GRIFFIN
“You don’t need to come with me.” Winn paused outside Big Sam’s Saloon. “Aren’t you busy?”
Yes, I was busy. But I grabbed the door’s handle and opened it for her anyway. “After you.”
She frowned but walked inside, then I was forgotten as she soaked in every detail, from the wagon-wheel chandeliers to the seams in the wood- paneled walls.
The owners had done a major remodel about ten years ago. They’d moved to Quincy from Texas and the longhorns they’d brought along were hanging behind the bar. The tables were whiskey barrels with glass tops. The stools were upholstered in black and white cowhide.
They were playing up the Western theme for the tourists, and country music crooned from the jukebox in the corner.
I loathed Big Sam’s.
“It’s packed,” she said, scanning the room. “Most days are in the summer.”
A few familiar faces jumped out from the crowd, and as we walked to the bar, I lifted a hand to wave at one of the guys who worked at the hardware store.
I jerked my chin to the bartender as he came over, his bald head catching the glare from the light that reflected off the mirrored liquor shelves. “Hey, John.”
“Griffin.” He reached over the bar to shake my hand. John had trimmed his white beard since the last time I’d stopped in about a month ago. It brushed against his heart instead of his protruding beer belly. “What brings you in?”
I nodded to Winn. “John, this is Winslow Covington.”
“The new chief.” He held his hand out to Winn. “Welcome to Quincy.” “Thanks.” She shook his hand, then slid onto a stool. “Mind if I ask you
a few questions?”
“Depends on the questions.”
I took the seat beside her, and before she could launch into her questions, I ordered a beer. “Bud Light for me, John. Vodka tonic for the chief.”
“I’m on duty,” she muttered as he walked away. “Then don’t drink it.”
She shot me that stern frown again. It, like everything else with this woman, was frustratingly sexy. “This is quite the place.”
“It used to be one of the Eden family businesses. My great-uncle was Big Sam.” The new owners hadn’t changed the name, probably because it went with their cheesy theme, but that was about the only thing left from the bar it had once been.
“Used to be?”
“Sam was more about the drinking than he was about running a business. He sold it to the current owners before it went under.”
“Ah. Is John one of the owners?”
“No, the manager. But if Lily was here Sunday night, he’s your best bet at getting information. He works most weekends.”
“Can’t I just ask him? Why did you order us a drink?”
I leaned in closer, my shoulder brushing hers. “Bartenders in small towns always know what’s going on. They hear the gossip. They see the excitement. But they also protect their own. John’s a good guy but he doesn’t know you, and he doesn’t trust outsiders.”
She gritted her teeth. “Do you have to keep calling me that?”
“It’s what you are. Want to fit in? Sit here with me. Order a drink. Leave him a decent tip. You want to stop being an outsider, then get to know the community.”
“Fine.” She sighed as John returned with our drinks. “Thank you.”
He nodded as she lifted the glass to her lips, sending me a glare over the rim.
I grinned and sipped my beer.
“So what are these questions?” John asked, leaning a hip against the bar. “I’m trying to learn more about Lily Green. She was—”
“I know who she was.”
Winn stiffened at his sharp tone. “Do you remember seeing her here on Saturday or Sunday night?”
“No, she wasn’t here.”
“Did she come in often? Her mother said that since she turned twenty- one, she came to the bars often on the weekends.”
John shrugged. “No more than any of the other kids around here. They come down. Have a few drinks and play pool. Mix with the tourists.”
“Was there anyone in particular you saw Lily with more than once?” “Yeah.” He nodded. “Her regular group of friends.”
Who Winslow would have known had she been from here. It was a dig on John’s part. He could have just as easily rattled off the list of friends’ names.
But he didn’t need to. Because Winn did it for him.
“Frannie Jones. Sarina Miles. Conor Himmel. Henry Jacks. Bailey Kennedy. Clarissa Fitzgerald. Those friends?”
I took a drink to hide my smile as the smug expression vanished from John’s face.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
“Did you notice Lily with anyone else?” she asked. “Like a boyfriend?” “No. She wasn’t that sort of girl. She’d come down, have a drink or two.
Always responsible about calling a cab or catching a ride with a designated driver. I can’t think of a time when she left here with a guy.”
A crease formed between Winn’s eyebrows, like she was disappointed in that answer. What was she after? Conor would know if Lily had been seeing someone. So would Melina.
“Anything else?” John asked. “I need to check on the other tables.” “No, thank you. I appreciate the help and it was nice to meet you.” “Same.” John tapped on the bar, then left to take another order. “What are you after?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
“Like I said on the ridge, I just want to retrace her steps and figure out what she was doing before she died. But sounds like she wasn’t here.”
“John would know.”
Winslow took another drink, then dug through her pocket, pulling out a twenty. “Bye, Griffin.”
She slapped the cash on the bar and headed for the door.
I ditched my beer and followed, catching up to her before she’d even stepped outside. “Let’s head to the Old Mill. Maybe she went there.”
“I don’t need an escort,” she said but fell in step beside me down the sidewalk.
“The two bars on Main bookend the touristy section of Quincy.” The Eloise Inn was almost exactly in the middle. “Want to know why?”
“Because there’s an ordinance that requires at least four hundred yards between any establishments with a liquor license.”
I grinned at the sassy smirk on her pretty mouth. “You’ve done some research.”
“No, I’ve just been here many, many times. Pops has lived here his entire adult life and loves to tell stories. I know a lot about Quincy. Even if I don’t know the people yet. Even if I’m an outsider.”
Oh, did she hate that word. I guess in her shoes, I’d hate it too.
“The ordinance was my great-great-grandmother’s idea,” I told her as we made our way across those four hundred yards toward the Old Mill. “My great-great-grandfather founded Quincy. Our family has lived here ever since. The running joke in town is that you can’t throw a rock without hitting an Eden.”
With aunts, uncles and cousins, I had countless relatives living in town. My parents had taken the unofficial helm of the family. Most of the businesses that had been started by my great-great-grandfather and his descendants had funneled down to my grandfather. He’d then passed them to my father.
Some of my other relatives were entrepreneurs in town, but for the most part, my parents, my siblings, or I owned and operated most of the businesses with the Eden name.
“Old Mill was the first bar in Quincy,” I said. “Started shortly after the town was founded. The story goes that my great-great-grandmother allowed my great-great-grandfather to open the bar but only if the bartender was employed by her. That way, she could set the rules.”
“The rules? Like how many drinks he could have?”
I nodded. “And how late to serve him. But she was worried that someone else would come in and open another bar. According to family rumor, she was a fairly shrewd businesswoman herself, so she suggested the ordinance, and since the Edens were pretty much in charge at the time . . .”
“It passed.”
“Exactly. The town was only two blocks at that time. She figured it would take a hundred years for it to double in size. A four-hundred-yard
radius not only gave her control of the alcohol in town, but control over her husband’s drinking habits.”
Winn smiled. “And it hasn’t changed.”
“Nope. The town grew but that ordinance stuck around.” “Which makes sense why Willie’s isn’t on Main.”
“It’s not long enough, so they established it five blocks off Main and it became the locals’ hangout.”
And the place where I’d never expected to meet this intriguing creation. We passed two men, tourists based on their polo shirts, jeans and unscuffed boots. They both looked Winn up and down. It wasn’t subtle and
her mouth pressed into a line as she ignored them, her eyes aimed forward.
Brave men, not only because she was wearing a gun, but because I was a possessive bastard. With one glare from me, they each dropped their eyes to the sidewalk.
That would always be a problem with Winn.
She was too beautiful. You didn’t expect to see a woman so stunning walking down the streets of Quincy. Her hair was down today, straight and long as it draped down her spine. Without sunglasses to shield her eyes, those blue irises sparkled beneath the afternoon sun.
We reached an intersection and she checked both ways before crossing the street and marching to the bar. Her shoulders were square and her serious face in place as she opened the door.
Old Mill wasn’t the over-the-top scene that was Big Sam’s. It was more of a sports bar, and if I wasn’t up for Willie’s, I came here to catch a game and have a drink. Flat screens were mounted between neon beer signs. Three keno machines hugged the wall just inside the door. Above them hung a framed Quincy Cowboys jersey. Two different baseball games were playing tonight, the announcers’ voices muted through the bar’s sound system.
“Does your family still own this place?” she asked as we walked toward the bar.
“Not anymore. My parents sold it to Chris when I was a kid.” “Who’s Chris?”
I pointed to the bartender.
“Is there another ordinance in Quincy requiring all bartenders to have bushy white beards?”
“Not that I know of.” I chuckled and pulled out a stool for her at the bar before taking my own. “Hey, Chris.”
“Griff.” He nodded to me, then held his hand out to Winn. “You’re Covie’s granddaughter, right?”
“I am.” She fit her delicate hand into his meaty grip. “Winslow. Nice to meet you.”
“Same. What brings you two in?”
“Winn’s got a few questions for you. But how about a beer first?
Whatever’s on tap. Surprise us.”
“You got it.” Chris wouldn’t be gruff like John—who, compared to Willie, was as welcoming as a doormat. Of the regular three bartenders in town, Chris was the nicest guy.
Winn didn’t need me here, but I was having a hard time walking away. Her questions for Chris were the same ones she’d asked John.
Was Lily here on Saturday or Sunday? Do you remember seeing her with the same guy more than once? Did she have a boyfriend?
Chris’s answers were the same as we’d gotten at Big Sam’s. Neither of us finished our beers, and when she went to pay, I beat her to it. With a wave goodbye to Chris, we retreated to our vehicles on the opposite end of Main.
“You talked to all of Lily’s friends, didn’t you?” I asked.
“I did. I hoped that one of them might have noticed something wrong.
But they were all as shocked as Melina.”
“Conor’s broken up about it. I think he might have had feelings for her.” “Really?”
“I don’t think she returned those feelings. He got shoved into the friend zone a long time ago.”
“Hmm.” Her shoulders fell.
“You think she had a boyfriend, don’t you?” She stayed quiet.
That was a yes. Maybe Lily had hooked up with the mystery guy before she died. But who? Now my own curiosity was racing down the block. If Lily had been seeing someone, Conor would have known about it. Unless Lily had hidden a relationship to spare his feelings.
“Maybe she was sleeping with someone who worked at the bank with her,” I said.
“I never said she was sleeping with anyone.”
I gave Winn a knowing look. “You didn’t have to.”
“Why did you come to town with me?” She crossed her arms. “You told me to back off. You told me to drop this, remember?”
“I remember. But for Melina’s sake, for Conor’s, I respect that you’re trying to give them more of an explanation.”
“Oh.” Her arms fell to her sides. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.”
“Bye, Griffin.”
Before she could climb into her SUV and disappear, I walked to the passenger side of her Durango.
“What are you doing?” She narrowed her eyes through the window. “Might as well drive together to Willie’s.”
“How did you know I was going to Willie’s?”
I chuckled. “Do you want me to drive instead?” “No.” She huffed but unlocked the doors.
The five blocks to Willie’s was too short. The inside of her car reminded me of her bed. The moment we pulled into the parking lot, the temperature in the cab spiked. Attraction crackled between us like a spark.
Would I ever come to Willie’s and not picture her in my truck? Probably not.
Winslow parked and was out of the car so fast she practically jogged to the door. Her cheeks were flushed when I caught up.
“Shuffleboard?” I nudged her elbow as I opened the door.
“No.” That pretty flush deepened. “I’m here on official business. And you said it yourself this morning. Not a good thing to repeat. You’re a busy man.”
I said a lot of stupid things.
“Griff.” Willie stood behind the bar, his scowl fixed firmly in place as we walked in.
“Hi, Willie.” Winn didn’t bother taking a seat, and what I’d told her about making nice at the other bars had been forgotten. Or maybe she knew ordering a drink and making pleasantries with Willie would be a waste of time. She launched into her questions about Lily, and when she received a series of grunted nos, she thanked him for his time.
Winn turned, ready to leave, when the door opened and a familiar face walked into the bar.
“Harrison.” My uncle Briggs walked over, his hand extended. “What’s going on, brother? I didn’t know you were coming into town tonight.”
Fuck. My stomach dropped.
Winn looked between the two of us.
“Griffin.” I clapped my hand on his shoulder. “I’m Griffin, Uncle Briggs.”
He studied my face, confusion clouding his eyes. He looked normal in jeans and a red shirt. But he was wearing two different boots, one round toe and the other square. A set of keys dangled from one hand.
“What are you up to?” I asked.
“Thought I’d grab a beer.” His forehead was furrowed, still trying to figure out how I wasn’t my father.
“I’ll buy.” I nodded for Briggs to head to the bar, then faced Winn. “I’m going to stay here with him.”
“Sure.” She looked to my uncle, her eyes softening. “Have a good night, Griff.”
“Bye, Winn.”
As she walked to the door, I joined my uncle at the bar. He called me by my father’s name three times in the hour we sat and sipped a beer. He remembered Willie just fine, but kept giving me strange looks.
“I’d better get home,” I told him. “Mind if I hitch a ride with you? I haven’t seen your place in ages.”
“You were just there last week.” Huh? “That’s right. My bad.”
I paid Willie, then snatched Briggs’s truck keys. “How about I drive? I didn’t finish my beer.”
“Okay.” He shrugged and led the way to the parking lot where his old Chevy truck waited.
I climbed behind the wheel, cringing at the scent in the cab. There was a coffee tumbler in the cup holder and my guess was that the creamer he’d added had long since curdled.
With the windows rolled down, I drove to the ranch, passing the gravel road that I’d been on earlier today. The place where I’d found Winn’s car. The next turnoff led to the back side of Indigo Ridge, and as we made our way up the mountain foothills, I stole a few glances at Briggs.
He looked older today than I’d ever seen. The skin on his cheeks sagged slightly. The whiskers were white. Briggs was five years older than Dad and had lived his entire life on this ranch.
He’d been there to help Dad build us kids a tree house. He’d helped me break my first horse.
When my grandfather had been ready to pass down the ranch and his business holdings to his sons, Briggs had chosen to let Dad take over. Management had never been his passion. He was content to have a bank account healthy with money he rarely spent and a simple life living on the land that owned his heart.
Briggs’s cabin was nestled in a grove of evergreens in arguably the prettiest meadow on the ranch. A stack of unevenly chopped firewood was scattered around the porch. An ax was propped up against the steps.
“Chopping wood?” I asked.
Briggs nodded. “Getting a head start before winter.”
“Good plan.” Though I wasn’t too keen on him running the stove if he couldn’t manage to put on a matching pair of boots.
I parked and picked up the travel mug, dumping the contents as we made our way to the house. With no idea what I’d find, I braced as I followed him inside. But the cabin was as clean and tidy as ever.
“How are things going on the ranch, Griffin?” he asked, taking the cup from my hand and carting it to the sink.
That was the first time he’d called me by my name tonight. “Good. Busy. We’re about done with fence repairs for the year.”
“That’s always a good feeling.” He chuckled. “Want to stay a while?
Join me for dinner?”
“No, but thanks.” I gave him a smile. “I’d better get on.” “Appreciate you swinging by.”
“You’re welcome.” Did he remember even coming to the bar?
Goddamn, this was hard. My heart clenched. His blue eyes were the same as those I met in the mirror each morning. He was the very best uncle a boy could have wished for. He’d treated Dad’s children—me—like one of his own.
Briggs had been married once, briefly, until she’d left him after their third anniversary. My siblings and I, my parents, had been his family. He hadn’t missed a single one of my basketball or football games. He’d been present at every graduation.
Seeing him like this . . . fuck, but it was hard.
“I’ll see you soon.” I waved goodbye, then let myself out. I was more than ready to go home.
Except I didn’t have a vehicle. It was downtown.
“Shit.” I pulled out my phone and called Dad. “Hey, can you come pick me up and run me into town?”
“Now?” He sounded like his mouth was full. “Yeah. Now. I’m at Uncle Briggs’s cabin.” “Where’s your truck?”
“In town. And I need to talk to you.”
“All right.” There was the shuffling of feet and a muffled exchange with my mother before the line went dead.
I started walking down the road, making it about a mile before I heard the rumble of an engine and Dad’s new pickup emerged from a bend in the trees.
He had a drop of barbeque sauce on his shirt. “Sorry to interrupt dinner.”
“It’s okay.” He turned the truck around, heading toward home. “What’s going on?”
I blew out a long breath, then told him about Briggs.
“Damn,” he cursed, his hands tightening on the wheel. “I’ll talk to him.” “You need to do more than talk.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Maybe we should call Grandpa’s doctor. See if we could get Briggs into a home or—”
“I said I’d handle it, Griffin,” he snapped.
Christ. I held up my hands. “Fine.”
Tension crept through the truck’s cab, and when Dad pulled in beside my rig on Main, he didn’t say a word as I climbed out. He reversed out from his spot and drove away before I’d even fished the keys from my pocket.
I unlocked my truck and hopped in, slamming the door too hard. “Damn
it.”
Briggs had had a few episodes like this over the past year. It had started
with mixing up a name at family dinner. But that happened all the time, right? Mom used to run through all our names before landing on the one kid in trouble.
Except for Briggs, the small mistakes were becoming habit. He’d driven into town this winter and Knox had stumbled upon his truck on Main. Briggs had forgotten where he was. Six months ago, Talia had bumped into Briggs at the grocery store and Briggs’s shirt had been backward.
But tonight . . . tonight had been the worst. He’d actually thought I was Dad. The entire time we’d been at Willie’s.
Maybe if my grandfather hadn’t suffered from dementia, I wouldn’t worry as much. But I’d been a teenager when Grandpa’s mental health had deteriorated. I’d watched him become a ghost of the man I’d known.
It had crushed Dad. Briggs too.
Now our family would go through it again.
My stomach growled, forcing me out of my head. Leftovers waited for me at home. So did a pile of work. But as I drove down Main, my truck steered itself toward a little gray house with a red door.
There was no time for this. The ranch didn’t run itself and I had shit to do. But I parked on the curb, spotting Winn through the front window.
She’d shed the black shirt she’d had on earlier for a plain white tank top. The straps of her black bra peeked out at her shoulders. Her hair was
tied up in a ponytail, the ends swaying across her shoulders as she dragged a tall cardboard box down the hallway.
When I rang the doorbell, I heard a loud thud and then a pair of muted footsteps before the door flew open.
“Hi.” She shoved a tendril of hair off her sweaty forehead. “How’s your uncle?”
“Not great,” I admitted. “My grandfather had dementia. Alzheimer’s. It didn’t set in until he was in his seventies. It’s happening earlier with Briggs.”
“I’m sorry.” She waved me inside, closing the door behind us.
I inspected the living room, as full of boxes as it had been this morning. “Are you unpacking?”
“Sort of. My bedframe arrived today.”
“So you aren’t planning on sleeping on the floor forever.”
“It was on backorder. My mattress arrived before I moved, but not the frame.”
“What about the one you had in Bozeman?”
“It was Skyler’s.” Her lip curled. “I left all of the furniture to start fresh.”
“Ah.” I nodded. “So where’s the frame?” “In the box. I just hauled it to the bedroom.” “Got tools?”
“Um . . . yes?” She tapped the top of a box. “I have a screwdriver.
Somewhere. It’s in one of these. Or maybe a box in the office.” She’d spend an hour just finding her tools.
Without a word, I strode outside to my truck, grabbing the small toolbox I kept under the backseat. When I came inside, Winn was in the bedroom beside the frame’s open cardboard box.
“Instructions?” I asked.
She pointed to the hardware pack and attached pamphlet. “I can do it.”
“I’ll help.”
“Why?”
I grinned. “So I can help you break in the bed.” “I thought you didn’t want to do that again.”
“I can make time for one more night. What do you say, Chief?”
She picked up the instructions and handed them over. “One more night.”
