And every head turns my way.
It’s darker inside than I expected, the lowlight and amber casting shadows in the already dim room.
It smells of stale beer, deep-fried food, and… the sharp tang of men.
Looking around, I don’t see one other female face. My eyes lock on the bartender, a towel slung over his shoulder, his expression more curious than predatory. I pull my shoulders back and pick my way through the room full of big men.
And they are big. All of them. Thick arms, muddy boots, and broad shoulders crowd together around rough wooden tables, their dark eyes following me as I make my way to the bar.
I don’t belong here.
I’ve always been confident, and I know how to hold my own with men who get a little too forward or think they’re entitled to my attention just because they have a penis dangling between their legs. I’ve never had an issue owning my space or meeting a stare without flinching.
But this isn’t a college bar in the city full of drunk boys. This is a room full ofmenwho know exactly who belongs here and who doesn’t.
And right now, I don’t.
My skin prickles as their eyes linger. It’snot threatening. Not yet. But I’m not naive enough that I don’t understand the situation I’ve just put myself in.
But I don’t have any other choice. I force myself to keep my shoulders straight, my chin up, and my expression neutral. Maybe if I act as if I belong, they might all start to believe it.
A man leans back in his chair; another turns on his barstool.
I ignore them and focus on the bartender who watches my approach with a bemused expression on his face. “You lost, little lady?” he asks when I get close enough.
“My phone isn’t working,” I say, ignoring his question. “Do you have a landline I can borrow?”
“No service up here in the mountains,” he says as if I should have expected as much. Before I can challenge him, he adds, “Phone’s behind the bar.” He gestures with his head.
Relief loosens the knot between my shoulders, and I move quickly. Dialing the number I’ve had memorized since I was a kid, I keep my back turned to the room, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling the curious eyes watching me.
I lower my voice instinctively as the call connects.
“Dad,” I say when he answers. “It’s me. I’m in Iron Peak.”
Holt
The smell of fresh-cut pine still hangs in the air when my phone vibrates on the shelf where I left it.
I don’t get a lot of calls, which is still more than I’d like, but when my buddy Luke put in the satellite system to bring us cell coverage on the mountain, he insisted we all use it.
In case of emergency.
Which, besides a few unsolicited sales calls, was in fact the only time it rang. Ever.
I brush the sawdust from my hands and glance over at the screen, lit up with Luke’s name.
Shit.
I grab the phone. “Luke.”
“My kid’s in town,” he says without preamble.
His voice is tight with that edge I recognize instantly. The same one hehad years ago when we served together, when things were going sideways and there wasn’t time for explanations.
“Your—”
“I’m in the city for meetings,” he cuts me off. “I need you to get her.”
