Chapter 8 Ilsa #2
That made me feel better and worse at the same time. I didn’t really want to pity Paul.
I shrugged. “So be it.”
“What brings you in tonight?”
“It’s been a long week. I didn’t feel like cooking, and someone said you have great burgers.”
It was partially the truth. This date with myself was also an opportunity to start asking people around town about Dad. I wasn’t sure if Dad had been a regular patron at the bar, but there was only one way to find out.
“I’m biased, but yeah, burgers aren’t bad. Want me to get one going for you?”
“Sure.” It was earlier than I normally ate dinner, but the smoke was bothering my eyes and I didn’t want to stay too long.
As Trick disappeared through a swinging door that likely led to the kitchen, I nursed my cocktail and took in the bar.
The walls were covered in wood paneling. Tacked around the room were countless tin liquor posters and license plates. There were neon beer signs for Pabst Blue Ribbon, Rainier and Coors. A pair of deer antlers hung above the jukebox. On every prong was a discarded bra.
Behind the bar were shelves teeming with various bottles. And above them all was a gold-framed mirror with Trick and Sully’s gilded in its center with a black-letter font.
This was a far cry from the upscale fern bar where Troy liked to meet for drinks. But something about this place felt . . . right. I didn’t need fancy cocktails or crystal chandeliers. This rundown bar in nowhere Montana suited me just fine.
It didn’t take long for Trick to push through the swinging door carrying a plate with my burger and a heaping pile of french fries. He delivered it to me, then brought over a cardboard six-pack holder, the slots filled with a bottle of ketchup, mustard, hot sauce, and napkin-rolled silverware.
While I took out a knife to cut my burger in half, he went to check on his other customers, first the guys at the pool table, then the men seated at the bar.
After opening a bottle of Budweiser for the guy in the cowboy hat, he returned to my corner, leaning on the bar again as I sprinkled salt on my fries.
“So how are things up at Bluebird’s place?” he asked.
Bluebird. The nickname was a blast to the past. To summer days when Dad would bring me into town for an ice cream cone or trip to the store. I’d forgotten how everyone used his nickname.
“Things are good.” I lifted a shoulder as I set down the shaker. “Maybe a bit strange. I haven’t been to Montana in a long time.”
Trick gave me a sad smile, like that statement didn’t surprise him in the slightest.
“Did you know my dad well?” I asked, eating a fry.
“Yeah. Bluebird was never a regular.” Trick nodded toward his other patrons. The regulars. “But he’d come in from time to time. Especially with Donnie.”
Hearing her name still felt like a shock. Probably because I hadn’t heard it often. But it reminded me that Dad had lived this entire life, had fallen in love, and I’d never had a clue.
“What was she like?” I asked.
“You never met her?”
I shook my head, then lifted my burger, taking a huge bite so I wouldn’t have to explain why I’d never met Donnie.
“She was great. Funny. Had a dry sense of humor that I loved. You wouldn’t find her without a pack of Virginia Slims. She’d change her cigarette purse to match her outfits. And she really loved your dad. She looked at him with stars in her eyes.”
I swallowed the bite, forcing it past the growing lump in my throat. “I’m glad he had that.”
“Me too.” Trick nodded. “It changed him when she died. For a while, I saw him a lot.”
There was something unspoken in that statement. That maybe Dad had used drinking as a way to survive the grief. Maybe I didn’t blame him.
“Thanks for keeping him company,” I said.
“Not a hardship. It was always entertaining when Bluebird came to the bar.” Trick grinned. “He’d have these conspiracy theories and tell anyone who’d listen. Especially after he’d had a few beers.”
“Conspiracy theories?” I picked up a fry, trying not to seem too eager. “Like what?”
Like a person sneaking around his house and spying through his windows?
“Oh, he was sure the stock market was going to crash and land prices would plummet. He was planning a trip to Missoula to exchange his cash for silver.”
I hadn’t found a stash of silver anywhere at the cabin. Maybe Dad hadn’t made that trip.
“He’d come in and make a dozen lists on my napkins and tuck them in his pockets,” Trick said. “Said he wasn’t as sharp as he used to be. The lists helped him remember.”
The lists that I’d found on napkins exactly like the one beneath my drink. “What about the cans?”
Trick’s forehead furrowed. “Cans?”
“Never mind.” Those would remain a mystery. “Any other conspiracy theories?” I popped the fry into my mouth, hoping Trick would keep talking while I ate.
“Well, he thought one of his neighbors was going to burn his house down because they were in an argument over a beaver trap.”
“A beaver trap?” I asked, squirting a blob of ranch on my plate.
“Robert Aaron thought the trap was on his property, and Bluebird swore it was on his. I guess it got fairly heated because Ike came in with a shiner.” Trick touched his eye. “And I heard from a nurse at the hospital that Robert came in with a broken nose.”
Robert Aaron. The person who had allegedly been the last to see Dad alive. A man who also lived on Cotters Lake.
I ate my french fry, mind whirling as I chewed.
“Once, he swore he saw a bull shark in the lake. Told everyone not to go swimming.” Trick ran a hand over his jaw. “What else? Oh, he was sure the teller at the bank was going to rob it one day. And he thought someone dug an underground bunker on the island at Cotters.”
So much of me wanted to dismiss everything Trick was saying. To chalk this up to the drunk ramblings of a grieving man. Make excuses that Dad had probably been joking around.
But the mess at the cabin and the strange letter were hard to ignore. Maybe once I forced myself to read the rest of that journal, I’d have more answers.
“I don’t think he was . . . well. In the end.” The pang in my chest was sharp and instant. It was one thing to think about Dad’s decline. Another to say it aloud.
“Be that as it may, Bluebird was a good man,” Trick said. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
The men playing pool walked up to the bar to settle their tabs, so while Trick put some cash in the register and checked on the bearded regulars, I ate in silence.
I was halfway done with my dinner when a group of four men came inside, their thick-soled boots heavy on the floor. They were younger than the others, about my age, and dressed in heavy coats and oil-stained jeans.
“Hi, Trick.” The tallest of the men jerked up his chin as he unzipped his jacket.
“Chris.” Trick’s eyes narrowed as he watched the group pull out stools at a table in the center of the room. His focus was locked on a man with a shaved head and cool blue eyes.
My gaze darted between them, a prickle running down my spine as the temperature in the room seemed to drop. Whoever these men were, especially the guy with blue eyes, they weren’t exactly welcome at Trick and Sully’s.
Chris came up to the bar, hands planted on its edge. “Four Buds. Thanks, Trick.”
Trick nodded, grabbing them from a fridge. As he took off the caps, he lowered his voice. “You shouldn’t have brought him, Chris.”
“He’ll behave. I’ll make sure of it. I told him not to fuck around.”
“Any trouble and you can find another place to drink. Got it?”
“Understood.” Chris nodded, tossing a ten-dollar bill on the bar and collecting all four beers for the table.
Trick’s jaw flexed.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He moved closer, leaning on the bar again like everything was fine.
Though the clench in his jaw said otherwise.
“Guy with the shaved head isn’t from Dalton.
He works with Chris and the others at the railroad.
This past summer, he got into a pool game for money.
Lost. Didn’t like that. Met the guy who beat him in the parking lot. And did his own kind of beating.”
I flinched. “Did he go to jail?”
“Yeah. Raynes hauled him in. Honestly, I’m shocked Jackie has the balls to come back to Dalton.”
I picked up another fry but my appetite was gone. Between the stories about Dad and the strange tension in the bar, this date with myself was over. It was time for me to go home. “Thanks for dinner. It was great.”
“Glad you liked it.” His eyes crinkled at the sides when he gave me that crooked smile.
Yeah, this guy was cute. If we were in Phoenix, I’d make it a point to visit this bar more often.
Except this was Dalton, and while Trick was good-looking, he had nothing on Sheriff Cosi Raynes. A man whose face popped into my mind more often than I liked.
For so long, the man who’d invaded my thoughts was Troy. Strange how easy it was to forget now, since I’d stopped answering the phone on Sundays.
“How much do I owe you?” I asked.
“On the house.”
“What? No.”
“I insist. Let me buy you dinner. For Bluebird. Just promise you’ll come back. No offense to your dad, but you’re much prettier to look at.”
“Thank you.” My cheeks flushed as I finished the last swallow of my drink, then stood. “Night.”
“See ya.”
I crossed the room, fishing my keys from my purse, but before I could make it to the door, the man with the shaved head came to stand in front of me.
His blue eyes drilled into mine. “Hey.”
“Hi,” I drawled. “Can I help you?”
“Leaving already? I was going to buy you a drink.”
“Darn. I’m all done.” I sidestepped him, but he shifted, blocking my path.
“Come on, beautiful. Don’t run off.” He inched forward, crowding my personal space enough I had to step back.
“You’re in my way.” I leveled him with my best glare, but the asshole didn’t budge.
He came closer, his head cocking to the side as he stared down at me. “I like a challenge.”
“Goodbye,” I said through gritted teeth.
He grabbed my elbow, moving so fast it made me gasp.
But I was quick too, and I yanked my arm free, refusing to cower to this man.
I jutted up my chin, holding his stare. There was something wrong with this man’s eyes.
They were too cold. Too calculating. “Do not touch me. Got it? There’s no challenge here.
Just me driving my knee into your dick if you don’t move. Now.”
There was a commotion at my back, the scrape of stool legs on the concrete floor.
“Chris,” Trick barked.
More chairs scraped until Chris appeared at the man’s side, pulling at his arm. “Come on, Jackie. Leave her alone.”
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Jackie snapped, and before I knew what was happening, his fist plowed into Chris’s nose.
Blood sprayed as chaos erupted.
I leapt back, searching for an escape route. I was about to race for the door, but Chris recovered fast from the punch and barreled into Jackie, tackling him to the ground.
They tussled for a moment, but then both managed to scramble to their feet, fists raised and ready to throw punches.
I got the fuck out of the way, shying away until a table was between me and the brawling idiots.
Trick leapt over the bar, a baseball bat in hand.
And then came a flash of light. The door opened, a tall, broad figure filling the frame. The music from the jukebox faded to the background as Cosi Raynes strode into the bar.
He scanned the room, taking in the brawlers and Trick with his bat. The regulars had swiveled on their stools, beers in hand, to sit back and watch.
When Cosi’s eyes landed on me, my knees wobbled. My heart skipped.
This man was breathtaking. Definitely too handsome for my own good.
His stony expression was fixed in a glower.
A glower he’d definitely taught his son.
A glower that said I was in trouble.
Shit.