Chapter One
It was busy for a Tuesday night. Not Friday busy, but full enough. The end of the week saw workers from the local mines getting their paychecks and drinking them up the wall. By Tuesdays, customers were usually down to a trickle. Maybe this week they’d all been saving their pennies, hiding enough away from their wives so they could escape to the only drinking hole in town. Whatever the reason, Rachel was happy the bar was packed. She was glad to have a distraction from her thoughts. It beat having time to dwell on the past.
The old-timers at the corner table were nursing their beers and people-watching, while a group of younger men gathered around the pool table, placing their dollar bills on the side. Rachel had been working here for over a year, and in that time she’d seen the faces change; some married, others had babies and their beer money was needed to buy diapers or pay the rent. They were fast replaced by fresh-faced boys when they turned twenty-one and could legally drink. Working in the mines may have paid good money, but the dark, manual labor aged them faster than the desert sun.
Her boss, Buddy, usually worked nights until ten before driving home with the takings, leaving Rachel to finish the evening and clean up. Most nights it was past one thirty before she could climb the steep stairs to the apartment above the bar, dragging her weary legs beneath her. Tonight he’d stayed later and was sitting on a stool he’d pulled around from the other side of the bar. His elbows were resting on the counter as he watched Rachel washing the dirty glasses.
She moved away from the sink and loosened the stiff muscles in her back. Her heels ached from standing on them all day. The soles of her shoes had worn down so much it felt like she was standing in her bare feet.
“You doing all right?” His voice was worn and thin, much like his body. Somehow he always managed to make her smile. He’d given her a job and a roof over her head when nobody else would. For that, she’d always be grateful.
“I’m good. Why don’t you get on home? I’m sure Marianne’s wondering where you are.” It was nearly ten thirty, and she knew Buddy’s wife would be worried. Ever since his last heart attack, Marianne had treated him like a sickly child, fussing over him until it drove him crazy. As she stacked the last clean glass in the drying rack, Rachel recalled the haunted look on Marianne’s face when she described the way she’d found him on the bathroom floor, a bruise spreading across his forehead where he’d banged it on the sink. There was no way any of them wanted to go through that again.
“I’ll cash out and leave you some change for tomorrow.” Buddy twisted on his stool until the register was in front of him. “Looks like we had a good night.” A good night’s takings for Buddy’s was a bad night elsewhere, but somehow they made enough to keep things going. Buddy had owned the bar for thirty years and it had nearly paid its way, leaving enough for him and Marianne to live a modest life. Rachel didn’t get much of a wage, but the roof over her head and a safe place to stay was enough for now. She’d worry about her future when she’d forgotten about her past.
A loud roar of laughter from the pool table caught her attention, and she whipped her head around to see young Jace standing with the cue above his head. His hips swayed in a gyrating victory dance as he celebrated his win. A few of the guys were patting him on the back, hollering with congratulations, while others slinked away, their faces falling when they realized their beer money for the week had gone up in smoke. A week of self-induced abstinence wouldn’t sit well with the losers.
There wasn’t a whole lot to do in Hillbrook apart from working, sleeping, eating, and drinking, and having to stay away for a few days would definitely piss them off. Rachel kept her eye on them, not wanting any trouble. It had only taken a few weeks of working there to decide who was bad news and who wasn’t. Luckily, the worst of them were carousing elsewhere tonight.
“Hey, Rachel, bring me another beer?” Jace called out, his eager eyes seeking her out. He reminded her of a stray dog, desperate to please, hungry for whatever attention he could get. “And maybe a little kiss as well?”
“Shut the hell up, Daniels.” Richie, a foreman from the mine, rubbed Jace’s mop of hair. “You know she don’t go for boys.”
“She don’t go for men, neither,” another voice butted in, and it took Rachel a moment to recognize it. The deep timbre belonged to a crew member who’d asked her out more times than she cared to remember. “Rachel’s a good girl.”
She suppressed a grimace, knowing how wrong he was. Grabbing a cold beer from the fridge, she let the glass bottle cool her palm as she popped the cap. She had to take a deep, calming breath before she walked around the bar and out into the main area, trying to stroll so her butt didn’t sway. She could feel every eye in the room watching her like she was a piece of meat. She hated being the center of attention; maybe that was why she tried to keep herself covered up with jeans and a long-sleeved sweater. By the time she got to the pool table and handed Jace his beer, her face was already flushed with the embarrassment of a girl who preferred to fly under the radar.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” Jace pulled her to him, his arm curling around her waist. He kissed her forehead with surprisingly soft lips. Rachel pulled back before he could do anything else; his touch on her skin burned. Without a glance behind her, she shot straight back to the bar, welcoming the protective barrier between herself and the rest of the world.
When she got back to the bar, the relief that washed over her was immediate. She felt safe there, behind four feet of brick and wood. She didn’t do waitress service often, particularly on nights she was working alone, but when she did, she was reminded of how far she had to go.
Until she became the woman she used to be.
Before David.
Buddy locked up the cash box, chewing on his pencil as he tallied up the night’s takings. He looked about ready to call it a night. “Make sure you get rid of these yahoos before one,” he reminded her. “I’ve asked Richie to hang around ‘til closing time, just in case.”
“I’ll be fine,” Rachel reassured him. She exhaled softly, relieved he was listening to her for once. “You’ve got all the money anyway. I can’t see anybody coming to rob me tonight.”
“You got your gun?”
She nodded. “In my purse.” She’d never had to use it, but it was there, nonetheless. Her small handgun was one of the few things which gave her enough comfort to sleep at night. It wasn’t that she was scared as much as wary. In her first week at Buddy’s, she plotted four different
escape routes from the bar.
Just in case she needed to make a quick getaway. In case he ever found her.
“Well, I’ll see ya ‘round lunch time tomorrow.” Buddy glanced to the old dial phone on the wall. “Gimme a holler if you need me.”
“Will, do, but I still wish we could get a cordless phone. You know, in case I’ve fallen and can’t get up.” Rachel winked. Buddy knew she was kidding with him. The reality was, though, that Hillbrook’s archaic communication lines was one of the reasons she’d chosen to stay.
“Take care, Bud. It’s wicked cold out there.” Her words made Buddy smile. Her turn of phrase and long vowels marked her as an outsider, and they never failed to tickle him. Tonight was no different. His lips remained upturned as he walked out of the bar and into the cold winter evening, his heavy feet shuffling across the floor.
It was hard not to worry about Buddy, and she knew the old dog fretted about her. It was like they were made for each other, their father-daughter relationship helping them both to feel a little more grounded. From the day he gave her the job, she knew at least one person in town was on her side. And it was a good feeling. Like she wasn’t on her own anymore.
The rush of the evening started to wane, with the men leaving to grab some sleep before their early morning start. The old-timers went first, their mugs finally empty save for a little froth, having neither the cash nor the bladder control to buy more than a half pint a night. Rachel used the quiet time to wash up the bar, using bleach and then a fresh damp cloth to wipe along the counter. Somebody put money in the jukebox—she’d bet a dollar it was Jace, feeling flush with victory and dollars. Springsteen’s deep, gritty voice filled the room, and a few of the younger men joined in. Rachel hummed as she cleaned, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder to keep it away from the wet counters, letting her hips sashay behind the protection of the bar.
“Can I get a drink?” The voice startled her and she froze for a moment, glancing up at the mirror lining the wall behind the bar. The stranger stared back at her, his face reflected in the glass. Their eyes met and she dropped her cloth, the fabric square falling to the wooden floor. She took a deep breath, trying to still her racing heart before turning around with a smile painted on her lips.
“Sure, what can I get you?”
It was as if he’d appeared out of nowhere. A ghost walking through walls.
“What beers you got?” Like hers, the stranger’s voice seemed out of place. It was an accent that unnerved her to the bone. She hadn’t heard it for more than a year, save coming out of her own mouth. All she had to do was close her eyes, and it was like she was back in Boston.
“You want draft or bottle?” Her lips were dry as hell, and she snaked her tongue out to moisten them. The stranger kept his gaze glued to her face as he considered the options, fingers tapping gently on the bar. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, his thick hair showing no signs of grey. His face remained unlined, though peppered with light stubble, the dark-blond scruff shadowing his jaw. He was good looking too, in that rugged, tough way that some guys were. Even sitting on the bar stool, she could tell he was a big man: tall and built. The thick muscles of his chest fought with the fabric of his t-shirt to make themselves known, and the muscles were winning. It felt like the temperature had risen by forty degrees. She pulled at the neckline of her sweater to fan her skin.
“I’ll stick with a bottle.” His eyes shifted around the room as he spoke.
“We’ve got Bud, Coors, Miller, or Michelob.”
He raised an eyebrow. “No local brew?” His gaze travelled over her shoulder to the cooler behind. As he scanned the shelves, she wondered if he didn’t believe her first answer.
“There’s a microbrewery in the next town over, but we only stock their draft. The boys tell me the Amber Ale is good.” She motioned over at the pump handles. “You want to give it a try?”
He shook his head, bringing his gaze firmly back to her eyes. “I prefer bottled.”
She shrugged, trying not to flinch away from his stare. “Your choice.”
He tipped his head to the side, a grin threatening to pull at his lips. “I’ll take a Bud.”
She reached down to the fridge and grabbed a bottle, turning to the opener screwed to the wall.