Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Present day Durango, Colorado
Maggie—
“Oh, here’s a good one,” I say, leaning behind the bar.
My head bartender stands next to me as I scan my phone for our latest reviews.
“If the motorcycles parked out front aren’t enough to scare you off, then come on in for a taste of pure Durango.
It's not as bad as it sounds, but a Saturday night can quickly get out of hand when the college crowd from Fort Lewis shows up, or Thursday nights when it's bike night. Just a friendly heads-up, slip out the side door when the shots of tequila start pouring.”
“Listen to this one,” Ray says. “Feels like a local's place. Looks a little run down but comfortable. We liked the vibe. We had Bloody Marys and brunch here on a Sunday morning. It was fun, and they have a jukebox, which is always a good time! What a relief to find a place that's not overly pricey or touristy. This is just our kind of bar. Very friendly bartenders and a relaxed environment.” He looks up from his phone with a grin. “I’d say those were positive. What are you worried about? People love this place.”
“I know, but everything on Main is turning so upscale. The place three doors down sells pear-smoked bacon and biscuits with duck fat gravy.”
“Not everybody likes that fancy-shmancy stuff. Who wants roasted bone marrow, for God’s sake? And I hear their burgers start at twenty bucks, and their martinis are seventeen. Hell, you can’t get a draft beer for less than ten. That’s insane.”
“But, Ray, the place is always packed. I’m afraid we’re missing the boat. I’m barely keeping this place afloat; meanwhile, they’re over there raking in a fortune.”
“Yeah, but is that the kind of place you want? You’d have to hire a fancy chef and pay him a mint. Then you’d have to deal with snooty customers. Plus, this place would need a serious overhaul. You’re talking about a major investment.”
I bite my lip. He’s right, and there’s only one place I know to go for that kind of investment, and it isn’t the local bank.
I’m talking about the only place I could find to loan me the money to buy this bar.
Even during COVID, when the owner was selling it for peanuts, just happy to get out of the losing business, I still didn’t have enough saved.
Even with the substantial trust my mother left me when she died.
I’d waitressed here long enough to know that once the epidemic was over, the tourists would return, and this spot right on Main Street was prime real estate.
This historic building, with its second-floor apartment, was perfect for me.
I could live above the bar and run the place.
It would be perfect. I knew it would be a cash cow again once the pandemic was over.
At least, that’s what I believed the day I waited on one very special customer.
Five years earlier—
I heard the bikes before I saw them.
Wiping down the counter of the empty bar, I had plenty of time to gaze out the window onto Main.
Two bikes roared up, then slowed, and the riders backed their bikes to the curb right out front. I could clearly see the patches on their backs. The winged skull with the crooked crown and the top and bottom rockers. Royal Bastards, Colorado.
I’d heard of them before, seen them, even. So, I wasn’t really afraid when the two men walked through the door and took a seat at a table near the back.
Gathering myself, I pasted on a smile and approached. “What can I get you, gentlemen?”
The one with the president’s patch over his breast looked up with piercing blue eyes, his long blond hair flowing past his shoulders. He was in his late forties, or maybe even his early fifties. I was never very good at guessing ages. However old he was, he was still in his prime.
“Bring us a pitcher of draft and two shots of your top-shelf bourbon,” he ordered.
My eyes shifted to the second man. He was dark-haired, but probably close in age to his president. His patch read, vice president.
“Yes, sir.”
When I returned with a tray carrying their beer and shots, their quiet, murmured conversation stopped.
“Would you care for anything to eat?” I asked.
The president shook his head, and I withdrew.
With no one else in the bar, I studied the men. There was something appealing about them. They carried themselves with such authority and power—the kind that was understood on sight.
If the bar had been packed, men would have moved out of their way when they entered. I had the feeling they were the kind of men who’d own any room the moment they walked through the door.
Pete, the owner, was out back having a cigarette and probably calling the real estate agent he’d told me about.
He’d informed me this morning he’d reached the end of his rope.
He was so far in the red, he planned to sell the place and felt he’d be lucky if he could find a buyer to take over the balance of his mortgage.
Said he just wanted out and to go back to LA.
Pete never did much care for Durango and had only moved here chasing a woman who ended up breaking his heart.
Not long after that, he turned to the bottle, and the bar went to shit.
With his decision to sell, I knew I’d soon be out of a job, and no one in town was hiring. Not now, at the height of a worldwide pandemic.
I had thirty-five thousand of the trust my mother left me, most of the money that hadn’t become available to me until the day I turned twenty-four. I’d only had it for about six months, and I’d been so torn about what to do with it.
Every time I thought I’d figured out a plan, I changed my mind.
I knew one thing: that money was all I had, and I couldn’t afford to make a mistake and lose it all.
But today the decision seemed to be staring me in the face. This was my opportunity, and I had to grab it with both hands.
When Pete told me his plans to sell, and the amount left on the mortgage, I’d quickly gone into the bathroom and used my phone to pull up what a down payment on that amount would be.
Pete said his bank had told him that due to the pandemic, they were now offering loans with down payments as low as ten percent because there were so many properties flooding the market.
Pete still owed $550,000 on the place. Even with a ten percent down payment, I’d still be short $20,000. If I wanted to make this work, I was going to need a partner or an investor.
What's more perfect for a bar that has a strong bike night than that man sitting at my only table.
His vice president got up and went down the back hall to the restroom. I knew this was my only chance.
Taking a deep breath, I walked over.
The man looked up and waved his hand over his glass. “We’re good.”
“I, um, wanted to talk to you about something.”
He studied me for a long moment, and I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking.
“Sure, darlin’. Whatcha need?”
“May I sit?”
He lifted his chin to the chair in front of me, and I slipped into it.
I knew I only had moments before his friend returned, so I cut right to the chase.
“I have a trust fund from when my mother died. Pete is about to put this place on the market. I’ve got thirty-five thousand, but I’d still be short twenty for a down payment. Would you or your club like to invest in this place with me?”
His brow lifted. “Damn, sweetheart. That’s the last thing I expected you to say.”
“I know it’s forward, but who better to own a place like this?”
His hand stroked his jaw. “And what do you know about running a bar?”
“I’ve worked here for six years, managing for the last three. Before COVID, this place made a ton. It will again. Someone just has to have the vision to see the money-maker it can be in the future. It has a prime spot on Main. Soon, the tourists will return.”
“I don’t know about soon.” He glanced around the place. “It’s also in a building that dates from, what? 1890?”
“1893, to be exact.”
“The girl does her homework.”
“I do. As far as the building is concerned, Pete replaced all the plumbing and electrical a couple of years ago.”
“What’s the overhead?”
I surprised him again by knowing the numbers. I gave him the utilities, the cost of our liquor supplier, and what payroll had been prior to having to let everyone go.
“I’m his last employee.”
“And when he sells, you’ll be out of a job.”
“Exactly.”
“Look, I appreciate your moxie. Took guts to approach me with this offer, but it’s a lot of money.”
“I understand, but opportunities like this don’t come around often, at least not at this price. Just think about it. Please.”
He nodded and extended his hand. “Name’s Richard Rockingham, but you can call me Rock.”
“Marguerite Celine Laroche, but you can call me Maggie.”
He grinned and tilted his head. “I wondered at that accent of yours. Louisiana?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where abouts?”
“Chalmette. Just east of New Orleans.”
“I know it well.”
I cocked my head. “You do?”
“Ridden through the quarter plenty of times. Go through Chalmette every time we head across to Slidell. Is Tooley’s still there? They had the best poboys.”
“Tooley’s is a landmark. I’m sure it's still there, though I haven’t been home in years.”
“Why’s that?”
“My mother died when I was young, and my father took to the bottle. I left home when I turned eighteen.”
“Sorry to hear that, Maggie. How’d you end up in Durango?”
“The truth? My car broke down, and I just stuck around.”
He chuckled a warm, rich sound, and his vice president returned.
I stood and pushed the chair back. “Well, I’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you.”
He lifted his chin. “I’ll think about your offer.”
“I appreciate that. You know where to find me.”
He winked. “That I do.”
I heard his friend asking what that was about as I walked away.
That night, I stared at the ceiling until late, wondering if there was even a shot Rock would come through for me.
The bell above the door tinkles with the arrival of more customers, shaking me from my memories.
I push off from the counter. “We need a restock on Coors.”
Ray nods. “I’m on it.”
That night, the bar is hopping. It’s spring break for the college in Ft. Lewis, and the place is packed. That’s why it's loud, and I don’t hear the commotion at the front door until the first gun blast that takes out a chunk of ceiling tiles.
Women scream, and men shuffle back.
I whirl to see three men in full black leather, wearing ski masks. The first one has a shotgun aimed at the crowd.
“Get back. All of you. Cooperate and you won’t be hurt.”
The second and third vault over the bar top.
One grabs Ray by the collar and shoves him toward the register. “Open it up. Now!”
Another goes down the line of customers, demanding wallets, which they drop into what looks like a pillowcase complete with tiny blue flowers. I frown at the oddly feminine item in the man’s gloved hand.
When a group at a table by the front gives the first guy trouble, he shoots out the plate-glass window, and women scream.
Shattered glass rains down on the tile floor.
Then the guy upturns a table, and glasses and a full pitcher of beer crash to the tile.
Women huddle against the wall, and I see customers fleeing out the side door near the backstage.
The men notice it, too, and must realize they don’t have long to get away.
“Let’s go,” the ringleader with the shotgun shouts, and the other two vault over the bar. They’re gone as quickly as they came.
Everyone stands motionless for a moment, and then I whistle sharply. “Is anyone hurt?”
My fingers are already hitting 911.
I move to Ray. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“How much did they get?”
“Everything. The whole night’s take.”
“Thank God no one was hurt.” I try to maintain my composure, but on the inside, I’m barely holding it together.
The bar empties, and soon sirens can be heard approaching.
“I guess we’re closed for the night,” Ray murmurs.
“Yeah. I’ll deal with the cops. Could you find a company to come out tonight and board up that window?”
“I’m on it.”
I draw in a long breath, mentally preparing myself for a long night.