Chapter 3
Lucy
Lucy Quaid silences her phone, tosses it on the seat next to her, and turns on the radio. Her ex has been trying to call her
for the past four days, most likely wanting to know what happened to his truck and trailer. It’s a happy accident that his
handgun is tucked behind a wad of convenience store napkins in the glove box. To be fair, Lucy did leave him a note. Borrowed your truck. There’s something I have to take care of. Call you later. Obviously, he wants further explanation.
A ’70s rock station plays on the radio, the only one she can find that doesn’t hum with static. The sun is dipping behind
the mountains, tossing a kaleidoscope of orange and pink and blue into the sky. She hangs a sharp right, and the truck and
horse trailer rocks down a pitted gravel road. Then she presses down on the accelerator. The rear tires fishtail on the loose
stones, but Lucy cajoles the truck to go faster. The road disappears in a cloud of gray dust, making it impossible for her
to see the path in front of her.
She’s been driving aimlessly for hours trying to figure out her next steps and is hungry and tired and, if she is being honest, lonely.
Time to find something to eat and drink, and if she’s lucky maybe a handsome stranger.
Lucy floors it, and the steering wheel rattles beneath her fingers.
An ominous groaning noise comes from the engine, and the rusty frame shakes beneath her ass.
She dares to take her hand off the wheel and cranks the radio as loud as it can go, filling the cab with an old song by The Kinks, a band her father loved.
Something Lucy always thought was funny for a straight-arrow, no-nonsense tough guy. Go figure.
Ahead, Lucy spots a flash of yellow through the swirling dust and she lifts her foot from the accelerator and stomps on the
brakes, but the truck’s bald tires can’t gain purchase on the road. It careens from one side of the road to the other, dipping
into a ditch and then bouncing out, coming to a teeth-rattling stop. She squeezes her eyes shut and prepares for a collision,
but nothing comes.
“Jesus,” Lucy says, trying to catch her breath, her heart thumping in time to the music. She snaps off the radio and peers
through the windshield. The dust starts to settle and an eerie quiet falls. There is nothing. No other cars, no homes, just
the mountains and a wide expanse of shadowed field tucked behind barbed wire and the evening sky.
What had she seen? Clearly not another vehicle. An animal? Or maybe nothing at all. Then she sees it crouched among the overgrown
grasses, its golden eyes, its shape clearly feline. A mountain lion. She gasps in surprise. Nearly laughs. When her pulse
steadies, she cautiously makes a three-point turn and rolls slowly forward, the gravel crunching like popcorn beneath the
tires. She finds her way back to the highway and heads west. She’ll get a drink, and then she’s going to finish some unsettled
business.
Twenty minutes later, Lucy pulls into a small parking lot with weeds poking up through the cracked concrete.
Rick’s Tavern is a squat brick building that was once a filling station.
Nobody bothered to remove the pumps and the price per gallon is frozen at thirty cents.
Lucy parks in the half-filled lot, steps from the truck, and moves toward the bar, pushing through the door, momentarily blinded by the dim interior. Patsy Cline is on the jukebox.
Next to the jukebox, a woman hunched over a half-empty glass of whiskey snaps her head up and gives Lucy a searing look. Lucy
ignores her and settles onto a stool at the bar.
The place is a dive, but Lucy likes the vibe. The low lights, the overly salted popcorn, the hoppy scent of cheap beer. She
has even come to appreciate the herd of stuffed jackalopes mounted on the walls. She orders a shot from the sleepy-eyed bartender
and downs it, the amber liquid burning her throat. She signals for a second round. The song ends and then begins again. “Really?”
Lucy asks loudly. “This song again?” She throws back the shot—this one goes down much easier—and she waits for the limb-loosening
effects she’s come to appreciate. When it comes, Lucy switches to beer. Again, Patsy starts singing about being crazy. “For
Christ’s sake,” Lucy calls out. “Someone take the quarters away from her.”
“You know if you keep giving Maggie a hard time, you’re going to get thrown out of here,” a man says, sidling up next to her.
Lucy lifts the frosty mug the bartender slides across the bar and takes a drink before answering. She has to play it cool.
She’s been waiting patiently for him to approach her, and here he finally is. “I like Patsy as much as the next person, but
I don’t know, maybe Taylor would be a good change of pace.”
The man laughs. “I didn’t peg you for a Swiftie,” he says, looking her up and down. Lucy may be wearing her old Levi’s and
a black tank top, her hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail, but she knows she still looks pretty good.
“I’m still in my Red phase,” she answers lightly. “2021 Red, not 2012.”
“Obviously,” the man says, signaling the bartender and pointing at Lucy’s beer, indicating that he wants two more. He is handsome. Tall and broad-shouldered with flinty gray eyes and a cowboy’s swagger. Probably a little too young for her, Lucy guesses.
“I’m Trent,” he says, sitting down beside her. She considers responding with a fake name but thinks better of it. It will
be easier if she keeps to the truth as much as possible.
“Lucy,” she says, raising her mug. “Nice to meet you, Trent.”
Three beers later, Lucy and Trent are still at the bar, a basket of fried Rocky Mountain oysters between them. “I’ve seen
you around,” Trent says.
“Oh yeah?” Lucy says, taking a swing from her bottle of Peroni. Pricey for sure, but she wasn’t buying. “And you’re only saying
something now?”
“I’m shy,” Trent answers.
Normally, if a guy said this, Lucy would think he was bullshitting her, but Trent’s ears are actually turning red. She finds
it quite endearing and is tempted to reach out and touch the tip to see if his skin is hot. Instead, she signals the bartender
for another round. The jukebox has mercifully stopped playing Patsy Cline, and the TV above the bar shows the ten o’clock
news. A Breaking News chyron scrolls across the bottom of the screen.
“Boring!” Lucy calls out, not wanting Trent to become distracted by anything but her. “Isn’t there a game on or something?”
The bartender sighs and reaches for the remote. He clicks through the channels until he finds a Minnesota Timberwolves–Utah
Jazz game. “Much better,” Lucy says.
“Aw, Jesus, I’ve got to work in the morning,” Trent says, rubbing his eyes. “I’m going to be worthless.”
“You don’t look worthless,” Lucy says, pushing his beer bottle toward him. Trent smiles and takes a drink. “You can always
call in sick,” she says after he sets the glass down.
“Nah, I’m lucky I got tonight off,” he says.
But the thing is, the alcohol doesn’t seem to be affecting Trent in the least. He’s clear-eyed, not a slurred word to be heard.
Well, shit, Lucy thinks. The man can hold his liquor.
“Maybe we should get out of here,” Trent whispers in her ear.
“Oh yeah?” Lucy asks, arching an eyebrow. “Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t live too far from here,” Trent says. His enunciation still maddeningly precise. Damn, she has never met anyone who
could hold his liquor quite like this.
He slides one hand up and down her arm, his calloused fingers rasping roughly against her skin. He is handsome, Lucy thinks.
Trent’s grasp on Lucy’s arm tightens, and beneath the bar his other hand slips between her legs. “Trent,” she says, removing
his hand from her crotch with what she hopes is a lighthearted laugh. “Buy a girl a drink first?”
“Been there, done that,” he says, standing and spinning her barstool toward him. He nudges her legs apart and steps into the
opening. Lucy glances around. The bartender has abandoned his spot behind the bar. She can see him through the windowpane,
sucking on a cigarette out front. It is fully dark now, the parking lot illuminated only by the neon sign flashing ick’s. Even Patsy Cline has given up her spot next to the jukebox and stumbled home. One other patron sits in a corner booth with
his head tipped back and eyes closed. “Come on,” he says and leans in, brushes his lips against her neck. “Let’s go.”
She’s beginning to have second thoughts.
She can hear her late stepmom’s voice in her head warning her not to be so impulsive.
Fair, she thinks. She hasn’t always made the best decisions when it comes to men.
Outside, the bartender is still smoking and staring at his phone.
It’s time to bug out now. Trent whispers a few fantastically dirty words in her ear, and Lucy feels she’s going to end up having sex with this stranger.
Be smart, she tells herself. Stay focused on the endgame.
She presses both hands against Trent’s denim shirt and pushes. “That last beer went right through me,” she says as he shuffles
backward a few steps. “I’ll be right back.”
“Hey,” Trent says, his eyes narrowing, frustration creeping into his voice. She gets up from the barstool and walks nonchalantly
toward the bathroom.
She doesn’t know this guy, and she’s pretty much in the middle of nowhere with unreliable cell service. What if Trent doesn’t
take no for an answer? She came to Wyoming for a reason and has to keep her wits about her. She pushes through the door and
into the musty-smelling, grimy bathroom, well aware that by stepping into this small, confined space, she is making it all
the easier for Trent to come inside and corner her. Four block windows the size of tissue boxes sit a few feet above the hand
dryer. There is no way Lucy can fit through one of the windows, let alone break through the glass.