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CHAPTER ONE
Noah Jackson glanced at the clock. Ten more minutes and he’d close the bar. Fifteen minutes to clean up and he’d be headed home. It was a week night, but the restaurant had still been busy.
He wasn’t a bartender by trade, but Alan Miller, one of his oldest friends and the owner of The Barnyard, a popular eatery in Elk Valley, would occasionally call begging for help. If Noah’s day hadn’t been too taxing, and he was in the mood for some boisterous company, he’d show up and step behind the counter.
“Vodka shots! Two! Side-by-side!”
He was busy stacking the dishwasher and the brusque order startled him. He didn’t take kindly to demands. There were five more glasses to rinse and load, and he decided to finish before turning around.
“Hey, bartender, I said I want two Vodka shots.”
Three left.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
Closing the dishwasher and pressing the start button, he slowly turned around.
His heart skipped.
He’d always had a thing for dark-hair and blue eyes, and the young woman glaring at him was a beauty. But she’d been crying. Smeared makeup framed her bloodshot eyes, and her long hair was a mess. Taken aback, he didn’t comment, but grabbed two glasses, placed them in front of her, and poured the shots.
“I hope it helps,” he remarked, feeling a sharp shard of worry.
“Nothing can help, but it might stop me from being arrested for murder,” she said angrily, then quickly downed the drinks. “Two more.”
He paused.
“Two more!” she repeated.
“Keys.”
“What?”
“If you’re going to continue drinking like that, I need your keys.”
“For fuck’s sake.
“Up to you,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice calm and even. “Or you could talk to me. I’m like a priest. Our conversation will remain completely confidential, and you know what they say about a problem shared.”
“No, I don’t know about that, and here,” she retorted, fishing into her oversized handbag and pulling out a key fob along with a credit card. “Two more and make it quick. You close in less than five minutes.”
Picking up the key and the card, he placed them in a silver tin, then reached for the bottle and filled her glasses.
“Noah? I need my bill.”
Turning around, he realized he’d forgotten about Sam. A bachelor and businessman in his fifties, Sam was a regular during the week.
“Sorry, Sam, coming right up,” he called, hastily ringing up the man’s tab and hurrying it down to him.
“It’s okay,” Sam said quietly, pulling out his wallet. “I’d be distracted by her too, poor kid.”
“You know her?”
“Sure, that’s Eleanor Mitchell.”
“Should I know who that is?”
“Ever heard of Tom Mitchell?”
