Busted in Broken Hearts Junction

by Meg Muldoon

The music had stopped out on the dance floor, and the crowd of Beth Lynn and Robert’s friends had started getting antsy. I could hear them mumbling things like “Just what’s going on?” and “Where did the music go?”

  I smiled brighter.

  They were all in for quite the surprise.

  A moment later, Lawrence came around the corner. The old man winked at me, our agreed-upon signal that it was time.

  I turned back toward Beth Lynn and Robert.

  “Okay, you two,” I said. “Give me your hands and close your eyes.”

  Beth Lynn shook her head and placed her hands on her hips.

  “Just what have you got up your sleeve, Bitters Loveless? What are you trying to—”

  “Hon, just do what she says,” Robert reasoned, grinning at me, as if he knew what was going through my head at the moment.

  This was Beth Lynn all over. Fighting me every step of the way. Luckily, though, I was a pretty persistent friend.

  She gave in, closing her eyes. I took both their hands, and then led them out into the Cupid’s main bar area.

  I looked back at Fletcher, who was up on stage, placing a guitar strap over his head.

  He nodded at me.

  “Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Reese,” I said. “Y’all can open your eyes now.”

  The curtain behind the main stage was swept aside just as the happy couple opened their eyes.

  Beth Lynn gasped so loud, I thought she might just collapse then and there of a heart attack.

  Chapter 10

  It was a full five minutes after seeing Clay Westwood up there on stage, live and in person, before Beth Lynn could say a single word.

  Her jaw had practically called the ground home by that point. And her eyes had grown as big as beach balls as she took in Clay Westwood’s stunningly good looks. The same good looks that caused girls around the country to convulse and scream at his concerts. The same looks that had a hand in him being one of the most successful country music acts on the planet right now.

  I glanced around the hushed crowd.

  Most of them were doing their best imitation of Beth Lynn too, hardly believing what their eyes were telling them.

  That a country singer as big and famous as Clay Westwood was here on this cold and chilly Valentine’s Day, playing at The Stupid Cupid Saloon: a central Oregon bar hundreds of miles away from the nearest city.

  “I, uh, I heard that there was a couple here who wanted to dance to this tune,” Clay said quietly into the microphone while he tuned the strings of his guitar. “So this one goes out to the very much-in-love newlyweds. Beth Lynn and Robert – may your love last until the stars burn out.”

  Beth Lynn let out a chortle.

  She looked over at me with those wide eyes of hers.

  “But how…???” she started saying as Clay Westwood started plucking the intro to his top-ten hit. The song that Beth Lynn loved so much.

  I smiled.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I said. “For now, you’ve got a first dance to get to.”

  Beth Lynn didn’t seem to hear me. I think she was still deep in shock. Luckily, Robert was still functioning. He grabbed her hand and pulled her out onto the floor.

  Everyone watched as the couple swayed along to the music, swept up in the sweetness of the moment.

  I felt my eyes fill up a little bit, watching the two of them there like that.

  It was, after all, the end of this matchmaking case.

  I’d brought Beth Lynn and Robert together one day in March of last year at this very saloon. And less than a year later, here they were, dancing their first dance together as a married couple.

  And of all the matches I’d made in my 20-plus years of matchmaking, this one went to the top of the list.

  I glanced up on stage, noticing that the guitar player had his eyes fixed on me.

  I gave him a smile, returning the stare, my heart beating fast as the song came to the guitar solo.

  I couldn’t remember a lovelier Valentine’s Day.

  Chapter 11

  It was half past two in the morning, and the aftermath of the wedding reception had left The Stupid Cupid Saloon littered with pink and red streamers, broken cocktail glasses, and empty bottles of just about every kind of beer you could imagine.

  I probably should have left the mess wait until the next day. Until Bud, our part-time janitor, arrived and could help.

  But being the person I was, I knew I wouldn’t quite be able to fall asleep easy tonight if I left The Cupid in this kind of mess.

  As The Stupid Cupid Saloon’s manager and co-owner, I couldn’t stand for litter all over my perfect, vintage, rustic pine floorboards.

  I grabbed a broom and began dragging it across the floor, stopping every once and a while to pick up beer bottles. My muscles ached with the effort, the exhaustion of being the maid of honor finally catching up with me.

  I paused for a moment, and went over to the bar. It was late, but after the long day, I felt like a nightcap was in order. I mixed myself up one of our newest specialty drinks – The Sweetie Pie. A mixture of raspberry puree, orange juice, vodka, and a sprig of crushed rosemary. The perfect sweet end to a long night.

  I took a sip of the icy drink. Then I went back to sweeping up the floors.

  I was tired. But the ache in my muscles was of the good kind. The satisfied kind.

  Beth Lynn’s wedding had been a rousing success. A major reason being that Fletcher had braved one of the worst snowstorms to hit Bridger Pass in two decades to pick up Clay Westwood at the airport in Boise, and drive him all the way back to Broken Hearts Junction.

  Now, you might be wondering how Fletcher Hart, the owner of a small town saloon, got Clay Westwood, one of the hottest acts in country music, to play at Beth Lynn and Robert’s wedding.

  The answer was that Fletcher Hart was nothing short of magic.

  That was the honest truth, though the details were a little duller. You see, back when Fletcher owned a country music club in Tennessee, a young and unknown kid named Clay Warner approached him, begging Fletcher to let him play the Saturday night spot. Fletcher had a feeling about the kid, and let him play that night, even though letting unknowns play for the Saturday night crowd was practically unheard of at Fletcher’s place.

  But it turns out, Fletcher’s feeling about the unknown singer was dead on: Clay, who changed his last name to Westwood after signing a record deal, was something special.

  And now, five years later, here he was in Broken Hearts Junction, a Billboard Top-50 songwriter, having just played my best friend’s wedding as a special favor to the person who believed in him back when he was just starting out.

  I smiled, thinking about how surprised and taken aback Beth Lynn had been at seeing her favorite country singer here live and in person, singing her wedding song.

  I knew it was a moment she’d never forget.

  And I owed that moment of pure magic all to Fletcher.

  I sighed happily.

  My life sure had changed since last Valentine’s Day.

  On February 14th of last year, I’d spent the evening at home with Hank, my 120-pound St. Bernard, drinking cheap whiskey, looking at the picture of me and Jacob, the man I thought was my soulmate. The night ended in drunken tears and a hangover that took me a week to recover from.

  My life had taken a 180-degree turn for the better since then.

  In fact, I couldn’t even remember the last time I thought about Jacob. Couldn’t remember the last time I worried about saving The Cupid from closing or making enough money to pay my rent.

  And I had Fletcher to thank for—

  I nearly dropped the broom in my hands as Dwight Yoakam suddenly blared from the old Jukebox behind me.

  A moment later, a pair of strong arms were around my waist.

  “Now what’s all this about?” he said, trying to slip the broom out of my hand.

  I sank back into his chest, not letting go of the broom.

  “Just trying to
spruce this place up a bit.”

  “It can wait, don’t you think?”

  I shrugged.

  I didn’t much like the idea of leaving The Cupid in the state that it was in, but I supposed I could make an exception for tonight.

  “You get Clay to his hotel?” I said, turning around to look up at him.

  He nodded.

  “Kid was three sheets to the wind. I think Maggie was trying to have her way with him, slipping him all those Cupid Slingshot martinis in between songs.”

  I smiled.

  Maggie was one of our bartenders. A woman in her mid-50s who used to work at The Black Bear, a dingy sports bar, before we hired her. She was rough around the edges, but once you got to know her, she was all kindness and dependability. And I, for one, had been happy to rescue her from a life sentence of serving beer to felons and motorcycle gang members at The Black Bear.

  “What about Lawrence? You get him back home safe?” I asked.

  “Old Law Dog’s tucked in snug,” he said. “I think the old man’s gonna sleep a week after all that dancing.”

  “And all that flirting,” I said, shaking my head and smiling. “Did you see the way he kept winking at that pretty cousin of Robert’s? The one in the blue dress?”

  “I know,” Fletcher said jokingly, cracking a smile. “It was absolutely shameful.”

  Since Fletcher, Lawrence’s grandson, had moved back to Broken Hearts, he had moved the old man out of the nursing facility he was living in, and had moved him into his home: a nice two-story house close to downtown. Playing the part of dutiful grandson, even though he hadn’t known Law Dog for the majority of his life. Which was a lot more than Jacob, his half-brother, who had known Law Dog his whole life, ever did for the old man.

  “Well, at least he’s at home now,” I said. “How were the roads out there?”

  “Mean,” he said. “Not sure if we’ll get out tonight.”

  He winked at me, shades of the old man coming through.

  “So I guess that means were stuck here. Together,” I mused.

  “Guess it does at that.”

  “Just you and me, all alone here in The Stupid Cupid Saloon on Valentine’s Day.Snowed in.”

  “It would seem that you’re dead-on with that observation, little Bluebird,” he said.

  “Well, just what are we gonna do to entertain ourselves, Mr. Hart?”

  He looked down at me. The look in his eyes sent soul-shaking shivers down my spine.

  “Oh, I’m sure we can think of something.”

  He let go of me, and went back over to the jukebox, switching it to a crooning, slow Dwight number.

  Then I watched as he slowly walked back over to me, stealing across The Cupid’s pine floor.

  Fletcher Hart. Strong and handsome, even if the snow had wet his hair and he looked a little worse for wear after all that driving today. Even with a busted nose and hand, and scars on his heart.

  The broom fell out of my hand and hit the floor as he grabbed ahold of my waist. We started slowly swaying to the song.

  “We never did get a chance to dance tonight,” he said. “You were too busy two-stepping with Raymond Rollins.”

  I laughed at the pure disdain in his voice when he said the officer’s name.

  “You saw that?” I said.

  “First thing when I walked in,” he said. “Started making me jealous, seeing the way he was holding you so close.”

  “Well, I do have a confession to make,” I whispered in his ear.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “You know how all them folks were watching Clay sing tonight?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I got a pretty good view of ‘em all from up on stage.”

  “Well, all them folks might have been transfixed with that country star, but you know who I couldn’t take my eyes off of the whole time?”

  He smiled down at me.

  “You,” I said. “You were great tonight, Fletch.”

  He scanned my face for a few seconds.

  “You mean that?” he said.

  I reached for his injured hand, the one that was busted-up. I squeezed it, feeling the roughness of his scars.

  It had been the first time Fletcher had played guitar up on stage since his playing hand got broken years ago. He’d been practicing for months now, spending a painstaking amount of time getting the hand back in shape.

  “With my whole heart,” I said. “The way you played made me feel 16 again. In love for the first time.”

  He took in a breath.

  “Listen, Bluebird,” he said, pulling me close.

  I suddenly felt my heart race in my chest as he gazed down into my eyes.

  He paused, and the anticipation of what he was gonna say next nearly killed me.

  A thought crossed my mind.

  Was he actually going to… was this the moment that he was going to…?

  He took in another deep breath.

  “I don’t have anything for you this Valentine’s Day,” he said, a look of guilt suddenly coming across his face.

  My heart, which had just about been on the verge of bursting right out of my chest, sank about 100 stories.

  And it wasn’t so much because he didn’t have a present for me as it was about the question that remained unasked.

  I looked away and shook my head.

  “You know I don’t care about that, Fletch,” I said, trying to shake off the sting I felt. Besides, you driving all the way to Boise and back in this weather just to make my best friend happy is more than enough.”

  He peered into my face.

  “No, it’s not, Loretta,” he said. “But I promise to make it up to you at a later date. I promise.”

  He pulled me closer. Then he kissed me better than anyone had ever kissed me before as the snowstorm raged on outside.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, little Bluebird,” he whispered softly in my ear. “I’ll love you until the stars burn out.”

  Whatever small pain I’d felt a moment earlier faded away as I fell into the warm embrace of his love.

  I kissed him back, melting into his arms like hot candle wax.

  Chapter 12

  I woke up the next morning to the sound of the wind still howling outside, and to the Eagles’ “Doolin-Dalton” sounding from the saloon’s jukebox.

  I lifted my head.

  Fletcher and I had fallen asleep on the leather sofa in the newly renovated office. Wrapped up in his arms beneath a thick wool blanket, I couldn’t think of any better way to pass a snowstorm.

  I would have probably spent all morning just lying there like that, listening to the wind howl, if the music out in the bar hadn’t put me on edge.

  I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the clock on the wall.

  It was 9:30 a.m. Earlier than even the regulars like Dry Hack Jones were willing to show up at the Cupid.

  I glanced up at Fletcher. He was sound asleep.

  I wiggled out of his arms as stealthily and quietly as I could, letting the arm that had been around me drop softly into the sofa. I sat up, then got to my feet, glancing back to see if I’d been successful in not disturbing him.

  He stirred softly and mumbled “Bluebird,” but within a few seconds, he was off in dreamland again, muffled snores coming from his mouth.

  I got up, pulling on an old fleece jacket I kept in the office. Then I quietly walked down the hallway.

  I heard the sound of a whiskey bottle being uncorked, and shortly after, liquid being poured into a glass.

  For a split second, I wondered if I shouldn’t go back and wake Fletcher up and let him deal with it. Whoever was out there was helping himself to the bar, which I didn’t much care for, being as we weren’t open yet.

  I wasn’t even sure how this person got in here, what with the front door having been locked up tight.

  But being the brash and headstrong person I was, I swallowed back any fear that I had, and then tiptoed around the corner to see just who had busted into The Stupid
Cupid Saloon uninvited.

  Chapter 13

  I wasn’t exactly the kind of gal who swooned over a good-looking man.

  I mean, I did get the occasional crush on a country western singer. Dwight Yoakam, for example. But I didn’t go so much for these younger mainstream country stars of today. I still preferred the strong, silent, just-got-back-from-herding-cattle-all-day type to the overly-polished, emotionally-sensitive, pop music types that populated stations like CMT and VH1.

  But seeing Clay Westwood there, drinking at my bar, I could kind of see why the mere sight of him made country music girls around the nation drool like rabid dogs.

  Clay Westwood was what my mama would describe as a tall glass of water.

  Shafts of sunlight flooded into the bar, and fell on the side of his face, highlighting those deep-set chestnut brown eyes of his and those long, light-colored eyelashes. His light brown hair was tousled, like he just rolled out of bed perfectly. There was a rough five o’clock shadow on his baby-face.

  He was staring at the bar mirror in front of him with a faraway expression.

  He looked worn. Like he hadn’t slept very well at the fancy Gold Mine Hotel that Fletcher had put him up at for the duration of his visit to Broken Hearts Junction.

  And more than that, I thought I could detect something else in that empty look.

  Sadness.

  “Whatchya drinking there, Cowboy?” I asked, stepping out from my hiding spot in the hallway.

  He stopped mid-drink, putting the shot glass of whiskey back down on the counter, glancing over at me.

  “Helped myself to some of your Knob Creek,” he said, his eyes drinking me in. Giving me that kind of look that the producers of his music videos were so fond of showcasing.

  “Good choice,” I said. “You want any food to soak that up? Bacon and eggs maybe?”

  He shook his head.

  “This will do just fine.”

  I went over behind the bar, and started reorganizing the back shelf. After last night’s raucousness, Jim Beam was sitting on the top shelf and Bombay Sapphire was sitting on the lower one. Maggie had left lots more bottles out of order than those.