4. Labor Intensive

Labor Day, the last night of the last big weekend before Fall River quieted down, found Noah wiping down the bar after his last two customers exited the Miners Tavern. The town would see one more surge in business when the leaf peepers crawled the mountains in October. They would coincide with nature lovers chasing bugling elk with their binoculars, but most of the activity would take place on the weekends. And Noah couldn't wait to close the tavern several days during the week, starting tomorrow. He needed sleep; he needed sanity; he needed a break from this life that teetered on the brink of disaster.

His manager, Dixie Dobbs, cleared the table, scooping up the check holder as she went. "One more receipt, boss."

Noah snapped the towel, refolded it, and began buffing with the clean side. "Mm-hmm."

Hopefully that last receipt would turn this day into a break-even proposition. Hell, he'd celebrate over a fifty-cent profit. At least it would be a positive after the lackluster numbers from the rest of the long weekend.

"Cheapskates!"

Noah looked up to see Dixie, hand on hip, staring out the front window with a formidable frown etched on her face.

"No tip?"

"Not much of one," she huffed. "Do they think my earrings are twenty-four karat? Do they think I get my clothes at Bergmandorf's?"

He wrangled a smile. "I think you mean Bergdorf Goodman." Why tell her that the luxury store probably didn't carry anything that would catch her eye, even if the price tag wasn't an issue?

"Can't afford to shop there neither."

Noah made a note to move his bartender tips to Dixie's column when he reconciled after closing. "I have a feeling you did pretty well today, Dix."

She swatted a dismissive hand toward the front. "Well, thank the god of mud pies they're the last customers today. I've got to help Dewey finish up the kitchen so it sparkles when that inspector finally gets around to showing his face."

The Department of Public Health had let them know a food inspector would be by sometime during the week—no exact date—to conduct the first "official" inspection of the tavern's opening year, different from the nonstop inspections they'd endured before they could ever open their doors. While Dewey—Noah's head cook and Dixie's husband—kept an impeccable kitchen, Dixie was Noah's second line of defense, fretting about the cleanliness of every square inch. But it wasn't the kitchen that made Noah antsy. It was the possibility that an overworked state employee with a God complex, hating their dead-end job, having a bad day, would decide to take it out on him by nitpicking some detail that would throw his tavern into even more hurt.

A large frame ducked into the restaurant, yanking Noah from the disturbing scenarios circling in his head.

Charlie grinned broadly. "Not so fast, gorgeous. You've got one more thirsty guest. And I'll definitely leave you a tip."

She jerked her head toward Noah. "Except you'll be sittin' at the bar in your brother's section."

"Not true. I'm sitting in your section." He pulled out a chair at the neighboring table and plopped down. "I'm not tipping him. Just you. In fact, here it is in advance." He slapped a bill on the table with a wink.

Dixie pocketed the five-note with one slick motion. "What can I get you?"

"The usual. Only would you mind serving it at the bar, in my brother's section? In fact, I'll just have him pour since he's standing right there." He rapped the table twice with his knuckles and rose to his feet. "Thanks, Dix."

After pushing the chair back into position, he sauntered toward Noah. Behind him, Dixie shook her head, but her lips twitched with a smile as she muttered, "Hunnicutts."

Charlie slid onto a stool facing Noah. "You look like you could use a drink, bro."

"Funny you should mention it." Noah filled two pint glasses to the rim and slid one toward Charlie. Then he raised his glass in a toast and slugged down a third of the cold brew.

One of Charlie's eyebrows slanted. "Another shitty day, I take it?"

Noah waited until Dixie was out of earshot. "Yep."

"Remind me why you decided to open a bar in the first place?"

"You sound like Dad."

"I'm not Dad, but I am serious. Tell me why."

"Charlie, I know what you're trying to do, and I'm not playing your psych patient."

Noah knew this game. Charlie wanted him to recall all the whys that had excited him when he'd first dreamed up this project so he could recover some of that magic. The reasons were many and too varied to make sense, and now Noah found himself at that familiar edge, wondering—again—why he'd jumped off this particular bridge. He hadn't splatted yet, but the ground was rushing up fast. Not that he would admit any of this to his little brother.

"Humor me."

"It's what I know," Noah blurted. When he'd been encouraged to drop his classes—his counselor had advised dropping out before Noah got kicked out to help his resume—he'd needed to keep up appearances. Unlike his wiser brothers, who had invested their equally generous trust funds, the money for tuition and room and board had already been spent, leaving him access to the pittance that remained. Attending college in Puerto Rico had offered many perks, including a drinking age of eighteen, and for the rest of that school year he'd filled in the financial gaps by tending bar. Not only had the move kept his parents from discovering he'd flunked out, it had also provided everything he'd needed: money, lots of alcohol, and more women than he'd known what to do with—everything except the report card his parents expected. The good times rolled … until his folks did find out, and the good times crashed and burned.

"I've seen bars that were well run and ones that weren't. I figured I knew enough to make a go of it. What I didn't figure on was the current staffing shortage and the supply-chain headaches."

Charlie shook his head. "Shit, and don't I know about those shortages."

The front door opened, and in waltzed Micky the mechanic, whom Noah had known since they were in diapers. He pointed at Noah's beer. "Got one of those for me?"

"I don't know. You paying for it with cash or your own credit this time?" Out of the side of his mouth, he muttered to Charlie, "I also didn't figure on how many so-called buddies expected free booze."

Micky spread his hands wide. "Aw, c'mon, Noah. How long have we been friends?"

"Not as long as your tab, dude. I can't afford to keep pouring you drinks for free."

Micky's eyes widened. "You've been running a tab? I thought those drinks were on the house for all the favors I've done for you."

"Such as?" Noah planted his palms on the edge of the bar.

Micky eased onto the stool beside Charlie. "There was that one time sophomore year, remember? I hauled your ass out of the mud when you got your parents' Jeep stuck. You weren't supposed to be driving—didn't even have your permit. And if they'd caught you …" He punched his fist into his palm. "And then there was the time when we were seniors—"

"Mick, if you have to go that far back, then it's an even bet we're square." Noah's tone was as dry as Death Valley.

Charlie glanced over his shoulder at Micky. "Yeah, I can remember Reece hauling your ass out of trouble more than once." He flicked his eyes to Noah's. "Yours too."

"I never said he didn't," Noah chuffed. "'Course, let's not forget I'm the one who earned you your first Game Boy by selling shit door-to-door for school when you were too fucking chicken to even knock at our neighbors' houses."

"Rub it in, smartass." Charlie slid a look Micky's way before raising his gaze back to Noah's. "Add a pint—just one—to my tab for the mechanic. There's always a chance we'll need his services someday."

Noah snatched a clean glass and pulled the Coors handle.

Micky sucked down nearly half in one go. "So I heard today some guys are checking out the old train tracks."

Charlie's brows drew together in puzzlement. "Why?"

Micky shrugged. "To bury them? To tear them out?"

Noah's pulse picked up speed. "They can't!" When Charlie turned his baffled expression on Noah, Noah steamed ahead. "They're part of this town's history."

Micky wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Maybe, but they're not exactly useful. The days of hauling ore from the mines down to Durango are long gone. Besides, they're a hazard in some spots, and it's not like they're gonna start that thing up again."

The rail company had been waffling on their tracks for decades. They picked now to do something about them?

"But they could," Noah argued. Micky and Charlie exchanged skeptical glances. "I've had this idea for a while. What if they revived the train and turned it into a luxury ride that brings folks to the mountains? A Colorado experience, complete with a dining car, cocktails, that kind of thing. Think what that could do for Fall River! More tourists would bring more business and pump more money into the town. We preserve a piece of history, and Fall River gets the shot in the arm it needs."

Charlie quirked an eyebrow, signaling his interest. "That's a huge project, and it would take a ton of capital."

"Which is why I'm planning to meet with the Silver Summit developers. It would help their resort too, and they have the deep pockets to restore the train. Not to mention, you'd probably get to fix up the depot."

Micky snorted. "Yeah, and you'd be doing Dell's a fucking fat favor."

Simply hearing the rival bar's name had Noah's jaw clenching. "How so?"

"His place is closer to the depot, so tourists would stop there first—especially after he's done with all that renovation he's got going. Being on Bowen Street might not be an advantage then, dude."

Noah fought an urge to knock the smug smirk from Micky's face. Fortunately, Charlie jumped into the fray. "The only reason that jackass Aspen lawyer is spiffing up Dell's is to spite Noah. He's still pissed the previous owner of this building wouldn't sell to him—"

"Because he's a jackass Aspen attorney who's originally from New York," Noah interrupted. Noah had bought the building from the heir of a mining family that went back almost as far as the Hunnicutts, and he'd gotten it at a discount because that owner hated the idea of selling to an out-of-stater who acted like his shit didn't stink.

"Exactly," Charlie agreed. "He's going to do everything he can to drive a spike in your business, train or no train."

"He already tried, or did you forget the bogus petitions he filed to get my permits revoked?"

"How could I forget? I sat on the council when they threatened to fine him for being a dick. And by the way, after all that shit he stirred up about your building, it seems his contractor—coincidentally out of Aspen and with the same last name—has the balls to pull all kinds of nonsense that's got the building inspector really hot. Treats the guy like he's a total rube." Charlie took a gulp of his beer. "Any way you slice it, though, nothing's going to help Dell's if they serve the same shit food. People will walk the extra block. Hell, they'll walk the extra block to see the rest of the town, and all of it's on Bowen."

While Charlie and Micky bandied about the merits of Fall River's eateries, Noah's mind flipped through possibilities. He could be on the ground floor of something truly transformational for the town. He needed to contact the Silver Summit guys and convince them to collaborate. Maybe he could offer Wyatt's celebrity status to sweeten the pot. The resort loved catering to pro athletes, and as long as his cousin Wyatt's PR person, Serena—who also happened to be his very pregnant wife—approved, Wyatt would go along with any campaigns they came up with.

As Micky finished his beer, his phone chimed. "Huh," he grunted. "Guess I need to get home to the old ball and chain."

"You're an asshole," Noah chided.

Genuine surprise flashed in Micky's eyes. "Where do you get off giving me shit for that?"

"You're lucky Amy ever gave you the time day, dude," Charlie threw in.

Noah tipped his glass toward his brother. "What he said. If you don't treat her right, I know about a dozen other guys who'll be happy to take over—including him."

Charlie jabbed a thumb against his chest. "Me?"

"Work with me here," Noah mumbled.

Micky shook his head. "Who out of the three of us has someone waiting at home, huh? I look around, and I only see me." He slammed the glass on the bar top. "So fuck the both of you assholes."

"Hey, you're welcome for the beer, jerk-off," Charlie called out to Micky's back. Micky answered with his middle finger. Charlie turned back to Noah. "Remind me to never buy him a drink again."

"Yeah. I wasn't sure why you did in the first place, though my banker and I thank you. If Micky paid me for all the drinks he owes me, I could take the rest of the month off."

Charlie arched a skeptical eyebrow.

"Multiply him by a few people, and it's not too far off. Why is it people think that because you went to school together you owe them free stuff?"

Charlie snorted. "Because you set up the expectation? I seem to recall Mom and Dad discussing how you threw your money around, picking up your posse's tabs everywhere you went, big spender."

Noah ignored the barb's sting. "Then those freeloaders get all pissy when you try to explain they'll drink you right out of business."

"You're not the only one they get pissy with," Dixie called from the back.

"I hate it when she does that," Charlie whispered harshly.

Noah tapped his ear. "Actually, it comes in handy sometimes. She overheard a table planning to ditch the other night."

"No way! That happen much?"

Noah shrugged. "Enough that it makes you wonder what the hell is wrong with people. I think they should all have to run a business for at least a year so they understand how stunts like that impact a person—not some fancy, deep-pockets corporation, but people."

Charlie twirled his half-full glass on the counter. "How bad is it?" He kept his voice low.

Noah blew out a breath.

"That bad?"

"It's not going exactly like I planned. I was pretty conservative when I drew up my models, which is good, but summer was supposed to be when I had the best months. I barely hit the off-season numbers."

"How do you fix it?"

Noah threw down the towel, picked it up, and tossed it across his shoulder. "I'm still working on that, but I'm battling stuff that's out of my control. Making money in this business is tough enough, especially in a town this size, but when you can't hire enough staff … or worse, when customers order their favorite liquor and you don't have it because you can't get it. Or you have to eighty-six people's favorite meals because your restaurant supplier had to short your order. The icing on top is your pissed-off customers leaving crappy reviews online for the whole world to see." He pushed a hand through his hair. "Okay. Now I'm gonna stop because whining like a little bitch only depresses me, and it doesn't change a thing."

As exciting as the dream of the train's revival was, it would probably be too little too late to turn his business around.

"Maybe not, but sometimes you gotta vent." Charlie tapped his glass to Noah's.

"Thanks, bro." Noah chugged the rest of his beer and set his glass on the bar.

While locals understood the shortages and were mostly forgiving, they typically weren't the big spenders. Not that Fall River teemed with competition, but nonetheless, Noah's grand plan to lure people from the resort wasn't materializing. And now that Dell's was getting a facelift, the tepid competition was about to tighten. Repaying his mom and Wyatt seemed like gold rings that continually inched beyond his grasp. But if he could joint venture with Silver Summit …

Charlie checked his phone and frowned.

"Hot date standing you up?" Noah prodded.

"No, she bailed on me last night. Ironically, this is about a delayed delivery for that new reno job. My three-day wait has turned into five. Which is why I'm having a beer." He lifted his nearly drained drink. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

Noah was the beneficiary of both his brothers' all-hands-on-deck mentality. They chipped in without asking, whether it was tending bar, serving meals, or cleaning up. He reciprocated every chance he got, but even when he found the time, they rarely needed his help. Sure, it was the family way, but the support reminded him of a one-way street. Their generosity both humbled him and made him uncomfortable as hell. He hated feeling like he couldn't manage his fledgling operation on his own; he also hated owing anyone anything.

"You mean besides working in my bar for free? Nah, I'm good." He let out a long-suffering sigh. "You and Reece have gone above and beyond, and I really appreciate it. Turning this thing around is something I've gotta wrestle on my own." He paused a beat. "You know the hardest part? I have people whose livelihoods depend on me. It's a sobering thought. They need the jobs this place provides. What happens to them if I have to close?" These worries, compounded by the mountain of debt, fueled Noah's sleepless nights.

"I totally get it."

"Boss, you worry too much." Dixie's disembodied voice had Noah and Charlie snapping their heads toward the back hallway.

"Dixie," Noah called, "why don't you just come out here and pull up a chair so you can hear the entire conversation?"

Her blond head poked around a corner. "I would love to, boss, but my man's a-waitin' and—" She whipped her head toward the front door. "Uh-oh." She disappeared from view as movement caught Noah's eye.

When he looked up, the sight greeting him caused his chest to compress. "Oh shit," he hissed.

Charlie glanced over his shoulder and brought his eyes back to Noah's. "Oh shit is right. Why don't you cash me out?" He downed the rest of his beer and stood.

"I'll catch you up later." Noah trained his gaze on Ursula's cool, long-legged stroll toward the bar. The woman made walking across a room look like an art form.

Her lips curled up in a devious smile. "It's been a minute. I thought I'd stop by and say hi."

Charlie slapped the counter. "Later, bro." He turned and brushed past Ursula. "Hey, Urse."

She smirked at his back. "You don't need to leave on my account, Charlie."

He batted a hand at the air and was gone.

When she reached the bar, she leaned her bare forearms against it with a little shimmy and followed this up with a toss of her long sable hair. "You're looking mighty fine, Noah Hunnicutt."

Noah placed the empty glasses in a tray bound for the dishwasher. "I was just closing up."

"Sounds like I timed it just right, then." She ran her tongue across her top teeth, making them gleam a little brighter—like a predator sharpening its teeth.

He rested his elbow on the bar top, keeping several feet between them. "Timed what just right?"

"Well, you're getting off work and I'm here ... Do I need to draw you a picture?"

"No, but I think I need to draw you one. I'm not getting off work. I own the place, which means the second part of my job is about to start, and I'll be at it for hours. And then there's the whole bit you've skipped over about our not having spoken since January—except for those three words we exchanged the night my bar opened that ran something like, ‘How's it going?'—and now you're suddenly … here." He mimicked a genie poofing out of thin air. "Acting like nothing ever happened."

She rolled out her bottom lip in a sort of pout. "Well, I've been gone all summer."

So he'd heard. She'd hooked up with some boutique cruise line in the Pacific Northwest, where she'd worked as a fishing guide along the coast. Funny how relieved he'd been during her time away.

"Well, good for you." He kept his head down, adding a few more glasses to the tray—even though they were clean.

Like Micky, she was one of those "friends" Noah had lavished with money when he'd had it—her more than anyone else. At first, the cash had acted like an aphrodisiac she couldn't get enough of, but he'd quickly learned that money to her was like meth to a tweaker. When it had run out, so had she. Only she continually circled back, sniffing around, ready to pounce if more of the green stuff came his way. Her motive was so crystal clear now.

"I'm back for good now." Her voice was low and sultry. "Don't you even want to know what I'm doing?"

"No, can't say as I do."

Out of the corner of his eye, her entire posture stiffened. When he looked up, the smile slid from her face. "God, Noah, you are so—"

Cocking an eyebrow, he braced himself for whatever spewed out of her mouth. He wasn't sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn't what came next.

"H-he's married. I didn't know." Her lower lip wobbled.

"Who's married?"

"The guy at the wedding."

He gaped at her.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" She swiped at her dry eye. She'd always been a good faker … at everything. For the longest time, her screaming had convinced him he was the best lay on the planet.

Yep, fake.

"What do you expect, for Christ's sake? Sympathy?" He leveled her with a glare. "Is him being married supposed to make what you did somehow better?" Realization arrowed into his chest. "Nothing's ever your fault, is it? You've gone through your entire life pretending to be poor little Ursula, and you've dragged me along for the ride. Well, I bailed out of the car, babe, so find yourself a different passenger. Now I've got a long night ahead of me, so do me a favor and get the hell out of my bar."

Without missing a beat, she executed an eye-roll, then shrugged off his words and went straight back into pout mode. "I have something to tell you, and I don't care if you want to hear it or not. I'm telling you anyway."

He blew out an exasperated breath. "Tell me what? How much fun you had fucking him? No, thanks."

She flapped a dismissive hand at him. "No, silly. I wanted to tell you about my new job." A mischievous grin replaced the pout, and the thought she might be certifiably nuts streaked through his brain.

He bit. "What new job?"

She began backing away. Thank Christ she was leaving! Removing Ursula Jones's yoke left him feeling as though helium flooded his bloodstream.

"I'll be working at the Silver Summit Resort. Isn't that great? We're going to see a lot of each other, Noah." She pushed through the front door, her laughter trailing after.

As her words sank in, the yoke landed squarely on his shoulders once more. Except now the weight had doubled.