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Without her stimulating presence, the tavern had lost its appeal. He might as well head to the hospital and be there when they were finally ready.
He pushed back from the table, rose and glanced toward the swinging kitchen door, willing Bea to emerge.
When she didn’t, he sighed and headed for the exit. There was only one table left with two customers finishing their meals. The tavern would close soon.
Moe stepped outside, turned his face to the nearly full moon, drew a deep breath of clear, cool air and let it out slowly.
He hadn’t intended his discussion with Bea as a pickup line. Thinking back over what he’d said, he realized it had been pretty cheesy. Had he insulted her? He glanced at his watch.
If he hurried, he might catch her before she left and apologize for holding her up with a less-than-stellar attempt at conversation.
Moe turned around in time to see the last couple leaving the tavern and the man in the white apron following behind them to lock the door. He flipped the sign in the window from OPEN to CLOSED. He turned and started stacking chairs upside down on the tables.
Moe’s heart sank. So much for going back inside to catch her and apologize. Then he realized Bea hadn’t come out the front door. More likely, she’d leave through a rear entrance.
If he hurried, he might catch her. Moe turned to his right, strode toward the corner of the rustic tavern and slipped into an alley between the tavern and the art gallery to the east.
The sound of a motor vehicle engine revving made Moe move faster. He wasn’t sure why he felt so compelled to see the waitress once more. He’d never been that attracted to redheads.
Bea was different. She was a diminutive, fiery figure with compassion and chutzpah. Yeah, he’d catch her, apologize and ask her out. He didn’t live in Bozeman, but he had the plane and could fly back when he wanted.
It wouldn’t happen if he didn’t catch her before she left.
Chapter 2
“That dude bothering you?” Stan Morgan, the cook and proud owner of the Tumbleweed Tavern, held the swinging door for Bea to enter the kitchen.
She grabbed the mop and ducked past Stan. “No, I think he was flirting with me.”
“Think?” Stan snorted and crossed to the grill. He grabbed a scraper and pushed it across the metal surface once and paused. “Either he was, or he wasn’t.”
Breely Brantt, known only as Bea Smith at the tavern, fought the smile threatening to spread across her face. “He was.”
Stan straightened to his full six feet four inches of barrel-chested toughness and glared. “I can go out there and mop the floor with him, if you like.”
“I don’t like,” Breely said.
His huge stature might have frightened others, but Breely knew the man’s bark was much worse than his bite. Stan had a big heart for the people he liked. And he’d taken a liking to Breely the moment she’d started working at the Tumbleweed Tavern. He'd murmured something about his granny having red hair, and that had been enough for him.
Breely cringed at the thought of big ol’ Stan stomping on the flirt. The man wasn’t even a foot taller than Breely, who measured five feet tall in her bare feet. That would make him less than six feet tall and subject to a severe beating at the hands of Stan “The Man” Morgan, former competitive wrestler turned cook and tavern owner.
Breely carried the mop to the corner of the kitchen where the bucket of water stood. She shoved the mop into the bucket and lifted it into the press. Breely leaned on the handle to squeeze out the excess moisture. “No need to mop the floor with him. He was harmless and kind of cute.” She ran the mop over the floor in front of the commercial refrigerators and then carried it back to the bucket.
Stan shook his head, his brow furrowing. “I don’t like it. Customers gotta treat my staff with respect.” He set the scraper on the grill and turned toward the dining room door. “I’m gonna have a talk with him.”
Breely, dripping mop in hand, raced to catch Stan.
The big man beat her to the door, pushed it open and came to a complete stop.
Breely plowed into Stan, slipped on the water dripping from the mop and almost crashed to the floor.
Stan’s arm snapped out, and his hand clamped onto her arm and steadied her. “Chill,” he ordered.
“How am I supposed to chill when my boss is about to ballistic on a guy half his size?”
Stan chuckled. “He might be short to me, but he’s still bigger than you.”
Breely wedged herself between Stan and the door. “Everyone’s bigger than me. You can’t go out there and intimidate him. It’s not nice.”
