Chapter 2: Ruth

"Guess who just walked in," Chrissy says as she walks up to the bar to pick up a tray of beer bottles. The curvy, young blonde blushes at the sight of something, or rather someone, walking into my tavern.

I hardly need to look to guess. For the past week, this guy has walked into my place every evening. He takes a seat at the far end of the bar, in the shadows, with his back to the wall. He orders the same thing every night—a double shot of whiskey, neat. The good stuff—top shelf. And then he proceeds to sit in the shadows and nurse his drink.

When my back is turned, I swear I can feel his gaze on me. It's practically palpable. After a couple of hours, he lays a twenty on the counter and walks out without a backward glance.

The man has gotten under my skin, and that's not an easy thing to do. I gave up on men years ago. Getting burned one too many times will do that to you. I've come to the conclusion I'm better off alone. Less trouble, less drama. And a hell of a lot more peace.

But this guy? He keeps coming back, and word's getting around. He's got all the single women in town in a tizzy. At least business is up. It's gotten to the point that even my girlfriends are teasing me about him, calling him my secret admirer. Even my brother, Micah, is razzing me about him.

When he passes by me, we make eye contact for a brief moment, but it's enough to make my pulse pick up. One look at him sends my traitorous hormones into overdrive. I may be done with men, but I'm not dead. My body still has needs. Just the sight of this guy stokes my fire.

He's got that bad boy look down pat—black leather jacket over a black T-shirt that hugs a muscular torso, black jeans, black biker boots. I can see tattoos on his neck and on the backs of his hands, and that makes me wonder where else he has some. I admit to having a weakness for ink. And he's tall, which is a big plus in my book. I'm five-ten, and he's got at least several inches on me.

My brother, Micah, is sure he's former military. I guess Micah should know. He did two tours as a helicopter pilot in the Marine Corps.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as the mystery man heads for his seat at the far end of the bar. Tonight there's someone already sitting there—a tourist from the looks of it. If he was a local, he'd know better than to sit there.

I bite back a smile, curious to see how tall, dark, and dangerous handles the situation. He walks right up to the guy, towers over him, and glares. He doesn't say a word.

He doesn't have to.

It's all I can do not to chuckle when the tourist slides off the barstool, grabs his drink, and slinks away.

This guy sure puts off powerful vibes. They're enough to strike fear in the hearts of most men and fuel the fantasies of most women. Including mine.

"Um, Ruth? Hello!"

I snap out of it and smile at Jess, another server, who's standing across the bar from me. "Sorry, Jess. What do you need?"

"Distracted much?" She grins, knowing exactly where my attention has wandered. "I said, I need a pitcher of draft and five mugs."

Jess is a petite powerhouse of a woman, with short, dark brown hair, dark eyes, and curves that just won't quit. She's also got a mouth on her. Her low-rider jeans fit her tight as a drum, and her top is cut low, not leaving much to the imagination. I keep telling her this isn't Hooters, but she doesn't take the hint. I guess that's why she gets such good tips.

Jess nods toward the far end of the bar. "I see your hottie is here."

"He's not mine." I load a tray with mugs and then fill a pitcher with draft beer. "Here you go." Jess is no longer paying attention to me because she's too busy staring at—oh, hell, I don't even know the guy's name. "Jess!"

Her dark eyes snap back to me, and she smiles guiltily. "Can you blame me?" He's fucking hot, she mouths to me as she picks up the tray and pitcher and walks away, tossing him a come-hither glance over her semi-bared shoulder.

I watch for his reaction, only to find he's not even paying her any attention.

This is getting ridiculous.

It seems like every single woman in this place has the hots for this guy. Without even asking what he wants, I pour him a double, walk to the end of the bar, and set the glass down in front of him, perhaps harder than necessary.

His gaze meets mine. His irises are so dark they practically blend in with his pupils. Dark lashes. Dark hair that's a tad too long to be called short. His trim dark beard and mustache frame a pair of beautifully-shaped lips that inspire sinful thoughts. God, I know exactly where I'd like to feel those lips.

He reaches for the glass. "Thanks."

His voice is deliciously deep, the kind of voice a woman wants to hear whispering in her ear in the middle of the night.

For a moment, I entertain the idea of taking him home with me. No strings, just sex. I've got an itch with his name on it—the only problem is I don't even know his name.

I glance down at the hand holding that glass. His skin is tan, his fingers long and capable. There's a braided strip of leather tied around his right wrist and one of those high-tech watches on his left—the ones with all the dials and gauges. And the tattoos on the backs of his hands—damn.

I try not to dwell on those capable fingers and what they'd feel like on my body. Between my legs. That way lies madness.

I finally voice the question I've been dying to ask since he first showed up. "So, have you got a name?"

He looks me in the eye, but doesn't answer right away. There's a lot going on behind those eyes—it's like he's calculating the risk in answering.

"People are asking," I say with a shrug, as if I need to justify the question.

"People?" He raises his glass to his lips and takes a sip, still in no hurry to answer. "I don't really care what people think."

His voice makes me weak in the knees, and that attitude. "Okay, I'm asking."

One of his brows lifts in surprise, and he grins. "Well, in that case, it's Jack."

"Got a last name, Jack?"

His eyes narrow. "Is it still you who's doing the askin'?"

I nod, wondering if that makes a difference.

He says, "Jack Merchant. Pleased to meet you, Ruth."

When he holds out his hand, I hesitate a moment before taking it. All I wanted was his name, and suddenly I'm getting a lot more than I bargained for. Skin on skin contact. When my hand touches his, electricity shoots up my arm.

His palm is warm and dry, his fingertips calloused. His hand envelopes mine, but he doesn't actually shake it. He just holds it for a long moment, his thumb gently brushing the back of my hand. It's unsettling.

I pull my hand away. "How do you know my name?"

Never once taking his eyes off me, he nods to the front door. "It's right outside, above the door."

Of course, the sign. Ruth's Tavern.

"But how d'you know it's my tavern, that I'm Ruth?"

He smiles. "That's easy, darlin'. You're the one in charge here."

I see the challenge in his eyes now. The fire. "So, what brings you to Bryce?" It's a legitimate question.

Our little town doesn't make it onto most maps. People generally pass through Bryce on their way to somewhere else, unless they're vacationing at The Lodge. With the exception of the local hiking trails, The Wilderness Lodge is the only tourist attraction for miles around.

"Just passin' through," he says, and then he takes another sip of his drink. "Do I have to have a reason?"

"Most folks do."

He grins, showing straight white teeth. "I'm on a sight-seeing trip."

I don't believe that for a second. "Fine. But keep in mind, I don't tolerate trouble in my bar. Consider yourself forewarned."

He chuckles. "Are you saying I look like trouble?" He seems amused by the thought.

I give him an arch look—the one I give my brother when he does something reckless.

He grins. "Rest assured, Ruth, I promise to be on my best behavior."

I don't know who he is, but he's got a look about him that says, cross me and I'll gut you. I suspect he knows how to handle himself. And because he's wearing a leather jacket inside the building, I'm pretty sure he's packing, which is against house rules. Against my rules. The only gun allowed in my bar is mine—the one I have stashed behind the counter, in a drawer beneath the cash register.

"Enjoy your evening," I say. At least now I have a name. As I walk away, I feel his eyes on me, and the sensation is as palpable as a caress.

Flustered by our brief interaction, I pour a pitcher of beer and carry it across the room to the table where my friends are seated. It's Friday night, which means it's Girls' Night Out.

"I figured you could use a refill," I say as I set the pitcher on the table. Their first pitcher is nearly empty.

My five best friends are seated at this table, and they're all sneaking peeks at Jack Merchant. At least now we have a name.

"What did your secret admirer have to say?" Maggie asks when I pull up a chair and join them. Maggie Emerson owns Emerson's Grocery two doors down from my bar. "I saw you talking to him just now."

"He's not mine," I say for the umpteenth time.

"Based on the way he's watching you right now, I'm guessing he could be," she replies. "That is, if you want him. I'm pretty sure if you crook your finger at him—"

"It's hardly a secret," Jenny says, laughing as she refills her mug. Jenny Lopez's diner is right next door, sandwiched between my bar and Maggie's grocery store. "He's clearly into you."

"Do you know his name yet?" asks Hannah, owner of the The Wilderness Lodge, the biggest tourist attraction around. People come from all over the world to book their outdoor excursions, everything from wilderness camping to rock climbing.

"Who cares what his name is?" Maya asks. She works for Hannah as a rock-climbing instructor. "You need his number so you can order room service."

"John thinks he's former military," Gabrielle Hunter says, referring to her new boyfriend. "Special ops. He said he's got that look about him. You know, hypervigilant."

Aww, my posse. God love ‘em. They mean well, and I know they're just looking out for me.

"What do you really know about him?" Gabrielle asks. She's new to town, just moved here from Chicago only a month ago to take the job of restaurant manager at The Lodge.

"He looks like trouble," Maggie says as she sips from her water bottle. She's a nursing mom, so no alcohol for her.

"He's too serious," Jenny says. She sips her beer.

I lean back in my chair. "I know about as much as you guys do. He drinks whiskey and tips well." I don't mention the deep, sexy voice and the long, capable fingers.

Maya laughs. "Oh, I bet he wants to give you more than just the tip."

Maggie nods as the others laugh. At forty-one, she's the oldest of the group. Often, she's the voice of reason. "It's true, Ruth. We've seen the way he watches you when you're not looking."

Jenny nods. "Like he's starving, and you're a slice of cherry pie with whipped cream on top." She owns a diner, so of course she would use a food metaphor.

"Actually, I did get his name," I say, finally answering Hannah's original question. "So, you can stop calling him hottie."

Maya leans forward, her elbows on the table. Her dark eyes sparkle. "Tell us. It might come in handy if the sheriff starts asking questions."

"Jack Merchant. Now, how about I get you girls something to eat before all that alcohol goes to your heads?"

After making a trip to the kitchen to grab them an assortment of appetizers, I leave my friends to enjoy their food and drink, while I return to the bar.

The place is packed tonight. Not only is it a weekend night, but my bar is the only business in town that stays open after nine o'clock. Chrissy and Jess are busy nonstop, taking and filling customer orders. Tom Tanner, my assistant manager, helps me behind the bar. Casey keeps the place clean by bussing tables and sweeping the floors. The kitchen staff is hopping as well, serving up burgers, hot wings, fries, nachos, onion rings. Typical bar food.

Around ten, my friends head home.

At eleven, Jack lays a twenty on the bar and heads for the back hallway. Just before he turns the corner, we make brief eye contact, and my heart skips a beat.

He nods. Goodnight, Ruth.

I can almost hear the words in my head—in that voice.

At twelve-thirty, I announce the final call for drinks. There are only a few hardcore customers left in the bar at this late hour, all men, all heavy drinkers. Fortunately, they live within walking distance of the bar. I don't let customers drive if they've had too much to drink.

The kitchen has been closed since ten. Chrissy and Jess have already gone for the night. Casey's almost done sweeping the floor. Tom is mopping down the bar while I reconcile the till.

As the clock strikes one, Tom ushers the last two customers out the front door, locks up, and turns off the neon OPEN sign. I wait for him, and we walk to the rear door together. I set the alarm and lock up.

Tom is my dad's age, in his late sixties. A little shorter than me, he has a trim build, and what hair he has left is white. He's a retired ranch hand from Montana, a good guy, calm and steady, who moved down here a while back to be close to his aging mom. She passed a couple of years ago, but Tom stayed. That's lucky for me, as he's very dependable. I don't know how I'd manage without him.

"'Night, Ruth," Tom says. He waves as he walks to his rusted out navy blue Ford pick-up, keys jangling from his fingers.

"Goodnight, Tom." I unlock the driver's door of my black Jeep Wrangler, hop in, and head for home.

On my way, I pass by The Lone Wolf, a no-frills roadside motel on the edge of town. I imagine this is where Jack is staying. Besides The Lodge, it's the only accommodation around here.

It's late, and I wonder if he's asleep already. Or is he a night owl like me? I sure wouldn't mind finding out.

Ten minutes later, I pull up to my rustic, one-story log cabin that sits in a clearing in the middle of fifty acres of pristine wilderness. Hank Jackson, my paternal grandfather, built this homestead with his bare hands back in the '60s. Prior to marrying my grandmother, Hank was a recluse who lived off-grid before it was even a thing. And now it's my home.

The cabin is small and bare bones, but I wouldn't want to live anywhere else. Besides the living room and kitchen, there's a walk-in pantry that doubles as a laundry room, two bedrooms, and a full bath. Five years ago, I had solar panels installed on the roof. Before then, I had to use a noisy gas generator to make electricity. Now I have quiet power and hot running water. All the modern conveniences.

But not much else has changed since my grandfather built this place. The pine floors are the original wide planks, now well-worn after decades of use. The walls are bare logs, well insulated with chinking. The windows are double-paned to help keep the wind out. A wrought iron woodburning stove located in the living room keeps this place warm.

It suits me fine living out here where it's quiet and private. After spending my afternoons and evenings catering to the public, I like to get as far away from people as I can. The only living things out here, besides me, are birds, foxes, bobcats, mountain lions, and the occasional black bear. And, a few times a week, my brother pops in to check on me.

I let myself into the cabin and turn on a few lights to dispel the darkness. The coals in the wood stove are banked, so I open the dampers and lay in some kindling to get the fire going again. While I'm waiting for the kindling to catch, I visit the bathroom and get ready for bed. By then, it's time for me to load the stove with enough wood to last the night.

Finally, I climb into my comfy bed to read a bit. I'm in the middle of a hot romance novel. Book boyfriends are safe. They fuel my fantasies without making impossible demands on me. Without expecting me to be the kind of woman I'm not.

I don't last long. Within minutes, my eyelids are so heavy I can't keep them open.

The last coherent thought in my head before I doze off is of Jack Merchant seated at the end of my bar. I sure would like to know his story. Lately, that man is living rent free in my brain.

I can't remember the last time a man held this much interest for me. After a couple of failed relationships and one failed marriage, I've sworn off men. I'm happy being single. I've got everything I could possibly want. But for some reason I can't get this guy out of my head. A smart woman would classify him as trouble and move on.

But who says I'm smart?