“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Five years. Since I was nineteen. Matilda saved me,” she answered, and then pointed at the window. “There’s Jackson Armstrong pulling his truck up to the gas pumps.”
The abrupt way she changed the subject again and the pain in her eyes told me not to ask any more questions. Figuring out this new lifestyle wasn’t going to be easy, but on the flip side, I did have a room to sleep in at the end of the workday, even if Matilda had died there. And I could spend my time trying to figure out the mystery of why Scarlett and Rosalie didn’t want to talk about their pasts.
Lord knows I sure don’t want to, either.
“Hey, Scarlett!” a guy yelled as he came through the door. “Can you rustle me up a double bacon burger and some fries?”
“I sure can.” She moved over to the service window and raised her voice: “Rosie, Jackson wants his usual.”
“Coming right up,” Rosie shouted back.
He removed his coat and hung it on the back of a barstool. The tattoo on his upper arm of a knife with the wordsDe Oppresso Liberwrapped around it told me he had been in Special Forces. That little four-inch dark-brown ponytail said it had been a while since he was discharged. His eyes were the same color as the army-green T-shirt that stretched across his biceps and didn’t leave any doubt about his strength.
“What can I get you to drink?” I asked.
“Sweet tea, and keep the pitcher handy,” he answered. “How long have you been working here?”
“This is my first day.”
“Have we met before? I never forget a pretty face, but names are a different matter.” His green eyes twinkled. Was he flirting?
I set a glass of iced tea in front of him. “My name is Carla Wilson, and unless you’ve played poker, I don’t think we’ve met.”
“So, you were a gambler in your past life?”
“Who said it was past?”
He chuckled. “I can’t imagine Rosie letting any backroom poker games go on here at the Tumbleweed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I wondered what he had done to earn her trust. If it took being in the military, then I would just call her Rosalie for as long as I owned the place. But ... there was another tidbit to file about the people I would be working with until I squirreled away enough money for my next trip to Vegas. Or maybe I would bypass that place and go on out to Los Angeles.
“Where are you headed today?” Scarlett asked.
“Up close to New Mexico,” he answered, “but I’ll see y’all in a few days. Right now, my crew is staying in Carlsbad until we can getmoved into the area. I can’t survive without one of Rosie’s burgers for very long.”
A bell sounded and Scarlett hurried over to the window, picked up the red plastic basket, and set it before Jackson. “There you go. Enjoy.”
“I always do,” Jackson said and popped a french fry into his mouth.
I grabbed a bar rag and a spray bottle of cleaner and set about wiping down the tables and chairs. When I’d finished that, I swept the floor. Like folks say about riding a bicycle, even if a person doesn’t get on one for years, it all comes back to them—the same with restaurant work. Other than cooking, I knew the business; Frank’s new wife, Paula, had drilled that into my head. I could almost hear her growling at me to sweep the floor again because she found a single breadcrumb under a chair.
I set the broom and dustpan behind the bar and refilled Jackson’s tea glass. “So, how do you like civilian life?”
“How did you know I was in the military?” he asked.
She pointed to the tat. “By that.”
He smiled and nodded. “Guess it’s a giveaway, isn’t it? I don’t like it as well as the military, but I promised my dad I would give it a try. His oil company has a place for me, so I don’t have to make up my mind for a few months,” he answered as he finished off his food. “Can I get a sweet tea to go?”
“Of course.”
Scarlett came from the back, handed him the ticket, and turned to me. “You know how to run a register?”
“No, but I’m a fast learner.”
I watched carefully as she hit a few keys and the drawer opened.
