solution to his problem.
CHAPTER
8
A t around eight-thirty that evening, Caroline headed down to Dot’s Spot, Last Chance’s main watering hole. She told Momma and Daddy she was going to hear Clay and Jane’s band, the Wild Horses, but her ulterior motive was to hang out at the bar and talk to Roy Burdett.
She figured by eight-thirty Roy would be on his fourth or fifth beer. That meant she might get something out of him about those safety issues down at the chicken plant. Not that the safety issues were directly related to her reason for being in town. But still, in her experience, finding solutions to insoluble problems usually hinged on having more, not less, information.
She pushed open the door. All the regulars were there tonight, and Hugh deBracy was slumming with them.
Bam,
one glance in his direction, and the entire room faded out, leaving his Lordship in sharp relief.
He didn’t look like an English baron tonight. Oh no. Tonight he was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and ablack T-shirt that showed off his seriously cut muscles. He was sitting at the bar listening in rapt attention as Roy regaled him with one of his fishing stories. This particular whopper involved a twenty-pound largemouth bass that got away.
Hugh actually appeared interested, in addition to looking really, really hot and sexy. And not at all like a character out of one of Momma’s regency romances.
The man would have fit in anywhere in those blue jeans. They looked soft, and there was a little worn spot on the left back pocket where he kept his wallet.
This was a disaster.
As long as Hugh was there listening, Roy was going to talk fishing. So any plan to get Roy to gossip about the plant went right up in smoke.
Aw hell. She was here now. She had to stay and have at least one drink or everyone would want to know why she had turned around and walked out.
Speculation would rage on and on and center on her relationship with Lord Woolham. Not that she had a relationship with the baron. But people would talk. And she couldn’t afford that, especially seeing as Senator Warren was going to be in town tomorrow and might hear something stupid.
So she marched across the floor and up to the bar, where she nodded at Hugh and Roy, and then, in an attempt to appear cool and sophisticated, she ordered a dirty vodka martini.
This earned her a glare from Dottie Cox, the proprietor and chief bartender. Dottie was pushing sixty hard, but didn’t look a day over forty-five, at least not in the dim neon glow that passed for light in the establishment.Tonight, Dottie wore a watermelon pink western shirt with green fringe along its yoke and down its arms. Her ears were adorned with a pair of dangly watermelon earrings.
Dottie leaned on the bar, earrings swaying. “Rocky, since when are you drinking vodka martinis?”
“Since right now.” Caroline was painfully aware of Hugh standing right on the other side of Roy. Hugh was watching every move while nodding at Roy like he was actually listening to the fishing story.
Hugh was drinking something whiskey colored in a glass without ice. It looked like a manly and sophisticated drink. No long-necked Buds for him, even if he did look like a regular guy in that T-shirt and jeans.
“I’m not sure I have any olives,” Dottie said.
“No olives? In a bar?”
Dottie shrugged, her fringes swaying. “I know. It’s pitiful. But ain’t no one ever comes in here and orders martinis.”
“I used to drink appletinis.”
“That’s not a true martini. That’s a sweet excuse of a girly drink.” Dottie smiled like a sage.
“Do you have vodka and vermouth?” Caroline asked.
Dottie didn’t answer the question. She continued in a sagacious voice. “Course if you wanted an appletini, I could get it for you. I have a whole batch of apple vodka and schnapps that I laid in just for when you come to town.”
Dottie reached out at that point in her oration and patted Caroline’s hand. “Rocky, sugar, I
CHAPTER
8
A t around eight-thirty that evening, Caroline headed down to Dot’s Spot, Last Chance’s main watering hole. She told Momma and Daddy she was going to hear Clay and Jane’s band, the Wild Horses, but her ulterior motive was to hang out at the bar and talk to Roy Burdett.
She figured by eight-thirty Roy would be on his fourth or fifth beer. That meant she might get something out of him about those safety issues down at the chicken plant. Not that the safety issues were directly related to her reason for being in town. But still, in her experience, finding solutions to insoluble problems usually hinged on having more, not less, information.
She pushed open the door. All the regulars were there tonight, and Hugh deBracy was slumming with them.
Bam,
one glance in his direction, and the entire room faded out, leaving his Lordship in sharp relief.
He didn’t look like an English baron tonight. Oh no. Tonight he was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and ablack T-shirt that showed off his seriously cut muscles. He was sitting at the bar listening in rapt attention as Roy regaled him with one of his fishing stories. This particular whopper involved a twenty-pound largemouth bass that got away.
Hugh actually appeared interested, in addition to looking really, really hot and sexy. And not at all like a character out of one of Momma’s regency romances.
The man would have fit in anywhere in those blue jeans. They looked soft, and there was a little worn spot on the left back pocket where he kept his wallet.
This was a disaster.
As long as Hugh was there listening, Roy was going to talk fishing. So any plan to get Roy to gossip about the plant went right up in smoke.
Aw hell. She was here now. She had to stay and have at least one drink or everyone would want to know why she had turned around and walked out.
Speculation would rage on and on and center on her relationship with Lord Woolham. Not that she had a relationship with the baron. But people would talk. And she couldn’t afford that, especially seeing as Senator Warren was going to be in town tomorrow and might hear something stupid.
So she marched across the floor and up to the bar, where she nodded at Hugh and Roy, and then, in an attempt to appear cool and sophisticated, she ordered a dirty vodka martini.
This earned her a glare from Dottie Cox, the proprietor and chief bartender. Dottie was pushing sixty hard, but didn’t look a day over forty-five, at least not in the dim neon glow that passed for light in the establishment.Tonight, Dottie wore a watermelon pink western shirt with green fringe along its yoke and down its arms. Her ears were adorned with a pair of dangly watermelon earrings.
Dottie leaned on the bar, earrings swaying. “Rocky, since when are you drinking vodka martinis?”
“Since right now.” Caroline was painfully aware of Hugh standing right on the other side of Roy. Hugh was watching every move while nodding at Roy like he was actually listening to the fishing story.
Hugh was drinking something whiskey colored in a glass without ice. It looked like a manly and sophisticated drink. No long-necked Buds for him, even if he did look like a regular guy in that T-shirt and jeans.
“I’m not sure I have any olives,” Dottie said.
“No olives? In a bar?”
Dottie shrugged, her fringes swaying. “I know. It’s pitiful. But ain’t no one ever comes in here and orders martinis.”
“I used to drink appletinis.”
“That’s not a true martini. That’s a sweet excuse of a girly drink.” Dottie smiled like a sage.
“Do you have vodka and vermouth?” Caroline asked.
Dottie didn’t answer the question. She continued in a sagacious voice. “Course if you wanted an appletini, I could get it for you. I have a whole batch of apple vodka and schnapps that I laid in just for when you come to town.”
Dottie reached out at that point in her oration and patted Caroline’s hand. “Rocky, sugar, I
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