Chapter one
Roan
Runninghisfather’stavernhad never been easy, but tripping over his dog every other minute certainly didn’t make it easier.
Roan Alder clutched the ledger to his chest with one hand as he reached out to save himself from landing on his face, his fingers barely catching on the edge of his desk. He glared down at Beastie, who looked up at him with her long brown tail wagging.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” he grumbled as he sat down at his desk.
Almost as much trouble as these numbers.
Roan scowled at the numbers in the ledger in front of him. He had thought that as he grew more experienced,he would find it easier to turn a profit, but things were still getting worse.
Poring over the accounts would only make him crankier.
He slammed the ledger shut, getting to his feet and heading out the door of his office. Beastie jumped to her feet and followed him, her long tail wagging and thumping against his thigh as she passed him in the doorway. He closed and locked his office door behind him as he made his way to the front room, where his patrons gathered, toasting each other after another long day.
Normally, he would have enjoyed the levity, but not tonight. He’d been put off by the increasingly gloomy forecast for this year’s profit—or, should he say, lack of profit.
The door opened to let in one of his regulars, who entered to cheers from the men who knew him. It was still light outside, though most of the curtains were drawn and the tavern lit by lanterns, because his patrons spent more of their coins when it felt later than it truly was. Even if most of them hadn’t eaten their evening meal yet—they’d be waiting for Abigail to announce that it was ready—they would be more free with their funds in a dim room.
But thanks to the unwanted invoice, Abigail was behind the bar instead of in the kitchen. She slid a mug of ale downto Conrad, who nodded at her in gratitude before taking a swig.
Roan liked Conrad. He was one of the few who came and enjoyed a drink but didn’t over-enjoy himself.
Unlike two other men sitting across the room, having a grand old time, laughing raucously and toasting each other with glee.
Roan scowled.
Abigail should have cut them off already.
The baker had brought his weekly bill, so Roan had stepped out to put it into the ledger. He shouldn’t have let himself get distracted by the numbers and how they didn’t add up—now those two were taking advantage of his absence.
He had zero tolerance for men taking advantage of the fact that his barmaid was relatively new and inexperienced. He might be known across town for being rough, but Abigail was under his protection, and he took that seriously.
He chirped for Beastie and stalked across the room, crossing his arms as he arrived at the table, Beastie by his side.
“Gentlemen,” he said sternly, “is there a problem here?”
Silas had the decency to look ashamed, but Gerald Montgomery didn’t care. “You can’t blame us for havinga drink when the whole point of your establishment is drinking,” he said, his words beginning to slur.
It was far too early in the night for this.
Roan’s stomach turned. “You know I don’t tolerate drunks,” he said. “You’re done for the night, Montgomery. Both of you.”
The man grumbled, but before he could say anything, Beastie let out a yip. Montgomery turned white and closed his mouth. He’d run afoul of Beastie one time, and there had been very little trouble with him since.
Roan had more reasons than that to dislike Montgomery—he’d led Roan to believe that his daughter wanted Roan’s advances, when she’d wanted nothing more than to run away from him.
If the man didn’t spend so much money at the Lucky Goat, he’d be banned.
“Relax,” Montgomery muttered, anxiously looking toward the door. “This is my last one.”
“Yes, it is,” Roan said curtly.
The man drained the rest of his drink before slamming the mug down on the table.
“Be careful,” Roan barked. “That’s my grandfather’s mug. You’d better not let me catch you abusing it again.”
