Chapter Two
Jo watched two hotheads start revving their engines for a fight. Damn. She checked the corner of the bar and made sure her favorite bat was still handy. Not that she ever used it—hardly ever—but at times, it was the visual reality check men needed to take her seriously when she kicked them out. Something about a pissed-off woman didn’t always register. But a pissed-off woman holding a bat? Always a big score.
“Want me to step in?” Stu popped his head in from the kitchen. “Or I could send one of my guys.”
“No, I’ve got it. They’re about to receive an invitation to the parking lot.” Jo pulled her hair back at the nape of her neck and walked through the passway to the spot where the two idiots were riling each other up.
“Call if you need me!”
Amanda raced up behind her as Jo approached the two men. “Shouldn’t you let Stu—”
“Nope. You know me. I’ve got it.” How often did she repeat that phrase in any given day? I’ve got it. No, I’ve got it. Really, I’ve got it. Was it so hard to believe one woman could handle her own business without a man stepping in every time things got a bit sticky?
Luckily, brawls here didn’t seem to happen nearly as much as they did in a larger, more crowded bar. She’d never imagined being able to run a bar without a bouncer. But in Marshall, it just wasn’t necessary.
“It’s bullshit, that’s what it is.” The first man shrugged a hand off his shoulder. It belonged to a buddy wanting to calm him down.
Good luck with that.
“And I say it’s not.” The second man’s friends cheered him on. Clearly his friends were just as stupid as he was.
Though he was about five inches shorter, and at least twenty pounds lighter, the first man stepped forward, chest pressing against his opponent. “The Vikings don’t have a shot at the Super Bowl in this decade, and you know it. Stop while you’re behind, dipshit.”
Fueled by righteous anger, the Vikings fan took this as a personal attack and pushed the shorter man back a step. “You gonna make me stop?”
“I’m going to make you both stop.” Jo stepped between them, knowing she had to grab the chance to intervene while she could. “If you want to be assholes, I’ve got no problem with it. But be an asshole somewhere else. People are drinking and eating and having fun in here.”
The first man actually looked a little contrite, his head hanging slightly. “Whatever. I’m already cashed out.” He nodded to his buddy, the one whose commonsense had been evident before, and they started heading toward the door.
Jo breathed a sigh of relief. Easier than expected. Almost too—
“Pussy!”
And there it was. The big guy just couldn’t resist a parting shot. But when the other man didn’t respond, he jumped forward to grab him by the collar of his jacket. His friends, it seemed, were not only pleased, but encouraged him by pushing against his back.
Unfortunately for them all, Jo was still in his way. She managed to twist enough so when she fell, she only smacked her elbow on the cocktail table, rather than her face. But it was enough to enrage her. Drunks, she could handle. Assholes, sure. But the minute someone hurt something in her bar—including her own body—she got nasty. With a quick spin on the floor, she shot one foot out to connect with the man’s knee. His leg buckled and he went down hard, face-first. But he didn’t have the same grace and experience as Jo, and his face planted on a chair.
Bull’s-eye. Jo was never a super fan of retaliation, but she couldn’t be anything but honest . . . that one felt good.
A few male patrons nearby stepped in and asked if she needed assistance. Nice timing, of course. Couldn’t have been bothered ten minutes ago, but now that the guy was flat on his face, they were all eager beavers and concerned citizens. She asked two to help scoot the man out the door and into his friend’s truck.
“Did he pay?” she asked Amanda as they trailed behind the prone customer.
“Yeah, they cashed out about ten minutes ago. I made sure to keep up with their bill.”
“Nice work.” After the ever-so-helpful patrons shoved the half-conscious man into his truck, she offered them each a free round. “Who’s driving this guy home?”
One of his cheering squad mumbled he’d do it. She took a moment to gauge the way he walked, the look in his eye, then asked, “How many beers?”
“Two.”
She looked at Amanda, who nodded in agreement. But Jo still paid attention as they walked to the truck. Not a hiccup or falter to his step.
“Need us to call the cops?”
She watched from the doorway of the bar. When the friend got behind the wheel and took off, she shook her head. “He’s on his way. No point.”
The other man nodded at her arm. “Already starting some color there. Should be assault, if you ask me.”
And yet they’d hung back until she was finished dealing with the belligerent drunk. Typical. Jo had learned early in life to never count on a man to do anything. One of the few useful things her mother passed on. “I’ll be fine. A little ice and it’ll be good as new.”
They both shrugged and headed to the bar to claim their free drink.
“Jerks.”
“Eh, give ’em a break. It’s hard getting your hands dirty after a long week of work.” When Amanda gave her a confused look, Jo rolled her eyes and threw an arm around her shoulder. “That’s sarcasm. Remember how we talked about that?”
“Right, right.” But Jo could tell she was still mulling it over in her mind. “Still, a real man would have stepped up, regardless.”
“Possibly. Or maybe the real man would see that a real woman can handle herself.”
“No real man out here would dare let a woman step into a fight. It falls under the same category as opening doors and carrying boxes.”
“How nineteen-fifties.” Jo joked often about how ass-backwards everything seemed in Marshall after living in large cities her whole life, but the truth was . . . she loved it. Not the part where men still thought women couldn’t handle themselves. But the more simple way of thinking, overall. It was one of the reasons she’d come to a small town, rather than striking out on her own in another big city.
“I’ve got an order to deliver.”
“Off you go, then. Otherwise, the boss might fire you.” She grinned as Amanda stuck out her tongue and hurried off to the table. After seeing Amanda wasn’t too frazzled to keep working the rest of the shift, she headed back to her spot behind the bar. There were enough drink orders to keep her busy until closing time, when she managed to drag her tired ass up the stairs to her above-bar apartment. Not quite the Ritz, but perfectly adequate.
She stripped off her black polo with Jo’s Place stitched over the breast pocket and dumped it into a hamper full of identical shirts. Time for laundry. She’d have to run a load while doing the books tomorrow morning. After a quick debate between sleep and a shower, sleep won. Who did she have to impress in bed? Nobody, that’s who. So she’d grab the extra twenty minutes of shut-eye any day.
Another depressing thought, she realized as she changed into a sleep tank and some ugly shorts with a rip in one hem. One of the major drawbacks to small town life . . . no pool of single, available men looking for a night of fun. Not that she’d been a total slut or anything in Chicago. Or New York, or San Fran. . . . She just enjoyed a man from time to time, and working in a bar, she had her pick.
Now it was all cowboys who went to bed before the sun was fully set and married men who loved their wives. And good for them, she added, getting into bed and sighing at the glorious feeling of being off her feet.
Well, she’d known getting the bar up and running was priority number one. Now that the first year was nearly complete, she felt more confident. Maybe it was time to start watching for a man to slip into her bed now and again. Who wouldn’t like a little extra company to come home to after a long night?
With thoughts of sexy, faceless cowboys in tight chambray shirts dancing through her head, she fell asleep.
Trace laid on his back on the carpet of the upstairs family room, his son crawling on the floor beside him. Though the living room downstairs was more spacious, it was a little too perfect for any of the Muldoon siblings. Sylvia, their mother, had taken it into her mind to turn the big house from comfortably lived in to a show palace. Something about looking rich if you wanted to be rich. Not that it worked.
Trace thought it was just another excuse to do whatever she wanted with the family money. And as usual, their father had gone right along with it. The man was brilliant in so many ways, but a businessman and a husband with a backbone—those were two things he’d never managed in his lifetime.
Peyton walked over and flopped down on the couch. “So. Are you going to tell me who his mother is?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. I’ll just ask again next week.”
“I know.”
Seth’s mom. A weekly conversation topic. Trace had known when he’d showed up at the ranch with a three-month-old baby and no woman in tow, he’d get questioned. He hadn’t realized, months and months later, Peyton would still be picking at it. But he should have. Peyton was a bulldog with a bone when she wanted something. But she wasn’t heartless. She’d use manipulation to get it out of him if she could.
But it wouldn’t work. Who his son’s mother was didn’t matter. She wasn’t in his life, wouldn’t be in his life, and that’s what was important. Besides, the odds were the story would bore her to tears anyway.
“Come here, little man.” She rolled and reached over with one arm, scooping him up just before he started to pull himself up on the coffee table to cruise. Plopping him on her stomach, she grinned and started messing with his still-bald head. “When are you gonna grow some hair? Is there some sort of baby Rogaine we can give the kid?”
“Doubt it. Plus, being bald is cool. How many athletes shave their heads these days?”
“Hmm.” She rubbed his back through the footie pajama top for a moment. “I’m thinking this guy and I need to start a new tradition.”
“What’s that?”
“Movie night.”
“Movie night?” Trace lifted his head a little from the floor. “He’s not even one. He can’t focus on anything for more than two minutes. Plus, all the books say introducing screen time early can ruin babies’ eyesight and lower their attention span, plus the added consequences of—”
“Were you this boring when we were kids, or is this a recent development?” Peyton asked mildly.
“I’d say it’s about nine months old. Movie night, Peyton?” He snorted. “What kind of bullsh—crap is that all about?”
“Earmuffs, Daddy.” She grinned and covered Seth’s ears with her palms for a moment until he started shaking his head in annoyance. “Okay, okay. So maybe I’m leading into this badly. I have a favor to ask. . . .”
“No. I absolutely will not help Bea move out. She wants the apartment? She can do it herself.”
“Agreed there, though for different reasons. Mostly, I just want to see her actually break a sweat.” Peyton snickered at the thought.
“Like she’d do it herself. She’ll just get a few of the hands to come up here after work and do it for her.”
She thought about that a moment. “Damn. You’re right.”
“Earmuffs, Auntie Peyton.”
She shot him the finger. “Fine. I want you to go out with Red.”
Of all the favors he’d been imagining, that was the last he’d expected. “Go out where? Out of town? I don’t have anything this weekend on my schedule.” Did he miss something? He glanced at Seth. Already he regretted missing another weekend of his son’s life.
“No, no. Not out of town.” Peyton stood, shifting and supporting Seth carefully as she maneuvered. With the child on her hip, she started walking slowly back and forth around the room. The swaying motion of her hips lulled Seth enough that he let his head drop to her shoulder. Thank God. “Red’s got it in his mind to head for a night out on the town. I think he needs some company, but you know how he is. He’s not going to ask one of the guys here. Something about muddying up the trainer–work hand relationship. Balance of power and yadda-yadda.”
“I think you two yadda-yadda’ed the balance of power last year when the trainer and owner started boinking.”
Peyton rolled her eyes. “I’m choosing to ignore that.”
“Choose away,” he permitted.
“The fact is, he’s itching to get out. I know he likes staying here in the big house, since he’s with me. In my bed,” she added with a smirk.
“Jesus, TMI, Peyton. You two can’t let a guy pretend to not know, can you?” Trace rolled over and buried his face in the carpet, arms covering his ears.
“I’m sorry. I forgot what a boring prude you are these days. Didn’t you know Red and I host midnight Scrabble matches every evening? I’m currently ahead in the ranking, thanks to his horrible spelling.”
“Better. Continue.”
“But I think he needs a little separation. We work together, we’re shacking up—I mean, playing Scrabble—together.” She used air quotes around Seth’s head for that little tidbit. “He eats all his meals here or in the barn, where he’s likely to run into me during the day. And we travel together more times than not. He needs a breather. I can see it.”
Trace watched as Peyton took another lap with his son on her hip. He focused on her eyes, then her hands. They were the two places he knew she showed stress the most. Even as a child, she’d managed to face their bitch of a mother stone-faced. But her hands would clench into fists or widen into stiff boards, and her eyes would shoot daggers when Sylvia’s back was turned.
He didn’t see anything like that now.
“Does that bother you?”
“Bother me?” She turned to look at him, eyebrows raised in confusion. “How so?”
“That he needs space from you. I mean, you love the guy. Does it bug you that he needs to get away?”
“Hell, no.” She winced and stroked Seth’s head. “Sorry. That’s still hard to curb.”
“I’m calling ‘hell’ a free pass. It’s a location as much as a curse, so it’s a freebie.”
“Good. But no, it doesn’t bother me. I love him, he loves me. I don’t think he’s going to run out and find the first available woman to lie on her back and roll in the hay. He needs some space. It’s natural. And frankly, if he is getting space, so am I.” She grinned at him. “Between you and me, I wouldn’t mind a night off from the girlfriend routine either. I get to do whatever I want while he’s gone for the evening, like play with my favorite nephew. And tomorrow, back to being the sexy gir—uh, great speller.” She jiggled Seth a little and he smiled back at her. “So. Help a gal out?”
Trace searched his mind for plot holes. “I don’t want you to babysit.”
“You didn’t hear me, did you? This is movie night for us. Not babysitting. We’re bonding. Now, go change into something a little less icky, and let my man take you out for a drink.”
“That sounded so wrong.”
“Go be wrong elsewhere. I’ve got a DVD to watch.”
“It better be PG.”
Red opened the door and motioned for Trace to step through first.
“Jesus. First Peyton tells me to let you take me out for a drink. Now you’re opening the door for me like I’m a chick.”
“And you look extra purdy in your finest shirt, darlin’.” Red grinned when Trace elbowed him in the stomach. “Relax. It’s just a guys’ night out. No harm.”
“Last guys’ night we had, someone ended up trying to break into the big house.” He regretted the words immediately when Red winced. Since the guy breaking in had been in cahoots with Red’s father, he wasn’t a fan of the memory. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, well, let’s not repeat that, shall we?” Red headed to a table near the pool tables and positioned himself to watch a poker game on one of the TV screens.
Trace sat down and debated asking. But then he decided, if the guy was going to deck him, he’d at least wait until they got back to M-Star to do it. Red was classy like that. “Are you getting ready to break up with my sister? Or maybe quit the ranch?”
Red set the drink menu back down on the table slowly and looked over at him. “What?”
“Because if you are, you know it’s going to kill her.” Shouldn’t have said that part. “I mean, you know, because of all the crap she had to deal with to get over dating her trainer. You know, mentally . . .” Shit. Hole was halfway to China now, might as well keep shoveling. “I’m just saying—”
Red held up a hand. “Don’t ‘just say.’ I appreciate the big brother routine, which is why I’m not telling you we’re going to draw blood in the parking lot. But Jesus, dude, you know I’m crazy about her. Why would you think that?”
Trace shrugged. “Forget it.”
“Hard to, when you toss a conversation starter like that at a guy.” Red smiled as the waitress, a cute redhead, strolled up. “Bud, bottle.”
“Same,” Trace said, and waited until she sauntered off. Because it would have been unnatural not to, he took a second glance at her butt. Not bad. Cute, good butt, nice smile. And yet, his self-imposed celibacy continued.
“If it’s about Peyton shoving me out of the house for the night—”
“Peyton? She said you were dying to get out of the house.”
Red smiled. “Uh-huh. Of course, she did.”
Trace had the distinct feeling of being on the losing end of a fight he didn’t even know he was in. “So, you didn’t tell her you wanted to go get drinks.”
“Nope.” He smiled again as the redhead delivered the drinks, and took a sip. “Not that I don’t appreciate a good beer and some time out watching poker. Maybe shoot a little pool in a bit.”
“But it wasn’t your idea.”
Red shrugged. “I’d be just as happy at home with your sister. Happier, probably. No offense meant,” he added easily.
“Playing Scrabble,” Trace muttered. Red shot him a confused look, but he shook his head. “Never mind.”
“Fact is, variety is the spice of life. Not variety in women,” he added, as if he realized Trace wasn’t entirely following. “But variety in experiences. I got so used to following my dad around the country, from one barn to the next, that I just fell into doing the same thing myself as an adult. One ranch after another, whichever one wanted to hire me next, there I went. But now that I’m static, and happy to be so, I can always use something new to do with my days to throw off the normal a little. No harm.”
“Yeah.” Trace sipped his own beer, wondering why it always seemed to taste a little better when it came from a bar rather than the fridge at home. “I got it. So overall, this whole plot was to get me out of the house.”
Red lifted a brow. “Mind me asking why you think that?”
“Peyton’s been up my ass about getting a social life for months. I’m happy at home. Is that a crime?”
“Not at all. But there’s also nothing wrong with taking some time to get out. Nobody back home minds watching Seth. Except maybe Bea . . . It’s not a big deal. It’s not,” he added when Trace started to protest. “I know you want to do it all, and you hate imposing. You’re just like Peyton that way. You feel it’s bad enough Emma takes him on during the day. But she got a raise out of it, didn’t she? And did Peyton look like she was suffering, keeping him for the night?”
“No.”
“Exactly. We all love that little guy. And we mostly tolerate your ass, too. So in the end, it all works out. Now, enjoy your beer and shake off your mad, because if you ruin my own night out, I’ll kick your ass when we get home.”
Trace grinned, despite himself, and saluted Red with his bottle. “Yes, sir.”