guitar slipped through a few cracks and into the darkness outside.
Walking into the Buckhorn was like walking into a hundred other small-town cowboy bars. It was a second home to the regulars, and anyone new was eyed with suspicion.
The owner of the bar, Burley Morton, weighed in at about three hundred pounds and stood just over six-feet-five. He kept a Louisville Slugger and a sawed-off shotgun behind the long bar. He hadnât used the Slugger since â85, when a flatlander had attempted to rob him of a case of Coors Lite and a pack of beer nuts. He hadnât had trouble of that nature in years, but he kept both items handy just in case. Occasionally, one of the locals got riled up and developed beer muscles, but it was nothing he couldnât handle with a call to the sheriffâs office or his own two fists.
The door to the Buckhorn closed behind Kate, and she was reminded of a lot of the older hotels and casinos in Vegas. The bar smelled of alcohol and old cigarette smoke that had seeped into the wood like varnish. The ownerâs attempt to cover it up with cherry deodorizer didnât help.
On the jukebox, Kenny Chesney sang about a big star while a few couples danced in the center of the large room. Kate wasnât a huge fan of country music, but Kenny was a big improvement over Tom. Green shamrock garlands decorated the long bar and several of the red booths. A bulletin board filled with multicolored flyers was nailed to the wall to Kateâs right.
Kate hung her backpack over her shoulder and moved toward the bar. She wove through a few tables and found a stool near the neon Coorâs light.
âWhat can I get ya?â the owner of the Buckhorn asked around the cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth.
âDo you have a winter wheat?â
Burleyâs thick black brows pulled together, and he looked at her as if sheâd ordered a Shirley Temple with extra cherries.
âIâll have a Bud Lite,â she amended.
âGood choice,â he said, and a thin plume of smoke followed him as he moved away to the beer spigots.
âArenât you Stanleyâs granddaughter?â
She turned her gaze to the man on the stool next to her and instantly recognized Hayden Dean, the inspiration for the Mangy Rat poem.
âYes. How are you, Mr. Dean?â
âGood.â He reached for his beer, and his shoulder brushed Kateâs. She wasnât so sure it was an accident.
Burley returned and set two glasses of green beer in front of her. âTwo-fifty.â
âI only ordered one,â she said as the song on the juke changed and Clint Black poured from the speakers.
He took the cigar out of his mouth and pointed to a sign behind him. âWednesday night is twofer night.â
Wow, twofer night. Kate hadnât enjoyed twofer night since college. These days, pounding beer didnât hold the appeal it had in her early twenties, when sheâd been a champion keg stander and beer bonger.
âI havenât been in here before,â she said to Hayden as she dug into her Dooney bag and handed Burley a five. She glanced over her left shoulder toward the back of the bar. Through an opening she could see billiard lights hanging over two pool tables.
She raised a beer to her lips and felt something brush her thigh.
âI love the redheads,â Hayden said.
She looked down at his hand on her leg, then back up into his heavily lined face. It figured that the only man to pay attention to her in a year was a creepy old guy with beer breath and a reputation for low standards. âTake your hand off my thigh, Mr. Dean.â
He smiled, and she noticed that some of his back molars were missing. âYouâve got fire. I like that in a woman.â
Kate rolled her eyes. Sheâd kept up with self-defense classes since sheâd first received her PI license, and if she wanted, she could remove Haydenâs hand and pin his thumb to his wrist all in
Walking into the Buckhorn was like walking into a hundred other small-town cowboy bars. It was a second home to the regulars, and anyone new was eyed with suspicion.
The owner of the bar, Burley Morton, weighed in at about three hundred pounds and stood just over six-feet-five. He kept a Louisville Slugger and a sawed-off shotgun behind the long bar. He hadnât used the Slugger since â85, when a flatlander had attempted to rob him of a case of Coors Lite and a pack of beer nuts. He hadnât had trouble of that nature in years, but he kept both items handy just in case. Occasionally, one of the locals got riled up and developed beer muscles, but it was nothing he couldnât handle with a call to the sheriffâs office or his own two fists.
The door to the Buckhorn closed behind Kate, and she was reminded of a lot of the older hotels and casinos in Vegas. The bar smelled of alcohol and old cigarette smoke that had seeped into the wood like varnish. The ownerâs attempt to cover it up with cherry deodorizer didnât help.
On the jukebox, Kenny Chesney sang about a big star while a few couples danced in the center of the large room. Kate wasnât a huge fan of country music, but Kenny was a big improvement over Tom. Green shamrock garlands decorated the long bar and several of the red booths. A bulletin board filled with multicolored flyers was nailed to the wall to Kateâs right.
Kate hung her backpack over her shoulder and moved toward the bar. She wove through a few tables and found a stool near the neon Coorâs light.
âWhat can I get ya?â the owner of the Buckhorn asked around the cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth.
âDo you have a winter wheat?â
Burleyâs thick black brows pulled together, and he looked at her as if sheâd ordered a Shirley Temple with extra cherries.
âIâll have a Bud Lite,â she amended.
âGood choice,â he said, and a thin plume of smoke followed him as he moved away to the beer spigots.
âArenât you Stanleyâs granddaughter?â
She turned her gaze to the man on the stool next to her and instantly recognized Hayden Dean, the inspiration for the Mangy Rat poem.
âYes. How are you, Mr. Dean?â
âGood.â He reached for his beer, and his shoulder brushed Kateâs. She wasnât so sure it was an accident.
Burley returned and set two glasses of green beer in front of her. âTwo-fifty.â
âI only ordered one,â she said as the song on the juke changed and Clint Black poured from the speakers.
He took the cigar out of his mouth and pointed to a sign behind him. âWednesday night is twofer night.â
Wow, twofer night. Kate hadnât enjoyed twofer night since college. These days, pounding beer didnât hold the appeal it had in her early twenties, when sheâd been a champion keg stander and beer bonger.
âI havenât been in here before,â she said to Hayden as she dug into her Dooney bag and handed Burley a five. She glanced over her left shoulder toward the back of the bar. Through an opening she could see billiard lights hanging over two pool tables.
She raised a beer to her lips and felt something brush her thigh.
âI love the redheads,â Hayden said.
She looked down at his hand on her leg, then back up into his heavily lined face. It figured that the only man to pay attention to her in a year was a creepy old guy with beer breath and a reputation for low standards. âTake your hand off my thigh, Mr. Dean.â
He smiled, and she noticed that some of his back molars were missing. âYouâve got fire. I like that in a woman.â
Kate rolled her eyes. Sheâd kept up with self-defense classes since sheâd first received her PI license, and if she wanted, she could remove Haydenâs hand and pin his thumb to his wrist all in