by Nicole Snow
It’s a look that bites.
A gaze that’s too intense, too assessing, too ready to reach down inside me and dredge up feelings I have zero time for and even less energy to give.
It’s a fight to tear my eyes away. I stomp my boots on the rubber mat out front again, taking my sweet time, saying a quick prayer that the next time I look up, the tiger will have moved on to other things.
Oh, thank hell. I let out that breath I’d been holding in.
He’s not facing me anymore, and he’s back to telling his boisterous, animated story that’s got the bartender laughing away. Seems they’re two giant, steely-eyed peas in a pod. The bartender is also a wall of a man with a thicker beard and a rougher look in his eye.
The other guy seated next to Tiger, on the other hand...
He’s just out of place.
Lean, older, and his button-down shirt and tie look far too posh for a bar called the Purple Bobcat. Whatever they’re saying, he’s just nodding along, looking bored out of his mind.
I flip my hood down while giving my boots one more good shake, then pull off my hat and mittens. I walk to the center of the room and sit down next to Dad.
“The horses are fine,” I tell him, remembering how to speak.
“Figured they’d be. And what about you?” He covers his mouth as he coughs.
“Still kicking,” I whisper, reaching to slide his menu across to me. “Anything good here?”
He can’t answer while he’s busy fighting his own lungs.
God. We’ve been on the road for over twelve hours, but with this weather, we still have a good four or five more to go to Miles City.
That concerns me a lot. Dad’s beaten, worn out, drained.
It’s hard to keep my eyes glued to the menu for the sake of being polite. But he hates it when I fuss over his health, even if I have every reason to.
With a soft sigh, I set my hat and mittens on the table while he takes a long drink of water.
“Listen...I think we need to call it a night. I’ll check to see if there are any motels nearby,” I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket.
“No, Grace. The horses can’t stay in that trailer overnight. They’ll freeze their rears off.” He inhales sharply. “I...I ordered us both some coffee, and he’s making a fresh pot so we’ll have plenty more to go. We’ll wait for the snow to let up and then press on. We can handle a few more hours. Noelle’s place isn’t far.”
He’s so wrong I bite my tongue.
Jesus, I’m not sure if I can even handle a few more hours, but if he’s this determined...
I nod, but now there’s a new reason to be concerned when I look at my phone.
Three missed calls and a flurry of texts. They’re all from Noelle, and they say the same thing.
Grace, call me ASAP.
She’s my cousin, my mom’s side. I haven’t seen her since Mom’s funeral, but when I’d called in a nervous fit last week, she’d invited us to come to Montana and stay with her until our trouble gets sorted.
Our choices are pretty limited when we’re low on money, and Noelle is the only family we know with a farm and plenty of space for us to bring along Rosie and Stern.
Too bad Miles City is hundreds of miles from Wisconsin. I swear, we’d be there by now if it wasn’t for that stupid flat and this intensifying storm we hit past Bismarck.
She and her husband have a hobby farm a lot like ours, only instead of pumpkins, they sell eggs, homemade cheeses, and other goods. She’s always wanted us to see it, and a small part of me was looking forward to being part of something like that again.
That pit in my gut deepens, scrolling through the missed calls.
She’s been texting for hours.
With the snow demanding every bit of my focus, I hadn’t taken a hand off the steering wheel to do anything except hit the blinker switch to pull in here.
Crap. Whatever it is, I don’t think she’s just checking up on our progress.
The coffee arrives, steaming and black. I reach for a sugar packet and tear it right open, hoping nobody notices how my hands shake.
I thank the bartender before telling Dad, “Be right back. I need to use the ladies’ room.”
Tucking my phone in my pocket, I spot the restroom sign above a hallway near the end of the bar. Purple, what else?
Of course, I carefully avoid another awkward stare-down with Tiger Sex Eyes. He must be quite the comedian—the bartender and the oil guys are still roaring at whatever he’s saying.
Probably some crude joke that’d be too fitting for a place like this.
The hallway is short. I shove open the women’s door and enter the small, two-stalled room, pull out my phone, and hit Noelle’s contact.
She answers after one ring. “Grace? Oh my God, finally.”
“Yep, it’s me.” Turning around, I lean my backside against the top of the sink. “What’s wrong?”
She goes deathly quiet. “Well, um...have you guys left Milwaukee yet?”
“We left early this morning just like we planned. Had to change a tire on the truck halfway through Minnesota, then this snowstorm we ran into...we had to pull over. But we’re coming tonight, just a few more hours and—”
“Oh,” she whispers.
Another heavy silence.
That one, innocent word kills me.
Don’t do this, Noelle, I think to myself, trying not to fall over with my heart frozen.
“I...I really hoped I’d catch you while you were still at home.”
My nerves are a jumbled mess, a little more frayed with every word she speaks. Noelle doesn’t sound like her usual bubbly self, and I’m scared of what’s coming.
“What’s up?” I force the question through clenched teeth. “Noelle...what happened?”
“Well, uh...God, I hate to say this, but...something’s come up. You and Uncle Nelson aren’t going to be able to stay with us after all.”
No.
My heart hits my stomach and shatters like a snow globe on cement.
“I’m so sorry, Grace,” Noelle says, sniffing like she’s on the verge of tears. “I hope you have somewhere else.”
Sure.
If we had somewhere else, I’d have never called her and wept with gratitude when she said we could come. It’s not like we were asking to move in.
We only needed a month or so, a few weeks, just enough time to check on Dad’s health and figure out our next move.
“What changed, Noelle?” I ask. Then, because she’s known to sugarcoat things, I add, “Tell me the truth.”
Her sad, heavy sigh echoes in the phone.
“I didn’t hear the message. James did. It was on the voicemail at the gift shop. It mentioned you and Uncle Nelson...something about not making everyone in the family sing the 'Old Milwaukee Blues.' It was menacing and it came from an untraceable number. James wouldn’t let me or the kids hear it. I’m...I’m so sorry, Grace. I hate this, but we have children. We can’t get involved in—”
“I get it,” I snap, rubbing at the awful pain in my temple. “No, you can’t risk it. You...you did the right thing.”
The words feel so numb, I have to keep repeating it over and over in my head.
But there’s a deeper question nagging me.
How did they know?
Dad hasn’t talked to anyone, and I sure as hell haven’t.
We’ve given that maniac everything. More than everything, but it’ll never be enough.
Not for Clay Grendal. He’s a flipping two-bit gangster, but in his mind, he’s Al Capone and El Chapo spliced together.
“Gracie, I’m scared for you and Uncle Nelson,” Noelle whimpers, her voice so low. “You need to call the police, the FBI, somebody. Get help!” she hisses. “Go to the law before it’s too late.”
My stomach churns, pushing angry bile up my throat. My head is pounding; I still haven’t had anything to eat, and now with this bomb I’ve had dropped on my head?
Appetite, gone.
The police can’t do anything for us. No one can. The time to risk something like that was years ago, not while my father might be down to his last precious days on earth.
Dad doesn’t need even more stress, his hourglass running out under the gun. Literally and figuratively with constant interrogations. Maybe they’d even lock him up.
Years ago, while working at the railroad yards in Milwaukee, my father took on a side gig helping transport goods that weren’t quite legal.
Actually, it was as illegal as it gets. Both the transporting and the goods.
“I just...I thought Uncle Nelson was done with all that mob stuff,” Noelle says quietly. “I thought he got out when he bought your farm years ago? When you moved out of the city?”
My teeth pinch together so hard it hurts.
He had gotten out, or so we thought.
For a little while, life was good, until my mom got sick and the medical bills started coming fast and furious. Dad reached out to his old associates for a loan.
At the time, Grendal said it wasn’t a loan, but a gift, for Dad’s past services. Then the bad luck started, and Dad found out fast what kind of strings came with accepting that gift—vandalism, a fire in the barn, and a string of other events that truly had nothing to do with random chance.
It left us destitute, barely scraping by on miscellaneous pumpkin sales plus Dad’s railroad pension. Clay doled out more money, and this time he expected repayment—with interest.
We gave him everything we had, even offered the farm, but it wasn’t enough. He insisted on his pound of flesh. I think even if we’d won the lottery, it still wouldn’t have been enough.
He knew what he wanted out of this all along, and it has nothing to do with money.
“Grace? Are you still there?” Noelle asks. “I’m sorry. I know it isn’t your fault. I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories.”
My stomach revolts. The bitter taste of bile burns my throat, coats my tongue, and I swallow hard not to gag.
“Still here,” I tell her. Still hopelessly cursed. “Dad’s out, just like I’ve told you for years. Don’t worry, you aren’t in any danger.” I’m certain of that. Clay Grendal only wants one thing.
I know because I had to face the devil himself, and I’ll never, ever do it again.
“Where are you? Are you safe?” Noelle asks.
“North Dakota now. Don’t know the town, but we’re not that far from the Montana line.” I turn around, pacing the small area between the vanity and the stalls, desperate to get my head screwed back on.
“Oh, Grace. I’m sorry. I truly, truly am.”
“I know you are, Noelle. I understand. Family and little ones first.”
There’s a long pause, then I hear her take a strained breath.
“What’re you going to do?”
Boom. The million-dollar question I don’t think I could pry a dollar from.
I don’t have a clue.
Here we are, almost flat broke, stuck in the middle of flipping nowhere, while Mother Nature has major PMS.
“Don’t worry,” I say again. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll call you in a couple of days to check in.”
“Oh, please do. I hate this again, Grace. If it was just me—”
“I know, Noelle. But James is right. Listen to your husband. You have to think about your family.” Which is exactly what I have to do, too. “I’ll call you soon.”
“Okay. I really am sorry. Do you want us to contact anyone if...if you don’t check in?”
I rub at my eye, amazed at how hard it is to answer such a simple, but loaded question.
But if I’m not in any position to call my cousin two days from now, her running to the police won’t help anything.
It’ll just put her family in the crosshairs they’re trying to avoid.
“No, don’t bother. I know you mean well. Bye, Noelle.” I click off, drop the phone on the counter, and hang my head over the sink.
What the hell am I going to do now?
Pushing myself back up, I pick up my phone, enter a stall and use the facilities, with my heart sinking lower and lower. There’s nowhere else for us. Nowhere.
Exiting the stall, I wash my hands. As I reach for the paper towels, I see a candle sitting on top of the metal towel holder. Not quite up to normal safety standards but it’s what’s lying next to the candle that truly catches my eye.
A match. A spent one with its end charred black.
It makes me think of Mom, and despite the hopelessness inside me, a grin tugs at my lips.
If you’ve got a light, you’ve still got a wish.
She must’ve said that line a thousand times. I don’t know if she stole it from a movie, a song, a book, a story her grandmother told her, or what.
Sometimes it haunts me, but right now, I know my wish like I know this sickly adrenaline hangover coursing through my veins.
I wish this wasn’t my life.
I wish I could wake up in a cold sweat, toss back a glass of water, and get out of bed.
I wish I could start the day living a boring normal Wisconsin life. Not this lethal nightmare.
But it’s not a horrific dream.
It’s as real as can be, and this is a world where wishes rarely come true.
This is a life where I traded my faith in wishing to keep my sanity.
I stare at the blackened match for a few more seconds and shrug. We’re not totally beaten yet.
My credit cards aren’t quite maxed out, and I have enough to put us up in some cheap motel for a little while. So onward we go.
Walking out of the bathroom, I also wish I’d drank my coffee before calling Noelle. It’s sure to be cold now.
Lukewarm coffee has nothing on my insides when I reach the end of the hall and spot the man who’s just walked through the door.
He’s tall. Bald. A human brick in neutral colors. A mosaic of shapes runs up one side of his face, more like a sinister mask than a tattoo.
I’ve never seen him before, but my instincts tell me he’s more bad news—what else?—even before his eyes lock on Dad and he’s heading for our table.
It. Can’t. Be.
I shoot around the end of the bar, and in my hurry to get to my father, I bump into the tall glum man dressed in business attire who’s on his feet and making his way toward the bathrooms.
“Sorry!” I say and continue rushing toward the table.
Baldy has already arrived, though, and I can hear him snarling behind a nasty smirk.
“Never thought I’d find your ass in this storm. You finally ready to talk sense, old man, or what?”
2
No Dull Moment (Ridge)
“Man, if I know one thing about you—and I’ve learned all I need to know about Ridge Barnet for this lifetime—you’re full of shit. This place is perfect.” Grady gives me the evil eye, picking up another glass from the washer behind the bar to towel dry.
I smile, throwing an arm around Tobin’s shoulders. He’s sitting on the stool next to me.
His eyes flick to my hand like he’s ready to tear it off. How he’s spent his life by my side, a glorified babysitter trying to save me from myself, I’ll never know.
Poor bastard.
He’s in his fifties now. He must’ve loved the few years I was in the military with Uncle Sam playing chaperone instead.
Probably the only time he’s relaxed in his entire life. If only it’d convinced him I can look after my own sorry ass, but I keep him around because I know what a struggle it is for valets his age to find new work.
My ma hired him originally, then made him my personal valet when I got older. Mainly because at fifteen, a kid’s old enough to avoid lighting the house on fire, but too stupid to avoid speeding tickets and hangovers from contraband booze—hopefully not at the same time.
“I’m right, aren’t I, Tobin? Back me up,” I say, pulling him into the conversation with Grady, who’s hell-bent on insisting we do a film here in town.
&nbs
p; He’s too proud of fixing this place up. Ever since he took over the Purple Bobcat from Wylie last fall, I think the bar’s right up there with his kids in the pride and joy department.
“Tobin,” I grunt, nudging him again.
“Do we really need to have this debate? Perhaps it’s time we go,” Tobin answers, tugging down the cuffs of his white dress shirt and flicking my arm away. “It’s still snowing, Ridge. The driveway will be drifted over by now, and if it’s not plowed out by morning—”
“I’m not ready to go home to an empty house, where I’m sure we’ll be snowed in for days. We have four-wheel drive for a reason,” I tell him, taking another pull off my beer. “Lighten up and tell Grady here that Westerns aren’t selling like they used to. You know I’m talking from experience.”
That’s the excuse the producer of my last film used to explain why the movie was a dud.
Hardly true.
The script sucked, the creative team bungled the plot, and the conflict was all too predictable. They turned my glorious redeemed outlaw flick into a piss-poor shoot ’em up with a flimsy romance so bad I think any Harlequin author would jump at the chance to slap them upside the head.
Nothing like the stuff real Western fans want.
They like action. Mystery. Good guys and bad guys and heroines who sass off and give a dude a fight before they torch the sheets.
If you’re going to spend two hours glued to a chair, watching a screen, you expect something gripping, dammit.
“I tell you, Ridge,” Grady rumbles again, refilling Tobin’s water. “The market’s due for a comeback anytime. You hear the latest news from one state over? They had a showdown worthy of John Wayne, a ghost town, even a frigging rock from—”
“Dude. This isn’t Heart’s Edge,” I cut in, holding up a finger. “This is Dallas, North Dakota. You want this place to be movie famous—or even Heart’s Edge-documentary famous—you need a good reason to put it on the map.”
Grady drags a hand through his thick beard, his eyebrows pulling together. “We’ve had to eat our drama pie. Hell, that tale with North Earhart Oil, how old man Reed’s granddaughter inherited everything, and how Bella and her bodyguard saved Dallas from those Jupiter Oil fucks...now that’s a story. Great movie material right there. She wound up marrying her bodyguard. Tell me that ain’t romance.”