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RIDING INTO LOVE
KATHLEEN KELLY
CHAPTER 1
JANE EVERLY
The Tin Cup’s neon sign flickers, a beacon to the weary and the wild. I push open the door, stepping into the dimly lit abyss that swallows up half the town on a Friday night. Shadows cling to the walls like cobwebs, and the air is thick with the scent of stale beer mixed with the tang of sweat—a cocktail of resignation and reckless abandon.
“Evening, Jane,” old Sam calls from his usual corner, his words barely audible over the laughter and clinking glasses.
The jukebox croons a country tune, mourning a love lost long ago. It’s the soundtrack to my nights behind the bar, a lonesome melody that gets drowned out by the revelry.
I nod at Billy as I make my way to my post, slipping on my apron. My shoulder-length chestnut hair sways with each step, tied back but always escaping in wisps, framing my face. My mother used to say it was the color of fall leaves after a rainstorm. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the rows of bottles, pale green eyes stare back, defiant, unyielding. They’ve seen too much for someone just shy of twenty-six, yet they’re not ready to look away.
“Got a new batch of whiskey, Jane. Want to give it a taste?” I hear the rattle of a bottle being set on the counter, but I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Tom has been delivering alcohol to this place for the longest time.
“Maybe later, Tom,” I reply without missing a beat, tying the strings of my apron tight around my waist. My hands are strong, from years of bar work, capable, and they don’t shake, well, not anymore.
“Always too busy for a little fun, aren’t you?” There’s a playful edge to his voice, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Fun’s got nothing to do with it,” I retort, my tone light but firm. “Got responsibilities, remember?”
“Ah, yes, the ever-dutiful Jane Everly.” He chuckles, lifting his glass in a mock salute before sauntering off into the crowd.
I take a deep breath, letting the noise wash over me. This bar is more than just a job—it’s a proving ground, a place where I learned that tragedy can either break you or forge you into something stronger. It’s where I keep the memory of my father alive, the man who taught me everything about running this place before he was taken from us too soon. His laughter seems to echo through time, mingling with the sound of tonight’s mirth. Dad gave me life skills and when he died, the bar. The Tin Cup has only ever had three owners, Pete who we haven’t seen in an age, my dad and me.
The first order comes in, and I’m all fluid motion, grabbing a tumbler, filling it expertly with ice. My movements are swift, the rhythm familiar—it’s a dance I could perform in my sleep. The clink of the ice, the pour of the liquor, the slide of the drink across the polished wood—it’s a symphony of sorts, one that keeps the darkness at bay.
“Keep ‘em coming, Jane!” someone shouts over the din, and I flash a quick smile. The night is young, and the Tin Cup is alive with stories waiting to unfold, with people shedding their daytime skins for something a bit rawer, a bit truer.
“Coming right up,” I say, my voice steady as I steal a moment to glance at the doorway, wondering if tonight will be the night when something or someone walks in, challenging the fragile balance of my carefully constructed world.
The laughter peels away as Ricky Caldwell saunters up to the bar, his shadow long in the dim light, a predator’s grin spread across his face. Bobby “Snake” Harrington isn’t far behind, his presence like a chill skirting down my spine. They’re a pair of wolves in a hen house, smugness oozing from their pores. These two come here most nights, regular patrons who seem to think I’m their plaything.
“Evenin’, Jane,” Ricky drawls, leaning over the counter as if he owns the place—or thinks he should. “You lookin’ fine tonight in that little apron.” His eyes trace the outline of my form, lingering too long on the curves I wish I could hide from his gaze.
“Whiskey, Ricky?” I deflect, plucking a glass from the shelf with more force than necessary.
“Only if you’re pourin’ it,” he says, his smirk widening.
Snake chuckles beside him, the sound like gravel crunching underfoot.
“Keep dreaming,” I retort, pouring the whiskey with precision, avoiding his hungry stare. “And keep your hands to yourself.”
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that,” Snake chimes in, his voice slick as oil. “We’re all friends here, ain’t we?”
“Friends respect each other’s space,” I reply, sliding the drink toward Ricky with practiced ease.
Brushing off Ricky’s advances with a dismissive wave of my hand hasbecome tedious and annoying. My body language spelling out boundaries he’s all too eager to ignore.
“Since when did you get so touchy?” Ricky quips, snatching the glass and taking a swig, eyes never leaving mine.
“Since always,” I fire back, feeling the weight of their stares like hands trying to pin me down.
But I won’t let them see that they get to me, I can’t. I’m like a fortress weathered, perhaps, but never breached.
“Guess you’re just no fun,” Snake leers, prodding further.
