Stevie Lee (7 page)

“. . . another of the same, barkeep. And put some booze in it this time.”

Hal was losing it. He looked to Stevie again, and found her staring at him, strangely and intensely, her gray eyes narrowed almost shut, her mouth pulled into a tight line.

“One Manhattan coming up.” Doug stepped back in, whipping a glass up on the bar. “We’ve got the house wine—red, white, or pink. Take your pick. Hey, Mac, if I put any more booze in them, you’ll be crawling out of here. Hi, Tim. You and Georgia still drinking the same Old Fashioneds. That pegs you for a cheesehead every time.” He laughed, hands flying, easily working his way through Hal’s disaster.

Before Hal could get back to his suds, Stevie swept by him. “I want to see you in the back room. Now.”

Again? he thought wearily. How in the hell was he supposed to meet her in the office without the whole inventory of glassware becoming history, and his night’s wages becoming nonexistent. His eyes darted to the side, then behind him to the liquor shelves. An empty space! He grabbed a bunch of glasses and shoved them on the shelf, buying himself a minute. Taking ten more glasses with him, a finger in each, he half-ran through the hall and into the back room.

“Yeah?” He stood in front of her desk, chest heaving. A new rivulet of sweat ran down the side of his face. He used his shoulder to wipe it away, clinking the glasses and almost losing a beer mug.

“A bartender,” she began, her voice low and strained. “A helluva bartender, you said.”

“Yeah,” he said, only half-listening. Most of his attention was focused back at the bar, waiting for the crash.

“This deal was supposed to be based on trust, and one day into it you’ve already proven how little I can trust you.”

Hal squinted at her through yet another stream of sweat. “Could we talk about this later? I’ve already lost a couple of glasses, and—”

“Five glasses, Hal. You’ve lost five.”

She’d been counting? he thought. “Whatever, if I don’t get back out there, Doug is going to get swamped.”

“Not likely.
He’s
a bartender. I don’t know what you are, but a bartender you ain’t.”

The last thing he needed at this point was a rundown of his abilities or the lack thereof. The whole absurd situation sparked his anger.

“And
that’s
no bar out there.” He waved his arm behind him, toward the front of the house. “It’s a zoo!” A wineglass flew off of his little finger and crashed to the floor.

“Six.”

Dammit
. Six.

“Zoo?”

“A three-ring circus. We need more help,” he said, all the while pushing the glass into a pile with his foot.

“More help? And just where do you propose I put them? Hanging from the ceiling by their feet?”

The lady had a smart mouth—and a damn good point. But he wasn’t in any mood to concede. “Then we need to expand.”

“Hah! I can’t even afford what I’ve got!” With that, she stomped by him and back into the fray.

Hal’s chin slumped to his chest. He wasn’t ready. He needed a time-out, a minute to catch his breath and get his bearings. But Stevie Lee didn’t pay overtime, and she didn’t give regulation breaks. What he really needed to know was what in the hell went into a Manhattan and all those other drink orders they’d thrown at him. Cussing under his breath, he marched after her.

A totally demoralizing situation awaited him at the bar. Doug was leaning on the cash register, joking with the customers and casually sipping a beer—and there wasn’t a dirty glass anywhere. He’d even gotten to the ones stacked on the liquor shelf.

The younger man grinned when Hal approached. “Are you having fun yet?”

Hal felt a smile tug at his mouth, despite his exhaustion. “I don’t dare. She’d probably charge me for that too.” The lady was well out of earshot, deep in the crowd with a bar tray piled high with glasses. His glasses, he thought with a surprisingly proprietary attitude.

“She’s not all bad, really. She’s got a sweet side, or at least she did before Kip ran out on her.”

An instant zing of curiosity snapped Hal’s gaze up to Doug. “Her ex-husband?” he asked, not at all liking the way it sounded.

Doug shrugged. “Some guys just can’t be happy with one woman, I guess. Not me though. See the little redhead in the booth over there?” He pointed to the far side of the bar. “Her name is Francine. She belongs to me. I thought you should know.”

Through the thinning crowd, Hal saw the spoken-for Francine. Strawberry-blond curls framed an impish face dusted with freckles. Clear blue eyes sparkled with mischief. Something she said caused her friends to burst out laughing, and Hal figured Doug had his work cut out for him.

So did he. He’d never had trouble impressing a woman before, but then up until a week ago, he’d never met Stevie Lee Brown. He searched the room again, and found her talking with a group of lumberjacks. Her eyes had lost their sparkle hours ago, but her mouth still curved into quick, fleeting smiles as she spoke to her customers. A soft, worn pair of jeans loved every one of her curves, up the slender length of her legs to the slight swell of her hips. At her waist, the Dynamite shirt took over, hugging and outlining her back and the fullness of her breasts. The lady was doing things to him that kept him awake at night, and he needed his sleep.

“The guy must have been crazy,” he muttered, more to himself than to Doug, but the younger man answered.

“ ‘TNT’ isn’t such a bad guy. He just couldn’t settle down.”

Hal shot him a quizzical glance. “ ‘TNT’?” he questioned. He didn’t have a sister, but if he had, he sure wouldn’t take such a friendly attitude toward a man who’d cheated on her. Once again the thought seemed incomprehensible.

“Yeah, like in dynamite. That’s his car Stevie drives. Or it used to be anyway. I guess it belongs to her now.”

Dynamite
. Against his will, Hal’s gaze drifted back to Stevie and her red shirt, and suddenly it didn’t look quite as sexy as he’d thought.

“That Kip.” Doug chuckled. “He’s something. Really loves a good party. Hell, Kip loves a bad party. He and Stevie sure made the rounds when they were young.”

Two things bothered Hal about Doug’s reminiscing: The past tense verb in front of “young,” and the thought of Stevie “making the rounds” with a groping party animal. He’d heard enough.

But Doug was just getting warmed up. “You should have seen their wedding. It was the biggest thing to hit this county in twenty years. Must have been two hundred people there, practically everybody in town. And the cars”—a wistful note crept into his voice—“Kip knows everybody with a hot car on the Western Slope. It was the first time I ever sat in a Porsche!”

Hal recognized a severe case of hero worship when it hit him in the face, but this was the first time he hadn’t been the hero. He’d like to see this Kip guy try to climb Everest, or raft the Waghi River. As a matter of fact, he’d like to see it real bad.

“Yep, we all thought Stevie did good for herself when she finally got Kip to the altar. Mom and Dad pitched in with Mr. and Mrs. Brown and built them that cabin for a wedding present, right on the edge of the ranch, right where Stevie wanted it.”

The A-frame had been a wedding present? A sick feeling plummeted into the middle of Hal’s stomach. Stevie had told him it was only two years old. This wasn’t an old ex-husband they were talking about. This was a brand new ex-husband.

“Kip spoiled her, too, even at the divorce. He let her have the house and the car and half interest in this place. If Stevie hadn’t caught him red-handed, they’d probably still be together.”

Thankfully, a man came up to order a drink, distracting Doug from the conversation. But Hal wasn’t any happier left alone with his thoughts.

A jerk named TNT, who fancied himself hot as dynamite had loved, spoiled, and walked out on a woman who treated Hal like a bad case of hives, something to be endured. Hal couldn’t figure it: he wasn’t such a bad guy. But then again, every car he’d ever owned bore a remarkable resemblance, in looks and temperament, to his truck. The only house he’d ever owned was almost a memory—and the adventuring business wasn’t something you could just up and give to somebody, at least not the way he went about it. Not many people wanted to paddle their guts out on a white-water river for three meals a day and damn little else, or haul a hundred and twenty pound pack up the side of an unforgiving mountain for bragging rights and a few items of equipment.

Hal liked things that way. The fewer people out there cluttering up the wild places, the better. But he liked something else too—the way Stevie Lee made him feel—and he could imagine a thousand ways to spoil her, none of which he could afford. Even with all the facts in place, he wanted her.

Damn
. Life was suddenly getting a lot more complicated.

Friday rolled into Saturday, into Sunday, and finally into Monday, seemingly without end. She’d said he’d be working twelve-hour days, but fourteen or sixteen had proven to be the norm. Under Doug’s tutelage, Hal’s drink repertoire had risen dramatically. Even more amazing for someone used to having a few hundred miles between himself and the rest of humanity, he’d learned the finer moves of working with two people in a cramped space without stepping on anybody’s toes. But he hadn’t been able to get Stevie alone for a minute.

Hal stacked the last clean glass on the shelf, then took it back down to wipe a few spots off with his bar towel. He twisted the glass around the cloth and checked out the bar. The coolers were stocked with beer, the place was tidy, and the chaotic crowds had piddled out to a few regulars. It was time to make his move.

Tossing the towel over his shoulder, he called to Doug, “I’m taking a break.”

The younger man nodded and went back to counting out their tips on the bar.

* * *

“. . . four, five, six, seven hundred,” Stevie whispered under her breath. “And twenty, forty.” Twelve hundred and forty dollars. She counted it again.

“Hmm, not bad.” She tippity-tapped the number onto her calculator, then picked up a bundle of tens.

Stacks of cardboard boxes, most of them empty, towered over the side of her rolltop desk, blocking the overhead light and throwing her slender form into the slanted shadow of the ceiling fan. Various and sundry pieces of replacement parts, tools, and busted equipment littered the remaining floor space.

Standing in the doorway, Hal looked at the mess and wondered how she ever got any work done. Her desk reminded him of a miniature junkyard. Empty beer bottles and pop cans were scattered here and there like beacons among the flat paper waste.

“For double wages, I’ll clean this place up for you,” he offered from across the infamous back room.

Stevie swivelled her chair around, one pencil in her hand, another stuck behind her ear. “Don’t even try it, mister. I’ve got a system going here.” A surprisingly soft smile curved her full, wide mouth, sending a jolt of anticipation through his chest. Then she went and ruined it. “This is the best Memorial Day weekend the Trail’s ever done, close to thirty-five hundred dollars.”

“Looks as though I’m earning my keep,” he said dryly. Was money all she ever thought about? he wondered.

She answered him silently with an arched brow, and swivelled herself around and went back to work.

“What’s the big deal, anyway,” he continued, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. “According to Doug, good old Kip set you up for life.”

“If you call ridiculous car payments, an outrageous mortgage, and a piece of a decrepit bar that can’t even pay for the beer being set up for life, then he did.” While she talked, she shuffled through the piles of ledgers and papers on the desk, eventually coming up with a rubber band. “Frankly, I had something else in mind.”

Her words, however lightly spoken, caused an uneasy tightening in his chest.

“Thought you were smarter than that, Stevie Lee,” he said softly, hurting for her and not knowing exactly why. Sure, he’d seen how hard she worked, keeping a lid on the pandemonium and charming the customers. But he’d also seen her drop with exhaustion at the end of each night.

From the back, he saw her lift one shoulder in a slight shrug. “It was a small price to pay to get rid of him.”

He took her nonchalance as a cue and sure rejection of any pity he might have offered, if he’d been dumb enough to offer Stevie Lee Brown pity. Changing tactics, he said in a lighter tone, “I guess I showed up in the nick of time.”

She replied silently again, this time lifting both shoulders in an all-out, dismissive shrug.

Okay, Hal, you’ve tried the subtle approach.

Stevie sensed his encroaching presence and shifted closer to her calculator, trying with all her heart to ignore him, wishing he’d get what he’d come for and leave. Then she felt a warm tingle on the back of her neck, and a corresponding heat in her cheeks. Damn him. What did he think he was doing? She dared to look up and immediately wished she hadn’t.

The broken shafts of light from the ceiling fan cast him in shadow, adding mystery and danger to a face she’d been secretly memorizing all weekend. His rolled up sleeves and open collar of his shirt revealed a warm, dark brown body, lean with muscle and ready for—what? Stevie unconsciously scooted closer to her desk.

Hal was taking his time, enjoying the view, and stalking her, slowly, easily, and inevitably. His gaze traveled up the length of her legs to the wide leather belt cinching her waist. A white T-shirt he’d like to see wet, clung to her upper body.

“Thanks for not firing me Friday night.” He lifted two of the reinforced cardboard boxes off the stack and dropped them on the near side of her desk, neatly trapping her between himself and the wall.

Stevie’s eyes widened as he sat down on the double box, knees splayed, booted feet planted firmly on the floor. A tiny, delayed shot of panic released in her brain. “You’re welcome. You’ll . . . um . . . get the hang of it.”

‘Yeah, I think I will.” Hal made himself comfortable and watched her, letting his anticipation build. He’d waited a long time. “Is it going to be crazy like that every weekend?”

“No. We’ll get hit again on the Fourth, and Labor Day weekend, but the rest of the time it will just be busy, not cra—What are you doing?”