4 Malice in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

  Still, it kind of bothered me that Beth Lynn was disregarding my advice so blatantly. One of my visions wasn’t something to take lightly. But instead of looking for Mr. Right, she was wasting her days on every young and dumb Mr. Wrong she could find. Last month it was that beefy, greasy gas attendant, Kirby Carruthers. This week, it was this kid with shaggy hair, a five-o-clock shadow, and big puppy dog eyes that made him look even younger than he probably was.

  He whispered something into Beth Lynn’s ear, and she started giggling like a teenager.

  I glanced down at the other end of the bar, making sure I wasn’t neglecting any customers. Or maybe I was just looking to be spared from the stomach-turning scene in front of me. But the Saturday night rush hadn’t quite started yet in The Stupid Cupid Saloon, and everybody had been taken care of. A quiet-before-the-storm type feeling had settled over the bar.

  A truck driver in a wide-brimmed cowboy hat standing by the jukebox hit a button, and the saloon was soon filled with a ‘90s Brooks & Dunn song that reminded me of a simpler time.

  But soon, Ronnie’s wasn’t the only voice echoing throughout the bar.

  “Dammit, Dale! There’s a reason you don’t see livestock setting down at the poker table. How many times do you have to lose before you realize that you don’t have the damn betting sense of a donkey?”

  Courtney’s tone had that high-pitched, grating quality that it had when something really irked her.

  I sighed.

  The quiet before the storm was shattered by Dale and Courtney’s usual brawls over money and the lack of it. Arguments that always had a way of drifting out into the main bar area, making everybody within earshot feel uncomfortable.

  “Don’t speak to me about sense, woman,” Dale rebutted. “Not when you’re wearing those fancy designer cowgirl boots ‘arderd straight outta the cat-a-log.”

  Dale’s come-back fell right in line with his usual come-backs: ripping on Courtney’s lavish fashion expenditures.

  “If you were half the husband you promised to be when we wed, then you’d a bought these boots for me with your winnings,” she said. “But since you can’t bet for sh—”

  “You watch your mouth when you speak to me, woman!”

  A few of the customers looked around like they weren’t sure whether or not the saloon was actually open for business given the dispute taking place.

  I nodded at them reassuringly, letting them know that it wasn’t them—it was us.

  For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why Dale and Courtney put themselves and everyone else through this daily ritual. Despite having been high school sweethearts, it was plain to see that the two of them weren’t meant for each other—you didn’t need psychic gifts to come to that conclusion.

  Still, they carried on. Stuck together like two ill-fitting peas in a pod whose only aim in life was to push the other one as far as possible to the other end until the very fabric that held them together burst apart.

  It wasn’t an easy environment to work in, to say the least. Half the time I was caught in their crossfire. But I did the best I could. Because I didn’t have many other options in a town this size.

  Plus, I wasn’t at The Cupid because I liked Dale and Courtney. I was here for something else.

  I tried not to listen to them arguing. I hummed along to Neon Moon, wishing somebody would put a quarter into the jukebox and pick a Dwight Yoakam song next.

  Dwight never failed to lift my spirits. And on a night like this, with Courtney and Dale at each other’s throats, my best friend ignoring my advice, and the impending Saturday night rush of customers on the horizon, I needed my spirits to be at their highest.

  I placed the freshly-chopped citrus in a silver deep-dish tray, and went about making sure the bar behind me was in order, with the bottles all in the right places.

  Good organization was key to surviving a busy night. A disorganized bar meant a disorganized bartender. And that meant a drop in tips. And that meant being late on the rent.

  Again.

  I grabbed the half-empty bottle of Grand Marnier that had somehow misplaced itself on the bottom shelf of the bar, returning it back up top. The short, tight-fitting black shirt that Dale had me and Courtney wear as our bar uniform lifted higher than I would have liked it. I left the bottle on the top shelf, and started wrestling with the fabric, which was riding high, completely exposing my less-than-flat midriff, reminding me that I’d been through a rough few years.

  “Damn, skinny girl shirt,” I mumbled. “Dammit.”

  The top was made for a teenage girl, not a 34-year-old busty woman who had been unsuccessfully trying to lose 15 pounds for three years now.

  I suddenly felt eyes on me. That kind of feeling that you get when someone’s watching you and only you.

  The music ran out just as the hair on the back of my neck stood up on end.

  “It’s only my opinion, but you ought to not feel so self-conscious,” a voice said. “You’re lookin’ just fine tonight.”

  Chapter 2

  I felt my cheeks growing red.

  It was a deep, strong voice with a southern drag to it. Long and slow, not the tight-tongued northern country accents some of the ranch boys around here had.

  I turned around.

  He had a flat, crooked nose. That was the first thing you noticed about him: someone or something had once done a number on him at some point. There was a scar too that ran across the bridge of the nose.

  He had dark sandy-colored hair that reached halfway down his neck, and he wore it slicked back. He had a beard that looked to only be a few days old. I don’t know why, but it reminded me of a look a fugitive might wear to hide his identity.

  His eyes were a stormy grey. Or maybe they were blue. It was hard to tell in the dim lights of the bar.

  He dressed like most guys around Broken Hearts Junction. Dark flannel and a worn cowboy hat sitting on the bar next to him.

  But he wasn’t from around here. That much I was sure of. He’d never been inside The Stupid Cupid Saloon before.

  It’d be hard to forget a face like his.

  I straightened out my shirt with my hands and walked over to him, embarrassed that he’d seen me in such an unflattering moment.

  “Nice of you to say so,” I said. “But I’m not too sure you’re right.”

  “I am,” he said.

  He said it in an abrasive manner. Kind of took my breath away a little bit.

  That, and the way his eyes fell on in me in a cold, honest stare.

  I cleared my throat.

  “What can I get you, cowboy?”

  “Anything to this Cupid’s Slingshot you make here?” he asked, nodding at the chalkboard that showed the bar’s drinks menu.

  “I make it pretty mean,” I said. “It’ll knock your socks off. No lie.”

  He nodded.

  “In that case, I will take an orange soda, if you would.”

  I furrowed my brow.

  “What?” I said.

  “Well, plain old grape soda if you’re fresh out of orange, though it wouldn’t be my first choice.”

  I shook my head. It was the first time anybody had ever ordered an orange soda since I’d been bartending.

  “I’m afraid we don’t get too many children in here,” I said. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  I wondered if that didn’t sound a little harsh. But I saw him crack a smile, and I knew he hadn’t been offended. I went to the other side of the bar, rummaged around in the small fridge and found a bottle of Fanta that we kept there for the High Desert Sunrise cocktail on the menu. I poured him a tall glass and set it in front of him on the pine bar.

  “You’re missing out by not trying a Cupid’s Slingshot,” I said.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “It’s just that I need my socks.”

  I smiled.

  “It’s them blisters,” he said. “I just can’t stand ‘em. You see, I like to wander. And them blisters can be mighty annoying.�
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  He took a drink. Then he rummaged around in his pockets for something and stood up.

  “Now, what can I get you?” he asked.

  “What?”

  He nodded toward the jukebox, like he’d been reading my thoughts earlier.

  “I saw you looking in that direction like you wanted to hear something,” he said. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “In that case, anything under the letter “Y” would do just fine,” I said.

  “Yearwood or Yoakam?”

  “Take a guess,” I said.

  That made him smirk for some reason.

  “What?” I said.

  He shrugged, walking over to the box.

  “Seems like you folks are a little stuck in the past around here,” he said. “That’s all.”

  He flipped through the catalogue before finding what I’d asked him to, making the right choice. He slid a quarter in the machine, and a moment later, Dwight’s 1000 Miles filled the bar.

  He came back over and took a seat.

  “Hey man—I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but Dwight’s timeless,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “Say what you will about Brooks & Dunn, but Dwight’s in a class all his own.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me on that,” he said, picking up his glass and tilting it back. “Just making an observation. No judgment attached.”

  That kind of irked me a little and I felt my ears grow hot.

  I could get kind of protective when it came to The Stupid Cupid Saloon. And when it came to strangers who insulted my beloved bar.

  But I calmed down after a few moments of Dwight’s lovely crooning about 1,000 miles of misery.

  “So what brings you to Broken Hearts Junction?” I said, quartering a few more limes in preparation for the Margarita orders I’d be filling as soon as Saturday night got started.

  He didn’t answer for a long moment, and when he did, it wasn’t really much of an answer.

  “I guess I’m looking for something,” he said.

  “In town?” I said.

  “Might be,” he said, turning the half-empty glass in front of him. “Is it really true what they say about this place?”

  “Depends on who you heard it from,” I said. “For instance, if Dry Hack over there told it to you, don’t believe a word.”

  I nodded to Dry Hack Jones, our most regular and dependable customer, sitting at the other end of the bar. Dry Hack wouldn’t mind me joshing him like that, but he didn’t seem to hear me. He just went right on drinking his usual gin and tonic, staring into space. Probably still lost somewhere in Operation Desert Storm, or maybe the Civil War, the way he usually was when he passed a certain number of beverages.

  “I heard this is where The Rusted Spurs once played three nights in a row.”

  I looked up at the stranger in surprise.

  We didn’t get too many people who came to the saloon these days looking for remnants of The Spurs’ glory days.

  Years ago, when I was just a teenager, The Rusted Spurs, a band out of Tennessee, had made a legendary stop at a little Central Oregon country western saloon in the middle of nowhere. It was right before the alternative country band’s big hit, when they were still somewhat unknown. Right after playing The Cupid those nights, the group took off, reaching damn near legend status in the world of country before disintegrating and disappearing off the face of the country western music map. But for a little while there, the stardust they left behind at The Cupid had drawn in high profile acts from around the country, turning the saloon into an up and coming music venue that became known nationally.

  But those days were long gone, and The Cupid had been spiraling downwards for many, many, years now, with an ever increasingly steep grade.

  “What you heard is right,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe how good The Rusted Spurs were back then neither. Henry Antrim on lead guitar was like something... something… Ah, hell, I can’t even describe how good they were.”

  “You saw them play?”

  I shrugged.

  “Well, almost,” I said. “I spent the night standing outside the bar when the owner caught me with a fake ID and kicked me out halfway through their first song.”

  I smiled, remembering how angry I was at Lawrence Halliday, The Cupid’s owner back then. He pulled me out of here kicking and screaming like a toddler in mid-tantrum.

  “Still, it was enough just standing outside on the sidewalk, listening to that music drift outside. That night… their music…” I sighed. “It changed my life.”

  People always talked about things like that. About something changing their lives. But sometimes, having your life changed like that wasn’t always a good thing, even if it felt like it at the time.

  Because that night was the reason I was where I was and who I was now:

  Which was a bartender, living in a small house by the railroad tracks.Single, and with exactly $120 in my bank account.

  That night changed my life. But not for the better. I’m not saying I would have gone on to be a lawyer or a scientist. But I probably wouldn’t have hit the road bump that I did with the speed that I did if I hadn’t fallen in love so young.

  I wouldn’t have met Jacob, if not for that night.

  “Sounds like something, all right,” the stranger said, meeting my eyes. “Wished I could have seen it myself.”

  Just then, I heard Beth Lynn vying for my attention from the other side of the bar.

  “Bitters, hon, my friend and I have emptied the watering hole, as it were.”

  She tapped her long, red nails against her empty glass. I broke the stranger’s stare, and turned my back to him as I fixed Beth Lynn and her new friend a couple more Cupid’s Slingshots.

  Just as I slid them their refreshers, the front door swung open, and then loud voices filled the dim bar as a large group crowded in and took a seat at one of the booths in the back. I took their orders, and whipped up some margaritas and grabbed a couple of Bud Lights from the fridge for a few heavy-set, burly-looking types.

  Just as I finished serving that group, another large one came through the door. Someone pushed a few quarters into the jukebox, and Waylon Jennings came blaring over the speakers.

  Saturday night was starting, and there wouldn’t be time for a moment’s rest from here to 2 a.m.

  Let alone, time to talk with the stranger about the old days, no matter how I might want to reminisce about simpler times.

  I pushed my long blonde hair back into a ponytail, took my station at the bar, and went to work.

  Chapter 3

  I guess I’ve gotten a little ahead of myself here, not even telling you who I am.

  My name’s Loretta Loveless. And even though I’m a bartender in a saloon, I’m not your barroom girl, contrary to what the Townes Van Zandt song says. I don’t wear sevens on my sleeve. I don’t dance, and my age is most certainly not 22. Hasn’t been for a long time.

  Loretta’s my name, but it’s always seemed a little fancy for me. Hell, my name sounds like a bad country song. I prefer to go by Bitters, a nickname I picked up a few ago when I first started tending bar again back home in Broken Hearts Junction. I guess I’ve always been a little heavy handed when it comes to adding that ingredient to my cocktails.

  I’m in my mid-thirties, and like any single gal in her mid-thirties, the future scares me. You see, up until three years ago, I wasn’t scared at all. My life was all planned out. I had someone I cared about, and someone who cared about me. He was… I mean, he is… my soulmate. I knew it from the moment I’d set eyes on him. Because I’d seen him in one of my visions.

  That’s the other thing about me. I’m not your average bartender. You see, I get these visions. I know that sounds like a bunch of mumbo jumbo, but it’s the truth. I don’t always control the visions. Most the time, they come out of nowhere, and without warning. Sometimes they’re garbled, like they’re coming through a broken TV set. A lot of times I hear other people’s thoughts.
And in most of them, I can see a person’s soulmate. Over the years, I’ve gotten a little better at controlling them. In a few cases, I’ve even been able to will a vision for somebody. But for the most part, those are rare cases.

  I don’t know where they come from, and I don’t know why I get them. If it’s hereditary, then I’m the only one who’s got it in my immediate family. My mom doesn’t have them and neither does my sister. If my dad did, he never said anything before he died.

  All I know is that the first match I ever made was when I was 10 years old. I got a vision of my fourth grade teacher and the school’s mailman. A month later, I’d figured out a way for the two of them to meet by luring her down to the main office just as he arrived for his daily mail drop-off. A year later, they were married, expecting their first child.

  Since that time, I’ve helped dozens, maybe even hundreds, of people find true love.

  I used to be good at it. And I loved doing it, too. I liked making people happy. I liked the rush of finally finding the person I saw in my vision. I loved figuring out clever ways to get them to meet.

  I loved watching them fall in love.

  But these days, I just can’t find it within me to match anymore. I still get the visions, but I no longer have any enthusiasm to see them through.

  I guess my nickname is fitting in that regard.

  Maybe I am bitter.

  It’s hard not to be when your soulmate leaves you behind in the dust of Broken Hearts Junction.

  But dwelling on that doesn’t do me any good. Especially not in the middle of a Saturday night when all of the town seemed to have squeezed themselves into The Stupid Cupid Saloon like sardines in a can to see some less-than mediocre country band called Cattle Carnage.

  “Five Cherry Cosmos for me and the girls,” shouted a community college blond who was wearing something more akin to a bandana than an actual top.

  I’d seen her in the bar before with these friends of hers. Most of the time, they just sat there looking steely, waiting for guys to hit on them, pouting at the end of the night if they didn’t get their way. But they usually did. Broken Hearts was a small town with more men than women, which gave them an advantage.