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Rayleen shrugged and slid a pristine cigarette between her lips. Grace had never seen her actually smoke one. As a matter of fact, she smelled of fabric softener, not smoke. “I raised horses when my husband was alive. Owned a gas station in Alaska for a time. Lots of different things.”
“Alaska? Wow. What was that like?”
“Cold,” she snapped.
“I hear there are a lot of men up there.”
The cigarette bobbed. “There were enough.”
“How did you end up here?”
“Sold my place in Alaska for a pretty penny after the pipeline went in. Then I just started driving.”
“I can see why you stopped here.”
Rayleen glanced at the cowboys gathered around the pool tables. “Place has its charms.”
“It does,” Grace agreed, almost against her will. Too much charm. She hadn’t wanted to like it here as much as she did. “So, you don’t think you’ll ever end up in Florida with Grandma Rose? She says she keeps trying to talk you into moving.”
“Oh, God. That place old people go to die? Please. The scenery’s a lot better here.” She eyed the cowboys again, making clear she wasn’t talking about mountains.
“They do grow ’em strong,” Grace agreed in an attempt at a drawl.
“Yeah, they do. Go on, now.”
Grace, who’d been feeling a little warm and fuzzy about reaching out to her aunt, frowned at the sudden dismissal. “What?”
“Go on. You’re sitting too close. It makes me look old. The lighting in here is dim, but it ain’t that dim.”
“You’re saying you don’t want me sitting close to you?”
“Well, not on five-dollar pitcher night. Beer goggles aren’t infallible, girl.”
Half exasperated and half amused, Grace moved back to the bar. Maybe if Rayleen learned how to be a little nicer, she’d have real friends. Realizing how close to home that little bullet struck, Grace reached for her beer. She had friends. Well, she had Merry. One really good friend. At that moment, Grace felt a sudden urge to reach out to Merry. Maybe to assure herself that she wasn’t as far gone as Rayleen. Yet.
Making quick work of her beer, Grace tapped Shane on the shoulder. “I’ll be back in a few, and I’ll buy the next round, okay?”
She worked her way back toward the front, passing close enough to the jukebox to be tempted. She’d loved jukeboxes since she was little. Too many hours spent parked at seedy bar-and-grills as a kid. The jukebox had looked like a carnival to her. Flashing lights, promises of fun, a riot of noise.
She didn’t know a lot of country songs, but she knew a little of the old stuff. George Strait. Dolly Parton. Her mom had gone through a two-stepping phase with an old boyfriend, and the music had played at their apartment around the clock.
Trying to calculate if she had a dollar or two to spare, she slipped out onto the porch and sat in the corner with her phone.
“Hey, Merry.”
“You’re still alive! I was worried you’d been eaten by bears or something.”
“Not yet, but there’s some really creepy antelope here that are out to get me.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No. I’m serious about the antelope. They’re called pronghorn. Look them up. There’s something wrong with them.”
“That’s not what I meant. You just sound so relaxed. And I hear music in the background.”
“I’m at the saloon,” Grace said, smiling at the absurdity of it all.
“Yeehaw!” Merry yelled.
