I work behind the bar with Presley, pouring beer and mixing drinks. I’m surprised how natural it’s beginning to feel, how my hands know where everything is without thinking.
“You’re getting pretty good at this,” Presley says during a lull. “Almost as good as Mavis.”
“Well, I had a good teacher.”
“Please. You taught yourself. I just pointed you at the bottles and let you figure it out.” She grins. “But seriously, Eleanor, you’re different than when you first got here. More relaxed, like you actually belong.”
“Do I? Belong?”
She looks around the crowded bar. “Yeah, you do. I mean, you’re still a little fancy, but a good kind of fancy now. The kind that fits.”
Before I can say anything, a commotion near the door draws our attention. A group of men in expensive suits has just walked in, and they look as out of place as I did a few weeks ago in my pencil skirt and pearls. They’re looking around with expressions of half curiosity, half disdain, as if they’ve wandered into a zoo.
At the center of the group is Gary Allen.
Our eyes meet across the crowded room. He smiles that smile that I hate.
“Presley,” I say quietly, “can you handle the bar for a minute?”
“Sure. Everything okay?”
“I actually don’t know yet.”
I walk toward the group and keep my expression neutral. Gary is already moving toward me with his hand extended like we’re old friends.
“Ms. Whitfield, lovely to see you again.”
I don’t shake his hand.
“Mr. Allen, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Oh, I’m just showing some colleagues around town. They’re also interested in the area’s potential.” He gestures toward the men behind him. “This is David Webb, Ronald McAllister, and Richard Patterson. Gentlemen, this is Eleanor Whitfield, owner of The Rusty Spur.” They nod politely, and I nod back. Nobody smiles. “I have to say,” Gary continues, “this place is really charming. Very authentic. I can see why you’re attached to it.”
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Allen, or did you just come to admire the décor?”
“Well, we’re just having a drink. Last time I checked, this was a public establishment.” He moves toward the bar, his colleagues following. “Four whiskeys neat. Whatever you’ve got that’s top shelf.”
I want him to leave. I want to throw him out like they do in the movies, with a dramatic exit, the doors swinging, and everybody cheering. But I can’t. He’s right. This is a public establishment. Making a scene would only give him more ammunition.
So I walk back behind the bar and pour the four whiskeys. Presley watches with wide eyes but doesn’t say a word.
“Thank you,” Gary says when I set the glasses down. He raises his glass in a mock toast. “To Copper Creek and its bright future.”
His colleagues echo the toast, and they drink, looking around, taking mental notes.
I stand behind my bar in my honky-tonk, watching them, trying to figure out how to make it all go away.
Wyatt arrives around nine o’clock, as he usually does on Friday nights. He comes in through the back entrance, shrugs off his jacket, and I see the exact moment he spots Gary and his gang at the corner table. His whole body goes rigid.
“What’s he doing here?” he asks as he crosses to me at the bar in three long strides.
“Having drinks and showing his friends around.”
“His friends?”
“Investors, I assume. Or developers. I’m not sure exactly.”
Wyatt’s jaw is tight. “You want me to throw him out?”
