden as she dug into her Dooney bag and handed Burley a five. She glanced over her left shoulder toward the back of the bar. Through an opening she could see billiard lights hanging over two pool tables.
She raised a beer to her lips and felt something brush her thigh.
"I love the redheads," Hay den said.
She looked down at his hand on her leg, then back up into his heavily lined face. It figured that the only man to pay attention to her in a year was a creepy old guy with beer breath and a reputation for low standards. "Take your hand off my thigh, Mr. Dean."
He smiled, and she noticed that some of his back molars were missing. "You've got fire. I like that in a woman."
Kate rolled her eyes. She'd kept up with self-defense classes since she'd first received her PI license, and if she wanted, she could remove Hayden's hand and pin his thumb to his wrist all in one motion. But she didn't want to hurt Mr. Dean. It might make things difficult the next time he came into the M &S for a free cup of coffee. She stood and placed the strap of her backpack on her shoulder. Even though she really didn't want two green beers, she grabbed them off the bar and headed toward the back. As she carefully wove her way through the locals, she sipped out of each glass to keep them from spilling.
In the cramped back room, four players occupied the two tables while several spectators drank beer and loitered under the big No Spitting, No Fighting, No Betting sign.
Within the dusky shadows of the room, Rob Sutter pushed away from the wall and moved to lean over one of the tables. "Three in the side pocket," he said over the crack of pool balls from the other table and the sound of George Jones crooning from the juke in the next room.
Kate stood in the doorway and watched him line up the shot. The light hanging directly over the table shone down on his left hand and the silver ring on his middle finger. Blue flannel was rolled up his long arms, exposing the tail of his snake tattoo, and he wore a navy blue ball cap with a fly hook and the words "Bite me" embroidered on it. He slid the stick between his thumb and first finger and shot. What he lacked in finesse, he made up for in pure muscle. The cue ball hit the solid red ball so hard that it jumped before shooting across the table and falling into the pocket. His gaze followed the ball to the edge of the table, paused for several heartbeats, then continued up the buttons of Kate's coat, passed her chin and mouth to her eyes. Within the shadow of his hat, his gaze met hers, and he simply stared. Then a slight frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. Kate didn't know if he was irritated to see her or bothered because he'd hit the cue so hard that he'd lost control of it. Probably both.
He stood in one smooth motion, and a shadow from the brim of his cap slid to the end of his nose, leaving only his lips, mustache, and soul patch exposed to the dim light of the room. He wore a white T-shirt beneath the unbuttoned blue flannel shirt. The tails hung loose about the hips and the button fly of his Levi's.
While he stood there looking like every girl's fantasy, she figured she looked like a dork clutching her green beers in her hands.
Kate thought about backing out of the room, but if she left now, he'd think she'd left because of him, which would be the truth, but she didn't want him to know it. He bent over the table once more, all long and lean, his firm butt filling out his Levi's. No doubt about it, Rob Sutter was hot. The kind that made a girl tingle in interesting places. Not Kate, though. He didn't make her tingle. She was immune. He drew the cue back and she turned away.
There were no tables or stools, and Kate set her beers on one of the shelves sticking out of the wall. She hung her backpack and coat on a hook behind her. Next table over from Rob, two of the three Worsley brothers were about to wrap up their game. Kate slid three quarters under the cushion of the table, then chose a nineteen-ounce house cue from the rack on one wall. She held it like she was sighting in a rifle. The shaft was a little warped, but it had a nice, hard tip. She set the butt end by her right foot and waited.
Rob missed his next shot, which wasn't surprising, since he again practically shot the cue ball off the table. He straightened, and a bleached blonde with enormous breasts handed him a bottle of Heineken.
Her name was Dixie Howe, and she owned the Curl Up and Dye hair salon. She had long red nails and hooked a finger through Rob's belt loop. She gave it a tug and said something next to his ear. Evidently Dixie didn't know that Rob had a real problem with bold women who made the first move and that he was a total waste of male perfection.
Over the past few weeks, she'd thought about investigating Mr. Rob Sutter. Besides being rude and obnoxious, all she really knew about him was that he drove a HUMMER, used to play hockey, and had a knee injury. She assumed the injury had ended his career, but she didn't know that for certain. She could ask her grandfather, but he'd think her interest in Rob was a romantic one. If she wanted to know more, she'd have to drag her laptop out of the box where she'd stored it in her bedroom closet. She knew the license plate number on his vehicle. With a few clicks and a tap, she'd take a look at his driver's license and obtain his date of birth and his Social Security number. After that, she could learn his employment history and if he'd ever been married. She'd discover other tidbits about him too, like if he had a criminal past.
But she didn't do that sort of thing anymore. Not for work. Not even to satisfy her own curiosity.
She took a sip of her beer and looked at him over the bottom of her glass. His head was bent slightly over Dixie's as she spoke, but Kate could feel him looking at her. She couldn't really see his eyes for the shadow of his hat, but she could feel his gaze touch her face and slide down her body. If she hadn't been immune to him, she might have felt her insides catch fire.
The Worsley brothers' game ended and Kate stepped forward to challenge the winner. Peirce Worsley stood five-foot-ten in his custom-made cowboy boots. Like his brothers, he had short, kinky brown hair. All three of them lived and worked at their family's ranch about twenty miles out of Gospel. Their ages ranged from thirty to twenty-five. Kate had met them the few times they'd come into the M &S. They didn't appear to be the sharpest knives in the drawer, but Kate hadn't come to the Buckhorn for intelligent conversation.
Peirce racked the pool balls while Kate tossed a coin to determine who went first. She won and positioned the cue ball near the side rail behind the foot string. She leaned over, slid the stick over the bridge of her thumb, aimed at the second ball, and shot. All fifteen balls separated, and the solid yellow rolled across the green wool and fell into a side pocket. Next she shot the three into the left corner pocket and the seven into the right. She banked the cue off the head cushion and left the solid blue next to a side pocket for a later shot. Four good shots, and she'd almost managed to forget Rob was in the room.
Peirce pushed up the brim of his cowboy hat and looked back across the table at her. He had light blue Helter-Skelter eyes, which should have been her first clue that the evening was going to deteriorate into madness. "Where you from?" he asked.
"Las Vegas."
"Are you a hustler?"
Kate stared at him and tried to remember that the brothers weren't too bright even when they were sober. If she was trying to hustle Peirce, did he really think she'd admit it to him? "No, I'm not a hustler."
"You play in a league or something?"
"My parents had a pool table when I was growing up," she answered and moved to where she'd left her beer. She raised the green Bud Lite to her lips and watched as Dixie Howe leaned over the other table and gave everyone a clear view of her deep cleavage. Kate had no problem with women who put it out there. She just didn't happen to be one of them. Well, except for that one time. Kate glanced at Rob, who, like the other men, had his eyes glued on Dixie's impressive implants. He said something that made Dixie laugh, then he raised a bottle of beer to his lips.
Kate turned her attention to Peirce as he made his shot and lined up another. Kate remembered enough about the night she'd first met Rob to recall that he could be somewhat charming. She'd been fooled and taken in by it, but in her own defense, she'd been really drunk.
"If you beat Peirce, you play me next."
She looked across her shoulder at another of the brothers. "Which Worsley are you?" she asked.
"Turtle." He pointed to his left. "This is Victor. If you beat me, you play Victor," he said as if she didn't have a choice. "But I doubt you'll beat me."
"I don't think I'll be staying that long, Tuttle."
"Are you afraid I'll win?"
Peirce missed his shot, and she set down her beer. "No."
"Go ahead and bet her five bucks you'll win, Tut," Victor said, then he downed his beer.
"Wow, five whole bucks."
Her sarcasm was lost on both men. "If that's too rich for your blood, we could play strip pool."
Right. She approached the end of table, and her gaze took in the position of the balls. She had to wait for Rob to finish his shot before she could proceed further between the tables. He straightened, but he didn't move aside to let her pass.
"Excuse me," she said as she glanced up, but the shadow of his hat hid most of his face.
He still didn't move, and she was forced to squeeze by, so close that she could see the stubble on his jaw. The rolled-up sleeve of his flannel shirt brushed her arm. She looked into his shadowy gaze as she passed. His eyes narrowed and she figured he was annoying the hell out of her on purpose. Probably because he was mad about that gay rumor thing.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll call it a night and go home."
No probablys about it. He was mad. "Are you threatening me?"
"I don't threaten women."
Well, it had sounded like a threat to her. "Just so you know, I didn't start that rumor about you."
He looked at her for several long seconds, then said, "Right."
"At least I didn't mean to." He just continued to stare, and she shrugged. "If you're interested in hearing the truth about how it got started, maybe I'll tell you sometime."
"I know how it got started." He lowered his voice and said, "Because I wouldn't have sex with you in a hotel room, you came to town and told everyone that I'm gay."
Kate looked around to see if anyone had heard him. They hadn't, but she suspected he wouldn't have cared. "How does it feel to be wrong?" she asked. She didn't wait for an answer and leaned over the table. She lined up a shot and tried to ignore Rob completely.
She made quick work of beating Peirce while his brothers took delight in taunting him because he'd lost to a girl. Peirce's face turned red, and he stomped off to the bar. Before she could really protest, Turtle racked the balls, and Kate resigned herself to playing one more game.
She'd never been the sort of girl to purposely lose at anything-not to perpetrate a hustle or even to make a man feel better about himself.
Turtle took the break and shot at the apex ball. It careened into the cushion, bounced off the two, and fell into the side pocket. Turtle smiled like he'd meant to do it on purpose. Next, he shot the solid orange into the corner pocket. Unfortunately, the cue ball followed it in.
"Are you going to let a girl beat you?" Victor called out to his brother. "You guys are embarrassing the family."
"Shut up, Victor," Tuttle grumbled as Kate placed the white ball behind the head string.
"I've been to Vegas a few times. Are you one of those topless showgirls?" Tuttle asked, then snickered like he was thirteen.
She glanced up at him then shot, knocking in the nine ball, then the fifteen. If he thought talking to her would mess up her concentration, he was wrong. She'd learned to play pool in a house filled with her loud brothers and their friends. "Afraid not."
"Ever work at the Chicken Ranch?" He must have thought he was real funny, because he cracked himself up.
Kate let it pass and dropped the fourteen in the side pocket, followed by the ten.
"Wanna come back to our ranch?"
The eleven and twelve dropped next. "No thanks."
"I could show you the horses. Lots of girls come out to ride the horses."
Somehow, Kate doubted "lots of girls" went anywhere near the Worsley ranch. She moved to the other side of
the table and waited for Rob to take his shot. When he was through, she knocked in the fifteen, then the eight. She placed her hand on the side rail and lined up a bank shot that she'd made a million times in the past. Tonight she missed making it by a fraction.
She raised, took a step backward, and came up against something hard and unmovable. She glanced over her shoulder, past blue flannel, to Rob's chin and mouth. She looked up into his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. The room was cramped, but not that cramped. He was crowding her and purposely annoying her again.
"Could you move?" she asked.
"Yeah, I could." But he didn't. Instead, his big hands grasped the tops of her arms as if he meant to move her away, but he didn't do that either. For half an instant a shocking urge to lean back into his chest popped into her head. To feel the warmth of him up and down her spine. To turn and press her nose into his flannel collar and take a deep breath.
Appalled by her thoughts, she told herself that it had been a long time. A long time since she'd had sex. It wasn't him. Other than the Worsleys, it could have been just about anyone. Well, not Mr. Dean either.
"The Worsley boys are mean little bastards." He leaned forward a little, and the brim of his hat brushed the side of her head. The scent of his warm skin filled her lungs. "Not the kind of guys a girl should show her tattoo."
She turned her head and looked up into the shadow beneath the brim of his hat. "Gee, thanks for the warning. And I was just about to drop my pants, too."
His lips remained in a flat line as he slid his hand up her arm and shoulder. His long, warm fingers brushed her hair from the side of her bare neck.
"What are you doing?"
"Showing the rednecks around here who want to kick my ass that I'm not gay." His breath warmed the shell of her ear, and anyone looking at the two of them might think he was whispering naughty things to her. "I can hold my own against one or two at a time, but a barful might be more than even I can handle." Kate glanced about the room, but it didn't seem like the rednecks were paying Rob much attention. It occurred to her that he might be lying, but she hadn't been at the Buckhorn long enough to be certain.
The Trouble With Valentine's Day Page 8
