Chapter 1 #2
I look at my phone. The screen is a snapshot of my palomino, Duke. No new messages. There won’t be, unless it’s from my brothers. I set it on the counter so I can monitor the Campbell situation.
Silas hobbles to her. The guy glowers at everyone else, but she gets an indulgent smile. She’s a Hawthorne, so she probably tips him more than anyone in town.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
“A nice cold beer.” She sings that too—off-key.
“Aw hell, you’re mixing drinks?” I can’t mind my own business. I’m here to mind hers.
Silas ignores me and taps on the counter to get her to quit glaring at me. “Any preference?”
“Shurprise me.”
Fuck me. “Campbell, you can’t mix drinks.”
“It’s nooo problem.” She turns to face me and has to adjust her stance. Her eyes are even glassier, and her cheeks are a rosy red. Even the tip of her nose is red.
“You’re going to make yourself sick,” I insist. “A mug of beer is more than one serving, and since you’ve already been drinking—a lot—you’re going to consume more beer than you think.”
She lets out a frustrated snort. “Ever get tired of trying to be smarter than everyone?”
“Ever get tired of going through so many jobs?” That’s a low blow, but I wanted a quiet night at home, to have a whiskey on the deck and read while the birds chirped, and it got too dark to see the words.
The view from Bootleg Tavern is not as nice as my deck, and it’s not every day a guy gets dumped from across the country.
She lets out an indignant gasp and sways backward before catching herself. “Ack-tually, no. I get tired of horrible managers.” She smacks her lips. “And I’m home for a job.”
“Your dad hired you?” Jamison said Campbell was in town, but she didn’t know why or for how long. Campbell, oddly, wasn’t talking, and neither were her parents. As long as I’m not dragged into the drama. I like the calm life I have now. I’d just like to spend it with someone.
A flash of anguish passes over her features so quickly, I might’ve imagined it. She cocks that damn hip again. “Yes, and I have a client.” She swallows hard and looks away.
There, I’m not seeing things. Something’s bothering her. Is that why she’s on a one-woman mission to drain the bar dry?
“Campbell!” one of the women calls. “Gonna shoot some more balls?”
“There are a few balls I’d like to shoot,” she growls, and the corner of my mouth twitches. She’s drunk, but if she can still insult me, she’s not that far gone.
Silas slides a frosty mug that probably should’ve been run through the dishwasher one more time in front of Campbell.
“Well, Durban.” She purrs my name, and goddamn, there’s no need to like it that much.
“It’s been fun as always. That stick up your ass is really holding firm.
” Just then, my phone screen flares bright, and her gaze dips down.
Her eyes light up when she sees the name.
“Natalie? That’s your girlfriend, right? The schuper smart girl you’re seeing?”
I’m a grown man, but I’m going to lie to save my pride. It’s too soon to come clean, and it won’t be in front of a sexy, drunk woman. “She lives across the country. Getting her second PhD. I send her science jokes,” I tack on like I want to be awarded for my efforts.
“That’s cute.”
Right? It’s a goddamn good boyfriend move. But I keep my mouth shut.
“Does she have a full . . . juicy . . . IQ?”
I nearly groan at the way she says it, all tease and temptation. I take a bigger gulp of my whiskey and swallow wrong. I cough and sputter.
She pats me on the back. “Sorry, smartypants. Didn’t realize you were new to drinking.” She picks up her beer, making the head slosh over the side, and saunters away.
I glower at my traitorous whiskey. Silas appears back in front of me. “Told ya she could hold her own.”
The alcohol is starting to hold her. “Check again after that beer.”
He harrumphs and goes to fill another order.
Natalie’s name flashes again, and I snatch up the phone.
Natalie: I really am sorry.
So am I. I met Natalie when she’d just finished her first PhD in Bozeman.
She came to Huckleberry Springs with friends for a rafting vacation.
We dated for a few months, and I tried to lock it down, but she decided early on to do a second PhD in bioethics on the East Coast. Just far enough away to make regular visits difficult.
I haven’t been out there for a year, and she hasn’t been here since that summer vacation four years ago.
I don’t feel like talking to her, but I have to hand it to her. She didn’t make me fly out there to break it off. Guess the answer to my earlier question is that I do appreciate getting dumped with some unknown dude in the background.
Durban: Me too.
I down the rest of my glass.
Silas turns from where he’s handwashing a few glasses in the bar sink. I’ve quit questioning how often he changes the water, or if he ever does. No one comes to Bootleg if they’re worried about health code violations.
“ ’Nother?” he asks.
Since it doesn’t look like Campbell’s quitting early . . . “Yup.”
For another hour, I sip my second whiskey and read through distilling blogs and articles to keep me from being a sad sack at the bar.
When I get done, my ass is starting to hurt, so I help Silas take and fill orders.
I replace the cold dishwater with fresh stuff, adding more soap than Silas ever does, and keep an eye on Campbell.
She’s on her second mug of beer, and now the three guys who are probably seasonal help have joined her group for pool.
Any other night, I wouldn’t care how many guys are hitting on her, but she’s drunk. Her laughter’s gotten louder, and her balance is shit. How has she not fallen on her ass?
I shake my head and clamp my teeth together. I can’t go over there and haul her to my pickup, drive her home, dump her in bed, and tell her to sleep it off.
Why can’t I?
Right. She wouldn’t cooperate.
I like the thought of throwing her over my shoulder too much. Finally, her impromptu friends start putting away pool cues and giving her hugs.
Good. I can get home and stroke one off to the memory of Natalie and— Nope. I’m single now. That routine is over, and I won’t torture myself with it.
Campbell’s bell chime of a laugh rings through the bar. The three guys are eyeing her like wolves would a newborn calf on slippery ground. Their ringleader is touching her—a hand on her hip, leaning in close, even feathering his fingers over her hair.
Not on my watch.
The ringleader drags her to their table, and he scoots his half-full beer toward her.
I round the bar and I’m at her side in seconds. “Hey, Campbell. Do you have a ride?”
She sways when she spins around and grabs on to the string of her cross-body bag. Her green eyes are glassier than they were before. “I’ve got it taken care of.”
That’s Campbell code for no. “I’ll drive you home.”
She gives me a saccharine-sweet smile. “Don’t worry that pretty little head of yoursh.”
The ringleader puts a proprietary hand on her lower back. “We’ll make sure she gets home.”
Anger dings at my temples. I’m a bronc that’s just thrown its rider—pissed as hell, and I just want to leave.
A flash of worry crosses her face, but she smothers it. She doesn’t want to be at that guy’s mercy. Why in the hell can’t she just make this easy?
“Give me your keys,” I tell her.
She pouts. “You’re not in charge of me, Durban.” She teeters and tries to punch a finger into my shoulder.
The men surround me. I didn’t grow up with two brothers in the foothills of the Beartooth Mountains to let them intimidate me.
“The lady said—”
I spin, getting in the ringleader’s face. I tower over him—over all of them—by a few inches, and years of wrestling cattle have made me fearless. “The lady has a goddamn name, and if you don’t know it, butt the hell out.”
“Take it outside, Hennessy,” Silas calls from the bar. He doesn’t care about the fighting. In fact, he’d be the first one out the door to watch, but he hates broken glass and busted tables. The high-top we’re standing around has a splint around one leg because Silas refuses to replace it.
“God, Durban,” Campbell moans. “Schtay out of it.”
I didn’t waste the last three hours to let her push me away. If Iverson or Sunny found out I left her here, I’d get the shit beat out of me worse than these guys could ever do, and Jamison might spike her blood pressure.
“One last warning,” I tell her.
She frowns and makes a move for the beer.
Oh, hell no. I bend and put my shoulder into her gut, wrap my arm around her curvy, muscular legs, and lift. Her purse digs into my shoulder, but I barely notice when I have an armful of lush woman.
“Durban!” She kicks her feet, and that only makes her body jiggle against me.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” one of the guys says, but I ignore them. I propel her out the door and make sure she doesn’t get slammed in the head with it. She’s an inch taller than her sister, but much shorter than me. She flails her legs until I hear a groan. Cool spring mountain air surrounds us.
She bats at my back and my butt. “Durban.” Her moan almost gives me pause.
The door whacks open behind us.
“Listen, asshole,” one of the guys says. “You can’t go around abducting women.”
I’d admire their sense of protection if I thought they actually wanted to look out for her.
My brothers and I have had too many experiences in Bootleg rescuing women from the seasonal staff that comes to town.
Some of them are decent. A lot are college kids.
Some of them roam from job to job to stay under law enforcement or child support’s radar.
I continue to my pickup.
“Durban.” Her croak doesn’t sound good.
“Should’ve given me your goddamn keys,” I growl.
“Hey, fucker! We’re talking to you.”
They are also catching up to my longer strides. My pickup’s parked at the edge of the lot, backed in so I can drive out without watching for drunks stumbling around.