Chapter 10
TEN
RAE
The fourth day of the bar being closed is officially where I start losing my mind.
The farmhouse wakes up before I do, which is pretty typical.
The chickens start complaining the second the sky turns gray, the goats take that as their cue to start yelling, and Pickle the donkey adds his own dramatic commentary from the pasture like someone is actively starving him to death.
I groan into my pillow and roll onto my back, staring at the cracked ceiling above my bed while the entire rescue zoo outside my window loses its collective mind.
“Alright,” I mutter to the empty room. “I’m up.”
The moment I step outside in my boots, the animals immediately start acting like I’ve abandoned them for a week instead of eight hours.
The goats crowd the gate, yelling. The chickens swarm my feet like tiny feathered mobsters demanding protection money.
Hank trots over and leans his entire weight into my leg like he’s personally offended I slept at all.
“Yes, hello to you too,” I tell him, scratching behind his ear. “Everyone calm down. Nobody is starving.”
Pickle lets out a loud, offended bray from across the pasture.
I point a finger at him. “You especially need to relax. You ate half a bucket of grain yesterday.” Pickle stares at me like that is slander.
Feeding everyone takes a while. Water buckets, grain, fresh hay, the whole routine.
Normally it’s my favorite part of the day.
It’s quiet out here in the mornings, just the wind moving through the fields and the animals shuffling around while they eat.
Most days it settles my brain before the chaos of the bar starts.
Today it doesn’t work. Every time I stop moving, my brain drifts right back to the same place like it’s stuck in a loop I can’t shut off.
The Rust Nail. The crunch of broken glass scattered across the floor.
The ugly plywood boards covering the windows where sunlight used to pour in.
And that stupid note someone left behind like they expected Wayne to panic and start handing over protection money like a scared little shop owner instead of the stubborn old bastard who’s kept that place running for thirty years.
I lean against the fence and watch the goats for a second, my arms folded across my chest while irritation crawls slowly up the back of my neck.
Someone decided they could bully us. And now I’m supposed to sit quietly while the Iron Reapers ride around handling it. Yeah. That’s not really my personality.
By midmorning I’ve already cleaned the kitchen, swept the mudroom, and reorganized a cabinet that absolutely did not need reorganizing. Now I’m pacing the farmhouse like a caged animal while Hank watches me from the living room floor like he’s genuinely concerned about my mental stability.
“I’m not pacing,” I tell him.
He blinks slowly.
I sigh and drag a hand through my hair. “Okay fine. I’m pacing.”
The house is too quiet. Normally by now the bar would be humming with noise. Someone would be arguing over the jukebox, Wayne would be yelling about spilled beer, and at least one regular would be trying to convince me they deserve another round when they absolutely do not.
Instead it’s just me and a bunch of animals.
I grab the coffee mug I poured twenty minutes ago and take a sip, immediately grimacing because it’s gone cold. I dump it into the sink and reach for my keys.
“That’s it,” I announce to the room.
Hank lifts his head.
“We’re going to town.”
He thumps his tail once but doesn’t bother standing up, which honestly feels like judgment.
The Rust Nail looks better than it did three days ago when I first saw the damage, but it’s still rough around the edges.
The windows are boarded up while someone inside works on the frames, and the back door has been replaced but the wood around it is still raw and unfinished.
My chest tightens a little when I pull into the lot.
The place looks wounded.
I climb out of the truck and nod to one of the contractors carrying tools past me.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Inside, the bar smells like sawdust and cleaning chemicals instead of beer and fried food. Wayne is behind the counter with a clipboard, arguing with someone about measurements when he looks up and sees me.
And immediately scowls.
“Rae.”
I smile sweetly and lean against the bar. “Good morning.”
“I told you to stay home.”
“I did,” I say. “For two whole days.”
“That was the deal.”
“That was your suggestion.”
Wayne pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s praying for patience. “I swear to God.”
I hop up onto one of the bar stools and glance around while the contractor disappears toward the back. “You’re making progress.”
“We’ll reopen tomorrow if everything goes right.”
“Good.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “You’re not here to cause trouble, are you?”
I widen my eyes. “Me?”
“Yes you.”
I shrug. “I’m just checking in.”
Wayne stares at me like he’s deciding whether to believe that before sighing. “Don’t start asking questions.”
“I’m not asking questions.”
“You’re about to.”
“I’m not.”
“Rae.”
“Okay maybe one question.”
Wayne groans. “Jesus Christ.”
I lean forward on the counter. “Has anyone else had problems with this Voss guy?”
Wayne freezes for a second.
Then he gives me a look.
“Rae.”
“I’m just curious.”
“You’re never just curious.”
I lift a shoulder. “Still.”
He rubs a hand across his jaw before answering. “I’ve heard things.”
My stomach tightens. “What things?”
“Other places,” he says reluctantly. “Small businesses. Bars mostly. A couple shops.”
“They paid him?”
Wayne doesn’t answer right away.
Which tells me everything.
My fingers curl around the edge of the counter. “You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“And nobody did anything about it?”
“What were they supposed to do?” Wayne asks. “Most of them can barely stay open as it is.”
Anger burns hot in my chest.
“So they just handed him money.”
“Some did.”
“And the ones who didn’t?”
Wayne exhales slowly.
“They got hit harder.”
The words settle heavy in my chest. I stare at the boarded windows again, picturing the broken glass scattered across the floor and that stupid note sitting on the bar.
This wasn’t random.
This was planned.
I slide off the stool and grab my keys. “Unbelievable.”
Wayne studies my face. “Don’t.”
I glance back at him. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t get that look.”
“What look?”
“That one.”
I smile sweetly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Rae.”
“What?”
“You’re about to go do something stupid.”
I tuck the keys into my hand. “I’m going to take a drive.”
Wayne closes his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m just gathering information.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
I push the door open and step outside into the sunlight, the sound of hammers and power tools filling the air as the contractors keep working on the damage.
I climb into my truck and start the engine.
If Voss thinks he can push people around in this town and nobody’s going to push back, he picked the wrong bartender to piss off.
And I’m about to find out exactly how many places he’s been hitting.
I pull out of The Rust Nail parking lot with Wayne’s voice still ringing in my ears telling me not to do anything stupid.
That advice lasts exactly until the next stop sign.
Because once the idea settles in my brain, it refuses to leave.
If Voss has been leaning on other businesses around here, someone has to know something.
This town isn’t that big, and people talk whether they mean to or not.
The trick is figuring out who knows something useful and who’s just repeating rumors they heard from somebody’s cousin’s barber.
The first place that comes to mind is Murphy’s Hardware.
Murphy’s shop sits on the corner just off Main Street, the same red brick building it’s been in for decades.
The windows are big and dusty, and the bell above the door still jingles every time someone walks in.
It’s the kind of place that smells like motor oil, fertilizer, and sawdust no matter what time of year it is.
If anyone has heard something about Voss, it’ll be Murphy.
I park out front and push open the door.
The bell jingles overhead.
Murphy looks up from behind the counter immediately. He’s got a tape measure in one hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear, and his gray hair sticks up in the back like he’s been running his hands through it all morning.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he says, leaning back against the counter when he sees me. “I figured you’d be pouring drinks about now. Isn’t this normally the hour when you’re throwing people out for arguing over the jukebox?”
“Normally, yes,” I say, walking toward the counter. “But someone decided to redecorate The Rust Nail with a crowbar, so we’re closed for a few days.”
Murphy’s mouth tightens a little. “Yeah. I heard about that.”
“Of course you did,” I say. “News travels faster than the internet around here.”
Murphy snorts softly. “You’re lucky if something stays quiet for ten minutes in this town. Somebody sees something, tells their neighbor, and by lunch the entire county’s heard about it.”
I rest my elbows on the counter and glance around the store while we talk. The shelves are packed with tools, paint cans, boxes of nails, and all the random hardware people convince themselves they need for projects that never quite get finished.
“Wayne getting things fixed up?” Murphy asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Contractors are already working on the windows and the back door. If everything goes right, we’ll reopen tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” he says, nodding slowly. “That place has been part of this town a long time. It would be a shame if something happened to it.”
I tap my fingers lightly against the countertop for a second, pretending to think about something else before I look back at him.
“So,” I say casually, “have you heard anything about a guy named Voss?”
Murphy’s expression changes.
Not dramatically, but just enough that I catch it.