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The young man frowns. “Both?”

“I hit the tree,” I say.

“And I hit her,” he says. “Her car, that is.”

“I forgot my hazards,” I add. “He couldn’t see my car.”

“Shit. That sucks.” The bartender wipes his hands on a towel and picks up his phone. “Still no signal. I usually get some, but I haven’t since the storm started.”

“Do you have a landline?” I ask.

He waves to an old-fashioned phone on the wall behind him. “It’s not hooked up. They put in a new cell tower, and we started getting a signal here, so I disconnected the landline.” His head tilts as he looks at me. “You okay, ma’am? There’s blood…”

He points to his temple, and I reach to feel a scrape at my hairline.

“Damn it,” Henry says. “Missed that one.” He turns to the bartender. “Would you happen to have a first-aid kit? I left mine in the truck.”

The young man pulls a kit from under the counter. “Use whatever you need. I’ve got my first-aid training, too.”

“He’s a paramedic,” I say, nodding at Henry.

“Then I’ll leave him to it.”

Henry opens the kit. “Is there another place nearby with a landline?”

“Not for miles,” the bartender says. “I’d suggest you hang tight with us. We’ll all just keep checking our phones. Service is bound to come back soon. That storm seems to have died—”

Thunder cracks, and I jump.

The bartender yells up at the ceiling, “That was not a challenge.”

In answer, rain pounds on the metal roof, and within seconds, I can’t see through the glaze of water over the windows.

“So,” the bartender says. “Can I get you a drink?”

FIVE

My forehead is now cleaned and bandaged along with a scrape on the underside of my forearm, Henry insisting on giving me another full audit now that he can see properly.

Speaking of clean, the inside of the bar is spotless. It’s also very nice, which makes me think the exterior must have been left untouched on purpose. The decrepit outside would definitely deter any thieves who think a remote place full of booze makes the perfect target. Of course, it would also deter ninety percent of passing tourists, so I’m not sure the plan works as well as the owner might hope.

It’s cozy in here, with a half dozen tables, polished wood walls and flooring. Even the dead animals are tongue-in-cheek decorating: a deer’s head with a glowing red nose and fairy lights wound through its antlers, a stuffed fox with a monocle and cigar.

“This your place?” Henry calls to the bartender as we sip coffees laced with Bailey’s.

“It is,” the young man calls back as he continues doing inventory. “Belonged to my grandfather. It’s been closed for years, and I decided to give it a shot. Almost done the interior as you can tell. Exterior’s next. I figure I’d scare off fewer potential customers if I renovated in that order.”

I smile. “Better to come in and be pleasantly surprised?”

“Yep. I know it’s not exactly a prime location, but they’re building a resort a few miles up the road. My goal is to attract the folks who think they’re looking for rustic Americana … but really aren’t.”

“Nice.”

“Coffee’s really good,” Henry says.

“It’s decent. The Bailey’s helps. Once I’m up and running, I plan to have an espresso machine. Coffee bar by day; booze bar by night.”

The bartender picks up the phone and checks for a signal, his expression saying there’s still none. Outside, it’s pouring as hard as it did earlier.