by Meg Muldoon
The cowboy didn’t respond. His attention drifted back up to the girl on stage.
“Do you know who that girl up there is?” he asked Eddie.
“Is Jerry Jones filthy rich?” Eddie said. “‘Course I know that girl. I know every girl in this town.”
The cowboy felt his hands curl up into fists at his sides.
He liked Eddie. Liked him a lot. Trusted him with his life. But sometimes, he had a way of putting things that the cowboy didn’t much like.
Eddie seemed to pick up on his uneasiness.
“Don’t get your undershorts in a bunch, Jake. I don’t know her in that way. I just know of her. Name’s Marie Altier. Comes from an old family ‘round these parts. I can’t think what Papa Altier would think seeing his daughter up there like that. Him being such a pillar of the community.”
The cowboy grunted, and watched as Marie Altier sang into the microphone. Her voice, sultry and haunting, made the cowboy’s skin break out in goose bumps.
“Now don’t go falling apart on me, Jake,” Eddie said, eyeing the cowboy. “You know I can’t afford that. Not when we’ve got the biggest day of our lives coming up tomorrow.”
“I know that, Eddie.”
The cowboy couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
That long, shiny black hair, those full pink lips, those deep-set, hazel eyes that held so much—
Suddenly, those deep set hazel eyes were on him.
She was staring at him.
The cowboy felt something in his heart explode.
Chapter 18
“Ma’am? Are you okay in there? Ma’am?”
I jumped as something hard rattled against the window of my truck.
My head felt as though it was going to collapse like a rotting pumpkin.
I groaned, then squinted into the bright light shining in my eyes.
“Ma’am, can you step out of the vehicle, please?”
Despite being in my weakened and foggy state, I knew that the man tapping on my window was a cop.
Getting called ma’am three times in the span of sixty seconds was a sure sign
I nodded, immediately regretting the motion as a sharp pain erupted at my temples. Then I fumbled for the handle of the truck door. I opened it slowly, and stepped outside, a sharp icy breeze immediately cutting right through my jacket.
“Do you have a medical condition?” the man, that I still couldn’t quite make out on account of the light shining in my face, asked.
I shook my head.
It wasn’t medical. But it sure as hell was a condition.
“Are you under the influence of anything? Alcohol, drugs, medication maybe?”
I squinted, making out that he had large glasses, a grey mustache and thick, bushy eyebrows.
I recognized him as being on the “Slow Down, Buckle Up” slogan billboards leading in and out of town.
And as being the man who almost fired Raymond last year on account of the flubbed Dixon investigation.
His name was Alan Longwell.
“No, Chief Longwell, I’m not under the influence,” I said. “I, uh, I just pulled off because…”
Because I just got a rather strong and urgent matchmaking vision that made no sense whatsoever.
“Because I was afraid I’d fall asleep at the wheel and I didn’t want to chance it.”
The Broken Hearts Junction Police Department chief rubbed his chin and eyed me for a second.
“Well, it’s good you pulled off and turned your hazards on. But on the side of a highway in this kind of weather isn’t a good place to be. It’s probably a good idea that you get somewhere safer than this.”
I nodded.
“Is there anybody I can call for you?” he asked.
I shook my head, a little taken aback at the chief’s kindness.
The way Raymond acted most of the time made you think all the cops in the local police department were rude and arrogant SOBs.
“No, but I appreciate the offer, sir,” I said. “I’m not that far away from my mother’s house. I’ll be okay.”
He nodded sharply.
“You be more careful out here, ma’am. These roads are more dangerous than they look.”
He turned around, and I watched as he trudged through the snow, back to his police cruiser.
I let out a deep sigh before getting back into the truck, my breath floating away in clouds of fog.
Part of me felt like I was still in that smoky night club, hearing someone else’s thoughts running through my head, feeling someone else’s heart beat.
I couldn’t make sense of any of it.
Chapter 19
“There you are, Loretta!” she said, primping her orange hair. “We were starting to get worried you’d got stuck in the storm!”
She hugged me hard, flooding my nostrils with the smell of her pungent Elizabeth Arden perfume.
“Did you have trouble getting here, honey?”
“No,” I said. “I just got a late start.”
She pulled away, then her eyes searched behind me.
“Well, wait a second now. Where’s Fletcher?”
“He had to work,” I said. “He sends his apologies.”
She raised an eyebrow. A gesture that I knew had a very distinct meaning, and had a very distinct cloud of judgment that went with it.
Despite having been together for almost a year, and despite him being one of the most charming and kind-hearted folks to ever grace her home, my mother still hadn’t warmed up to the idea of Fletcher Hart. She still liked Raymond better, and she wasn’t afraid to say it to my face. She thought Fletcher didn’t have a respectable job – owning a saloon. She was also convinced that he was going to break my heart, the way Jacob had.
Fletcher was nothing but kind to the woman, always bringing her a tin of her favorite toffee every time he came by the house. But she remained as cold-hearted toward him as ever.
Her people sense had never been all that sharp.
I did my best to see past her disdain for the state of my love life. She just didn’t get it. And I was going to have to live with that, just like she was going to have to live with me being head over heels in love with Fletcher Hart.
“Well, come on in outta of the cold, dear,” she finally said. “Let me take that big jacket of yours. And is that a present for your sister you’ve got there?”
I nodded, handing her the wrapped, special edition ballerina snow globe that my sister had been pining for for the last three months. It wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, a ballerina dancing in a snow globe, but I knew that Molly would appreciate the gesture.
Molly and I were complete opposites, and we’d been at odds for most of our lives. She’d been married for a decade and had two kids, while I had a trail of failed relationships behind me. She always had a way of putting things that sounded insulting and judgmental, even when she didn’t mean anything by it. But ever since last year, after the fall out of Dale Dixon’s murder, Molly and I had made a little progress. She thought harder about what she wanted to say before actually saying what was on her mind to me. And I did my best to not offend her.
We weren’t ever going to be best friends. But at least we could see each other at family gatherings and not be at each other’s throats.
My mom hung up my jacket and scarf on the coat rack in the hallway. I could hear a loud round of laughter coming from the living room, which I identified as belonging to Gary, my sister’s husband, and Morg, my stepdad. I dusted off the snowflakes from my hair, and checked my look in the hallway mirror for a second, just to make sure the snow hadn’t done any more damage.
“Loretta – just a word of warning?” my mother said in a low, hushed voice.
I turned back to look at her.
“Molly’s a little prickly tonight,” she said. “I don’t know why. Maybe’s she’s depressed about being almost 40. But if I were you, I’d watch out with her. She bit my head off this morning when I offered to babysit the kids tonight so that her and Gary could—”
“I get the picture, Mom,” I said, interrupting her before she could get into the details of the couple’s marital relationship.
“Just thought you’d want to know,” she said.
“I appreciate it.”
She handed me back the present, and gave me a sharp look. A moment later, we were in the living room, surrounded by the rest of the family along with some of Molly’s friends from high school.
“Say, Loretta,” Morg said, placing a hand on my back. “Glad you’re here. We were just talking about The Price is Right. Whether Drew Carey can ever fill Bob Barker’s shoes. Now what’s your thought on the matter?”
I bit my lip to keep from sighing.
Damn Fletcher, I thought.
I hated coming to these things by myself.
Chapter 20
“Molly, are you sure you should have that fourth glass of wine?” my mother said, eyeing my sister with a look of deep concern.
Molly shot her a nasty glare from across the room.
“It’s my birthday, isn’t it? Aren’t I allowed to have a little drink? Haven’t I earned that?”
My mom bit her lower lip, which was stained a shade of red orange. Her eyes had that rare look of real hurt that she got sometimes when somebody snapped at her.
Molly was unmoved though. She ignored our mom and turned back toward me.
We’d just eaten dinner and were now enjoying cake in the living room. My mom had been slaving away in the kitchen all day, making Molly’s favorite meal of blue cheese potatoes and lemon chicken. But throughout dinner, Molly seemed like she was getting more enjoyment out of the white wine. Which was wholly uncharacteristic of her, even on her birthday. There’d been times when she judged me just for bringing a bottle of it to family dinners.
Molly reached over, clamping her hands on my arms.
“Loretta,” she said, leaning into me sloppily. “I have something I need to ask you. It’s really, really important.”
I furrowed my brow.
Generally, Molly didn’t put much stock in my advice or my candor.
“What is it?” I said.
She sighed, taking another long swig of the wine.
“I can’t talk about it here,” she said, under her breath. “It’s too… it’s too dangerous.”
She shot a look over at her husband, who was talking to one of her friends.
“Is it serious?” I said, getting worried by the odd tone in her voice.
“Yes,” she said. “And I think you…”
She let out another sigh.
“I think you’re the only one who can help, Loretta,” she said. “The only one.”
She took another sip of her wine.
“Okay, Molly. When do you want to talk about this?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Can I come over to your house?”
“Of course,” I said. “But I just wish you’d tell me what it is now. You’re starting to make me worr—”
“Honey, can I get you anymore cake?” my mom said, interrupting her.
Molly shot our mom a look that would have frozen Death Valley.
“I’m fine, Mom. Thank you,” she sneered.
“I just think you shouldn’t be drinking anym—”
“Stay out of it, Mom!” Molly snapped, yelling so loud that everybody in the room hushed mid-conversation.
My mouth dropped open.
In all the years that I’d known my sister, I’d never seen her act out like this. She was always the proper one, the reserved one, the cold and steely one.
I got the impression that everybody else in the room was thinking the same thing.
I glanced up at my mom.
Big fat tears were welling-up in her eyes.
Molly looked around, and then shook her head. She stood up, wobbling as she pushed herself out of the reclining chair.
“Yeah, go ahead and think what you’re all thinking,” she seethed, slurring slightly. “You’re right. You’re all right.”
She stomped across the room and headed for the foyer. A moment later, the door slammed.
Gary lowered his eyes, embarrassment making his cheeks flush suddenly. Then he chased after her.
The rest of us were still in shock.
My mom pulled out a Kleenex from her pocket, and dabbed at her eyes.
I started getting up, ready to comfort her.
“Well, I guess the party’s over,” she said, her tone high-pitched and shaky. “It’s always so nice when you go through all this trouble to throw a party for a childish, ungrateful little—”
“Now, Page,” Morg said, standing up and putting an arm around her. “Don’t go on and say something you might regret.”
My mom buried her head in Morg’s shoulder and started sobbing.
“She’s just so difficult!” she muttered.
I looked around the room. Everyone had started to get up, preparing to leave, embarrassed at having seen our family drama unfold in such a dramatic and unflattering way. Almost as embarrassed as Gary had been.
And thus concluded another Sunday dinner with the Loveless family.
Damn Fletcher, was all I kept thinking.
Chapter 21
“Bitters, I hate to bug you on a Sunday, but I think it’d be good if you got here as soon as possible.”
I took a right onto the highway, heading back toward town.
“What’s wrong, Amy?”
“Uh… I just think you ought to get here soon,” she said. “Something’s about to happen.”
I was just pulling away from my mom’s house, savoring each breath of hard-earned freedom, when Amy, one of The Cupid’s waitresses, called me.
“Did you call Fletcher?” I asked.
“I sure did, Bitters. But he didn’t pick up.”
I furrowed my brow.
That wasn’t like Fletcher. Wasn’t like him at all.
Just what was he up to?
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I sped as fast as I responsibly could down the frozen desert highway, worried.
And not just about what was going down at the saloon.
Chapter 22
I got there just in time to see a bulky young ranch hand named Floyd Gallagher, who had become a regular at The Cupid since July, take a swing at Clay Westwood over by the jukebox.
It wasn’t lost on me that The Eagles were playing over the speakers again, this time the song “Out of Control.”
Clay ducked, and Floyd nearly turned 360 degrees before his wild punch lost its momentum. A moment later, Clay had taken advantage of Floyd’s miss, landing a hard blow in Floyd’s side.
The ranch hand cringed and then groaned. Clay kept punching, making Floyd pay for something I had clearly missed.
The few people who were here in The Cupid on a Sunday night stopped what they were doing, turning their full attention to the boys duking it out.
I should have waited. I knew that. I should have let the fight play out, the way Fletcher always said I should. Save my pretty face for better things, or something like that.
But I didn’t see Fletcher anywhere and waiting patiently on the sidelines just wasn’t my game.
I let the front door close behind me and I hurriedly walked up to the two men, summoning all my courage.
“Let him go, Clay,” I said in the strongest, deepest, no-bull voice I could muster.
Clay stopped beating on Floyd and looked over at me for a second. There was a vacancy in his eyes that reflected the many drinks he’d had to get himself here.
Floyd didn’t let him get away with it. He landed a sharp blow square in Clay’s gut. Clay grunted and leaned forward in pain.
“All right, that’s enough!” I said.
But Floyd acted like he hadn’t heard me.
Forcing me to do what any no-nonsense woman would have.
I reached over and grabbed ahold of Floyd Gallagher’s ear and pulled hard.
The young ranch hand stopped movin
g, stunned by my brash and bold move. I didn’t let up, tugging hard at his ear, dragging him toward the door.
He let out a short whimper and tried to pull away from me, but I had the upper hand and he knew it.
“Now, Floyd, you’ve been a loyal customer,” I said, pushing him toward the door. “But why don’t you go on home and sleep this off for the night? Let us all enjoy our Sunday evenings in peace and quiet.”
“Was that SOB who started it!” he shouted, his voice cracking slightly, reminding me of a kid caught fighting on the school playground. “I don’t care if he is some famous country star, he’s a grade-A asshol—”
“Well, you might not have started it, Floyd. But you landed the first blow,” I said. “Now go on home. Don’t get yourself into any more trouble than you already are.”
I let go of his ear and gave him a sharp, steely look. The look I gave when I wanted one of the saloon patrons to know that I meant business and I wasn’t joking around. A look that I had picked up from Fletcher.
Floyd squirmed, but he wasn’t one of them rough and tough young guys who had authority issues. For the most part, Floyd Gallagher had a degree of respect that most his age didn’t.
He wasn’t a bad guy, and we both knew it. He wasn’t going to give me a hard time, like someone else in his shoes might.
“Fine,” he said, pulling down at the beige canvas jacket he was wearing. “Go on and take his side, then. You know that everybody else does.”
He pulled on his beanie and gave me a hard look. A moment later, he was out the door, walking tough into the swirling flakes.
I let out a long sigh.
When I turned back around, I noticed that everyone in the bar had their eyes on me.
Dry Hack, our most trusted regular, started clapping.
“Way to go, Bitters!” he said, getting to his feet. “You’ve got some cojones, little lady.”
The others, perhaps feeling obligated, started clapping along.
I nodded, holding back a smirk.
“It was nothing,” I said.
“Amy, why don’t you fix your boss up a drink?” Dry Hack said, leaning toward the waitress. “She deserves it.”