It was one of the few things he had left of his grandfather.
“Maybe you won’t catch me coming back,” Montgomery snarled as he stumbled toward the door, Silas following a moment later.
If only that were true.
Roan watched them leave, a wave of heat flooding his neck as he made his way back to the bar, where Abigail looked up at him with sympathy in her blue eyes.
He didn’t want sympathy.
“I can take care of this,” she offered, “if you need to take the rest of the night off—”
“I don’t need the night off,” he said roughly. “I’m fine. Next time, cut them off.”
“Of course,” Abigail said with a cheerful smile. “I wasn’t going to give them any more,” she added, “and I’m glad you and Beastie were able to make that clear so I didn’t have to.”
Her cheerfulness was annoying.
“See that you do,” he said, ignoring the rest of what she’d said to focus on the fact that she’d planned to cut them off. “I won’t have drunks here.”
“I’m aware,” Abigail said with a smile. “I won’t let that happen. You have my word.”
He eyed her sideways as he walked around the bar and reached for one of the mugs she’d been cleaning.
She always did a perfectly fine job, so there was no need for him to inspect it, but it gave him something to do while he gathered his thoughts and pretended he knew what to do with her and the way she was never rattled by anything.
When he glanced back in her direction, she was watching him with a slight smile playing on her lips. “I’m going to pop back into the kitchen, if that’s okay. I need to stir the stew.”
Roan nodded, and she disappeared around the back before he could say anything else, her blonde curls bouncing as she walked.
She even walked with pep in her step.
This was the problem with hiring her. Roan didn’t have a problem with women; he had a problem with people who were too cheerful and wouldn’t be grumpy with him.
He never should have hired her in the first place.
“She had it handled,” Conrad said from his seat across the bar.
“Sure she did,” Roan said gruffly.
“You don’t have to be so hard on her,” Conrad pointed out.
“I’m not hard on her,” Roan said. “I’m simply telling her what needs to be done.”
Conrad raised his eyebrows. “You think that’s what you’re doing?” he asked. “Because from my end, it looks like you’re being hard on her.”
“It’s not your business how I manage my employee,” Roan said sharply.
Conrad shrugged his shoulders. He was also far too unruffled—maybe Roan didn’t like him either.
“If that’s what you say,” Conrad said quietly, “though I still think she puts up with more from you than she ought to.”
“I’m her employer,” Roan said again, but Conrad simply smiled, shrugged, and turned away, going back to nursing his ale.
The door was thrown open with a bang, and Roan looked up quickly. Who was abusing his grandfather’s door like that?
The man who stood in the doorway was unfamiliar—short, with blond hair in a terrible cut and ill-fitting clothes. His cloak was torn in the front and showed signs of being mended more than once. Roan frowned. Honest men could be down on their luck, but there was something shifty about this one.
The heavy wooden door slammed shut, and Roan gritted his teeth. He kept the hinges well oiled; there was no need to slam the door to shut it.
