by Carrie Elks
No, it wasn’t only age separating her and Jace; it was a whole gulf of experience.
Murphy leaned farther across the bar until his face was only a few inches from hers. “I’m thirty-five, so our age difference is the same.” His breath warmed her skin when he spoke.
She licked her lips, considering his words. As different as she and Jace were, there was a similarity between her and Murphy she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The same way a child knew the difference between a tiger and a striped cat without being able to say why, she could tell Murphy was one of her own kind. Maybe it was his accent, or the way he held his body, but there was something about him that reminded her of home.
That wasn’t necessarily a comforting thought.
“It doesn’t matter so much when it’s that way round.” Her voice was soft. He had to strain to hear her, moving his face closer to hers. She wasn’t sure she liked this new proximity or the way he invaded her space; the change made her heart race uncomfortably fast. It almost came as a relief when he drained the last of his beer and placed the empty bottle on the bar, throwing down a bill and wishing her a good night. The way he’d been looking at her—with a regard that seemed a little too close for comfort—was making her feel skittish and exposed, and she didn’t like it one little bit.
Chapter Two
The next evening, Rachel was down in the cellar, fixing up a new keg of Amber Ale while Buddy held the fort at the bar. When she walked back inside, she was still breathless and a little heated from manhandling the barrel. Salty perspiration beaded her upper lip.
Murphy was sitting at the bar again, this time leaning on the wooden counter and talking to Buddy. He held his broad back tense and straight, like he was hyper-aware of his surroundings, a lion ready to pounce the moment he was threatened. Rachel looked at him for a moment, studying his clothes and the way he stood. He didn’t have to open his mouth for people to know he wasn’t from around here; the cut of his top and the color of his jeans were enough to mark him out as a stranger. His pants weren’t pale and over-washed like the good ol’ boys’, and his Henley was no checkered shirt. As Buddy might say, he looked as out of place as a chicken in a church. The thought made her want to laugh.
“The keg’s changed.” She flashed a smile at Buddy. He walked slowly to the tap handles, pulling a pint glass from the shelf above and placing it beneath the spout. His pale, wrinkled hand wrapped around the wooden handle, pulling it toward him until the draft started to flow. The first glass from a new keg was always “for the bar”—a tumbler full of foam they threw away.
“Good evening.” Murphy’s deep voice took her attention away from Buddy and the taps. She glanced over at him, nodding slightly, her lips pulled back into a thin, worried line.
“I didn’t expect to see you around here again.”
He gave the barest hint of a smile. His body was still and his face wary, like Rachel was a stray dog he was trying to tame. “My business is taking longer than expected. I’ll be here a few more days.” He wrapped his fingers around his bottle and brought it to his mouth, his head tipping back as he drank.
“Something to do with the mines?” She picked up some empty glasses left on the bar and transferred them to the washer.
“What makes you think that?” He was leaning on the bar again, his grey sleeves pushed up to above his elbows. His forearms were thick and strong, defined by long tendons running down to his wrist. He seemed stronger and more powerful than the boys in Hillbrook. Despite their hard, manual work, they tended to run soft around the belly and thin in the legs.
Rachel allowed herself to smile. “It’s pretty much the only business around here.”
There was silence for a minute, a thick, cloying quiet that put Rachel’s teeth on edge. His next words did nothing to calm her feeling of unease.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
He was looking at her with a strange expression, and the left-hand corner of his lip quirked up, elongating the scar running down to his jaw. It was more scrutiny than smile—the expression a man would have when he was concentrating too hard on something. It reminded her of the way her father used to read the sports pages on a Sunday morning.
“What gave me away?” Her airy laugh was contrived even to her own ears. It made her wince.
Murphy shrugged, his powerful shoulders dragging up the fabric of his top. “Your accent, for one. You sound a little too cultured for Bumfuck, West Virginia.” He didn’t seem to care he was insulting a whole town. “Your clothes, too. You don’t look like you bought them down at the local store.”
Glancing down at her jeans and sweater, Rachel wondered why he thought they weren’t bought around there. She hadn’t met a man yet who knew the difference between designer and low-end. “We don’t have a local store. We do, however, have a Walmart about forty miles south of here.”
Though she said it lightly, his implications were grating on her. He didn’t think she fit in. The thought scared her, made her feel exposed, like a camera shutter left open for a few seconds too long. When a shuffling to her left alerted her to another customer, she turned away from Murphy, grateful for the distraction.
“You want another drink, Eddie?” She waited for a moment until he slowly nodded his head, loosening his grip enough to let her take the glass. She placed it behind the counter, pulling a clean one from the shelf, lining it up beneath the tap. “It isn’t like you to order two in a night.” Her words made Eddie smile, his grin revealing a mouth full of tobacco-stained teeth.
He glanced sideways at Murphy before leaning in to Rachel and whispering, “We heared the outsider was back.”
Rachel bit down a smile, realizing exactly why Eddie was ordering a second drink when one was usually enough. He’d been sent over by the other men, desperate for some gossip in a town where nothing ever happened.
“He sure is.” Though she’d restrained a grin, there was still some humor in her voice. “He has business around here.”
Eddie nodded, watching as she poured the ale. His eyes never left the glass until she’d filled it right to the rim. She’d poured him enough beer to know anything less than level with the top was bound to be rejected.
“Is he staying for long?” Eddie leaned in farther still. Back at his table, the old boys were staring intently at the two of them, preparing themselves for the news Eddie would bring back. On the whole, they were worse gossips than their wives.
“I don’t know.” Rachel responded in a stage whisper, enough to make Murphy smile. She could see his amusement from the corner of her eye. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Eddie shook his head rapidly, grabbing his glass and walking carefully back to the table so as not to spill a drop. As soon as he sat down on his wooden stool, he became the focus of the others’ attentions, strutting like he was a minor celebrity.
Rachel walked over to where Murphy was still sitting, taking his empty bottle. “They’re all talking about you.”
“Did they talk about you like this when you first arrived?” He nodded at the bottle. She took a moment to pull another from the cooler, trying to overcome her discomfort at his question.
“Sometimes, but I think Buddy protected me from the worst of the inquisitions. It helps if the bar owner tells people to back off.”
“Have you known him long?” He leaned his chin on his right hand, his stare as intense as she remembered.
Passing him the unopened bottle, she watched as he opened it with his key ring again. She bit down the questions rising up in her throat, choosing to answer his with a short tone. “Long enough.”
She couldn’t quite place the emotion that danced across his face. It looked a little like frustration, the sort of expression you saw on a kid who couldn’t get the numbers to add up in math class. His brow was furrowed, a deep line imprinted on his forehead. Then he raised an eyebrow and lifted his hands like he was surrendering something. “Hey, I’m only making conversation.”
A
wave of discomfort rolled up her body, making her shiver. She let out a deep breath, reminding herself she wasn’t in Boston anymore, that his questions didn’t mean he knew why she’d left. Maybe her carefully built walls were becoming a little too abrasive. She told herself to let up a little. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to talking about myself.” She offered him a placatory smile.
He returned it, the corners of his lips pulling up. “No worries. We can talk about something else.” Murphy raised his eyes up to the ceiling as if he was searching for a topic. “How about football? Who do you think’s going to win the Super Bowl this year?”
A roll of laughter erupted from her throat. “You’ve picked the wrong subject there. I know nothing about football.”
His brows arched upward, his eyes widening to expose more white. “You don’t have a favorite team?”
“Not really. My dad was more of a hockey man. I was brought up on the rink.”
Murphy nodded. “Bruins?”
“Always the Black and Gold.” She smiled wistfully. She hadn’t thought of her father in a long time before tonight, but the memories of their shared love of hockey were warm ones. A pang of nostalgia ate at her stomach, reminding her of the good times before he died.
His smile grew a little bigger. He leaned forward. “I saw a few games in 2011. They were on fire that year.”
“I didn’t get to see them much then.” She swallowed hard. Back in 2011, she didn’t really get to see a whole lot of anything. She tried to bite down the thought before it was fully formed, not wanting Murphy to see her strange response. Turning her back on him, she began to wipe down the already clean bar, thinking she’d already answered enough of his questions for one evening.
* * *
When Rachel woke on Sunday morning, the storm that had been threatening all week was starting to creep in. It had already issued a warning, dusting the town with a layer of white—a little taste of what was to come. She stood at her small bedroom window looking down at the parking lot below. The first inches of snow lay softly like a cotton-wool blanket, leveling out the asphalt and the grass until it was hard to see where one ended and another began. A glance at the clouds—grey and pregnant with snow—was enough to tell her the storm hadn’t even begun to unleash itself yet.
After shrugging on her clothes, she walked into the tiny kitchen, flicking on the coffee machine. She took a banana from the wooden bowl on the counter, switching the radio on and turning the dial until she found a local station.
Mornings were her best and worst part of the day. She liked the solitary nature of her time up here; the fact she was alone meant she didn’t have to keep her guard up or keep a check of herself in front of other people. It also meant she had time to think, and she didn’t like that much at all. Even less so at the moment, when all her feelings had been stirred up by the arrival of a stranger asking too many questions. Her skin itched at the thought of him, at the memory of his soft voice and hard body. The way he looked at her brought her skin out in bumps—she both liked and hated it. He was hard to read, yet somehow it made her want to know more—she couldn’t tell where his interest in her came from.
Finishing up her coffee, she walked down to the bar, flipping off the alarm and switching on some lights. The stools were still upturned on the tables where she’d cleaned up the night before. The floor was swept and the wood mopped.
Even safely inside the bar, she could sense the oppressive atmosphere of the calm before the storm. When it finally got here, it was going to be a doozy.
There were a few hours to go before opening. She decided to clear the parking lot while there was still a chance. A scraping with the shovel followed by a layer of salt would hopefully be enough to keep it operational. The last storm they’d had lasted two days, and the parking lot had iced over so much it reminded her of TD Garden. She was determined to keep it useable this time.
An hour later, she was regretting her determination. Her hunched back was aching from the repetitive movement of lifting snow with a wooden shovel. Her cheeks stung from the cold, the air so damp and frozen it felt like her breath turned to ice on her tongue. Yet, despite the frigidity of the atmosphere around her, the intense exercise was making her sweat inside her thick jacket, her skin slippery beneath her thermal vest. What was worse, she’d cleared less than half of the lot. Just looking at the rest was enough to make her want to go back inside and curl up on the sofa in her living room, despite the fact there was less than an hour until opening time.
The low thrum of an engine cut through the cold air, catching her attention as it increased in volume. She stopped shoveling and looked out of the lot and down the road, noticing a dark SUV heading her way.
Leaning on the shovel, she followed the car’s progress, watching it slowly navigate the frosty roads. The four-wheel drive gave it enough traction to turn corners without too much of a problem. Driving into the lot, the car pulled into a spot near Rachel, darkened windows obscuring the driver within.
Somehow she wasn’t surprised when the door pulled open and Murphy climbed out. A tiny thrill shot through her body, like somebody had hit a raw nerve. It reminded her of doctors’ offices and reflex tests, of small hammers tapping tiny knees.
“Hey.” His smile was easy as he walked toward her. He’d come in to the bar every night that week. She was getting used to his face. Liking it, even.
“I’ve been trying to make a phone call.” He waggled the cell he was holding in his right hand. “I’ve driven for ten miles trying to get some reception.” From the expression on his face, the lack of signal had been the cause of some frustration.
“It gets like that around here, especially when a storm is coming.” Rachel gestured at the clouds. “You’ll be driving for a while longer if you want to make any calls.”
Murphy shrugged. “I guess it isn’t important. I’ll try again later.” He started to walk toward her, striding across the portion of the lot she’d already cleared. She glanced down at his clothes: strong, leather boots, dark jeans, and a thick woolen jacket. He’d come prepared for a West Virginian winter in the mountains. Pointing at the shovel she was still holding, he inclined his head with a question. “Do you want some help with that?”
Surprise caught in her breath. “With the shoveling?”
Murphy nodded. “You look like you’ve worn yourself out. Not that the pink cheeks don’t suit you.”
His compliment made them burn pinker. “I couldn’t ask you to clear the snow.” Her voice wavered, reflecting her indecision.
“I’d be glad to lend a hand.” He took the shovel from her before she could protest. Squaring his shoulders, he dug the blade beneath the three-inch layer of snow, scooping it up and adding it to the mound she’d already started. Rachel watched him as he worked, his movements methodical and organized, clearing one spot fully before he moved on to the next. Though his arms and shoulders were covered by a coat, she could see the way his thigh muscles tensed against the denim as he braced himself, his strength both attractive and menacing in its power.
“Can I get you a drink or something?” She felt a little bit useless watching him do all the work.
Murphy shook his head. “Maybe you can buy me one later, if I come in tonight.”
She wasn’t sure why the thought of him coming back later made her chest feel full and tight. Maybe she really was getting used to seeing him every night. He’d taken up a regular seat at the bar, one she was starting to think of as his. She was getting accustomed to the way he talked too, and the long a’s and the clipped consonants didn’t seem so ominous anymore. Instead of reminding her of the past, they were a welcome break among the southern drawl of the Hillbrook population. It was nice not to be the only outsider around these parts.
She was starting to look forward to seeing him, and that hadn’t happened in a long time. There was a little coil of anticipation in her stomach every evening when she opened up the door, letting the regulars pile in along with the cold West Virginian air
. For the past few nights he’d been turning up at around ten, late enough for the crowd to have thinned and for her time to be less in demand. He’d talked with her about hockey and baseball, and laughed when she told him she’d never been to a ball game before. They’d discussed the relative merits of Starbucks and Tim Horton’s, and shot the breeze over the way R&B seemed to be taking over the billboard charts.
He didn’t ask her any personal questions again, and for that she was grateful. She thought perhaps he’d realized she was uncomfortable answering his inquiries and was sensitive enough not to ask again. Maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise that his suggestion she buy him a beer later made her skin tingle and her pulse run fast…
…Even if life had taught her those were dangerous responses.
* * *
When he came in later that night, the snow had really started to fall and was settling on the ground in an explosion of white. He walked through the door, brushing off the pale dusting that lay in his hair, his movement fanning snow over the dark wood of the floor.
This time, she pulled a Bud from the freezer before he even asked. Passing it to him unopened, she watched as he pulled out his keys and wrenched the cap off. She was adjusting to his quirks, too. Even starting to like them.
“It’s on the house.” Her smile was genuine.
“Thank you kindly.” He tipped the bottle at her in salute, lips pulled up into a grin. Raising the brown bottle to his lips, he took a mouthful, throat bobbing as he swallowed it down.
“Thanks for your help earlier.”
“I’m always a sucker for a damsel in distress.” He was still smiling, and it did nothing to make the ache in her stomach disappear. There was something about this man, something that drew her in and made her want to know more. It was like he was breaking down the walls she’d so carefully built up, not with a sledgehammer but with a gentle hand, pulling the bricks down one by one and carefully laying them to one side. He was so gentle, she barely noticed there was a gaping hole in her defenses.
