I’d forgotten how easy it was to fall into step with her, to read her moods like I was fluent in her particular language, to anticipate what she needed before she asked. And I’d forgotten how damn hard it was to ignore the way she made me feel—like I was more myself when she was around, like the world made more sense when filtered through her sharp wit and generous heart.
The question was, did I dare do anything about it this time?
CHAPTER 9
GILLIAN
I stared at the email confirmation with bleary eyes. Sent. Done. Finally.
Dawn light filtered through the windows of the saloon, casting long shadows across the empty tables. The chairs were stacked, the floors swept, and the last beer glass had been washed hours ago. I’d been here all night, alternating between inventory counts and wrestling with the contract revision my boss had insisted needed to be in his inbox first thing this morning, even though I suspected he’d be on a golf course somewhere instead of reading it.
My eyes burned from staring at the laptop screen. My back ached from hunching over it, but I hadn’t dared go home. There was comfortable furniture and potential horizontal surfaces there. I didn’t trust myself not to pass out in two minutes, so I’d set up on one of the less than comfortable barstools.
The bar was silent except for the ancient refrigerator’s hum and the occasional creak of the building settling. I rolled my neck, wincing at the popping sound it made. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Holliday.”
The solitude of the empty bar felt both peaceful and eerie. This place was meant to be filled with noise—laughter, clinkingglasses, the jukebox playing something with too much twang. Now it was just me, the ghosts of last night’s customers, and the knowledge that I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours.
I stretched my arms overhead, my muscles protesting. What I wouldn’t give for a hot shower, clean clothes, and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. Doc’s house was just a ten-minute drive away. I could be face-down in my pillow in fifteen minutes flat.
But the delivery was due at eight. The beer distributor, the produce guy, and the meat supplier were all scheduled to arrive within an hour of each other. I’d coordinated it yesterday, making sure I could handle all three deliveries in one morning rather than being tied to the bar all day.
If I left now, I might miss them. Or worse, I’d fall asleep and not hear my alarm. The bar needed those supplies to open tonight. Doc would have my head if I screwed this up, TIA recovery or not.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. Doc’s doctor had ordered him to reduce stress while I was running myself into the ground trying to keep his bar afloat. I’d become what I was supposed to be preventing.
I pushed myself up from the chair and stumbled toward the coffee maker behind the bar. My second pot since midnight. Probably not the healthiest choice, but necessary. The rich aroma filled the air as it brewed, promising a caffeine lifeline.
Through the front windows, the sky transitioned from deep indigo to pale lavender. Another day in Huckleberry Creek. Another day of juggling two completely different lives.
I poured the coffee into a mug with “DOC’S CURE FOR WHAT AILS YA” emblazoned on the side and took a scalding sip. It tasted like survival.
My phone buzzed on the counter—an email notification from my boss.
“Contract received. We’ll review and get back to you with any additional changes needed.”
Additional changes. Of course. There were always additional changes. Never a thank you.
I set the phone down without responding. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world for that right now.
The bar looked different in the dawn light—softer somehow, more vulnerable with its chairs stacked and floors bare. In a few hours, it would transform back into the beating heart of this town. And somehow, I had to transform with it, from the exhausted zombie I was now into a competent bartender who remembered how to smile.
I checked my watch: 6:43 AM. Still over an hour until the first delivery. Too risky to leave, too tired to keep working.
I leaned against the bar, cradling my coffee mug between my palms, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. The old Val Kilmer poster stared down at me, his Doc Holliday looking far too smug for this hour of the morning.
“I’m your huckleberry,” I whispered to the empty room, a delirious laugh threatening to bubble up from my chest.
My phone vibrated against the countertop, the screen lighting up with “Dad” and his stern-faced photo. I stared at the image, momentarily paralyzed. Of course he’d call now, when I was running on fumes and caffeine.
I took a deep breath and answered. “Hey, Dad.”
“Gillian.” His voice was crisp, efficient. “Your mother and I have been trying to reach you.”
“Sorry. It’s been a little chaotic.” I rubbed my temple, where a headache had been building since 3 AM. “Doc’s keeping me busy.”
“That’s precisely why I’m calling. How is he?”
“Recovering. The TIA was a warning shot, but he’s going to be fine if he follows the doctor’s orders.”
