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The sound of country music, mingled with laughter, pulses from behind the rusty iron.
Weston tugs at the handle, and the music intensifies with the creaking of the hinges as the door opens to a large, dim room with sawdust on the floor.
“Welcome to The Dancing Bear Tavern,” he says.
People are scattered about the space. Some are standing at tall wooden spools, substituting for pub tables, while others are being swung around a plywood dance floor that stands in front of a raised stage, occupied by a five-member band.
Weston guides us deeper into the place, through the crowd, and to a bar made of rustic barn wood and corrugated tin.
A man with olive skin, snow-white hair, and a white handlebar mustache, wearing a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, greets us as we approach.
“Weston, where have you been?” he asks above the noise.
“Hi, Smokey. I’ve been busy with the farm and the house. How’s Ginny?” Weston asks.
Smokey finishes wiping down the bar and tosses the towel over his shoulder before leaning and settling his hands on the wood. “Wearing herself out, chasing the grandkids. Happy as a damn lark.”
Smokey’s eyes come to me. “Who’s this pretty little filly?”
“This is my new girl Friday, Anna. Anna, meet Smokey Mills. He’s a retired bounty hunter and the owner of this fine establishment.”
“Fine establishment. He means, the best little beer joint this side of the Mississippi,” Smokey explains.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.
“Same to you, darlin’. Sorry you have to put up with this one all day. I can hardly tolerate him for an evening.”
Weston grunts, “You wound me, Smokey.”
The large man lets out a barking laugh.
“What’s your poison little lady?” he asks.
“What’s your specialty?” I ask.
“Ice-cold beer and salty pretzels.”
“Then, I’ll take a beer and bowl of pretzels, please,” I request.
Smokey grins and looks at Weston. “I like her.”
“Yeah, me too,” Weston agrees.
Smokey fishes two mugs from a floor freezer, sets them in front of us, and fills them from a tap. Then, he slides a basket filled with pretzels between us.
“So, this is your secret hideaway, huh?” I ask.
He looks around.
“Yeah, it’s laid-back. No tourists. Just a spot for locals to unwind and dance the night away. Plus, Smokey serves the coldest beer and the best burger in the valley.”
I bring the frosty mug to my lips and take a sip.
“That’s good,” I admit.
“Right? They only serve local brews. Mountain water is the secret ingredient.”
“Water is a secret ingredient?”
