“What’s that? Like a ski slope?”
“Nah. It’s what we call the northern tip of Alaska. A lot of people from around here go up there to work on the oil rigs. Anyway, he’s gone for, like, two weeks at a time, and every time he’s on shift, she goes on a bender. Ends up coming in here and getting smashed, and then my father makes me drive her home. She gropes me every time!”
I peer over my shoulder again to catch a better look at the woman. I’d put her in her midforties—a good decade older than Toby. “She’s pretty.” She’s certainly put a lot of effort into her appearance, though her jeans are suctioned to her body and the crop top isn’t the most flattering for her figure, but if she’s looking for attention, she’ll certainly get it in this room.
“You know who’s not pretty? Her six-four, two-hundred-seventy-pound husband.”
I burst out laughing.
“It’s not funny!” Toby declares, but he’s struggling not to smile.
“You’re right, it’s not.” But seeing him so flustered is.
“I’m not driving her home tonight. She can take a cab,” he says with firm resolution, but something tells me he’s made that declaration before, too.
I steal another look at the married vixen who has sidled up to a tall, rugged man with a crooked nose, the kind that’s been broken more than once. With her rosy cheeks and the lazy swagger of her hips, I’d bet she’s already tipsy, which begs the question of how she got here in the first place. “Maybe she’ll find a ride from someone else tonight,” I offer.
The telltale creak of the door sounds—it’s become background music to the noise in the Ale House tonight—and Toby’s eyebrows arch. “Huh. I think this is a first.”
I check over my shoulder to see who stepped in.
And balk at the sight of Roy Donovan standing in the doorway, sizing up the crowd.
“What is he doing here?” I eye the wide-rimmed cowboy hat atop his head, his crisp-collared and clean blue-and-red flannel shirt, blue jeans tha
t look new, cowboy boots that look like they’ve been polished.
“No idea.” Toby glances at the chili table, and his mother, who is too busy gabbing to notice their new guest.
Others have noticed, though. Several heads swivel to the door, curious expressions on their faces.
Roy’s sharp gaze meets mine and, slipping his hat off, he strolls toward me.
“Ah, crap,” I mutter under my breath, turning back around to face the bar and seek refuge in Toby’s kind face. Unfortunately, he’s abandoned me to serve someone on the other end of the bar.
“Anyone sittin’ here?” Roy asks in that now-familiar Texas accent, his hand on the stool Jonah vacated.
Not only is Roy Donovan here, he’s looking to sit next to me.
“Uh …” I turn to catch Jonah’s attention, hoping he’ll see my predicament, but he’s occupied in an animated conversation with Jack. I admit reluctantly. “No. It’s free.”
“Don’t sound too excited on my account.” Roy hangs his cowboy hat on a wall peg beside him before settling onto the stool. He hooks the heel of his cowboy boot on the foot rail. “Was wondering if you’d be here.”
Really? Why? I take a long swig of my beer, mainly to avoid having to respond.
“You look cleaner than the last time I saw you.”
“So do you,” I throw back.
Toby returns, saving me from Roy’s retort. “What can I get ya?”
“A bottle of beer. Don’t care what kind, but make it cheap.”
“All right. One Coors comin’ right up.”
I shoot Toby a panicked “help me” look.
“So, how’s your dog doin’, Roy?” Toby asks as he fishes a bottle from the fridge.