My hands brush over my sweater and jeans, then finger-comb my hair. Only one stray twig falls loose, which I count as a victory after walking a mile and a half through Colorado country. Part of that on a dirt road with trees crowding in on every side.

At least I had the fading afternoon light on my way here. The return trip is going to be trickier.

But I push that thought to the side as I finally pull open the door.

Okay. Definitely not a hipster bar.

The Rabbit Hole is just as rough-looking on the inside as it is on the outside. Which only makes me more curious about the members of Sip ’N’ Stitch.

I scan the large room, taking in the heavy wooden bar against the back wall, various furniture that I’d label steampunk meets Wild West, a pool table with two leather-clad ZZ Top–looking older dudes playing a round, and a general feel that says, We happily serve criminals of all kinds.

Interesting.

Other than the pool players, the only person in the place is a tatted-up guy behind the bar. A quick glance at my watch reveals that despite my hike to get here, I’m still fifteen minutes early.

“Okay. That’s fine. Early is better than late,” I mutter to myself, making my way toward the booze.

The guys playing pool ignore me, but the bartender tracks every one of my steps, thick brows lowered, as if my approach confuses him.

Maybe the Sip ’N’ Stitch ladies have a particular table they usually claim. Still, it seems better to wait at the bar for them to arrive.

“Hello.” I try a winning smile.

The guy grunts, his eyes tracing over my form. The gesture doesn’t seem sexual, more like a cataloging of information.

I climb up onto a stool, settling my bag of supplies in my lap. “Could I have a bourbon on the rocks?” Bourbon always makes me friendly, and if I only get one drink tonight, I’m ordering a good one. “Something local, from Colorado, if you’ve got it.” Crap, now, I sound like a hipster. “But really, any bourbon is fine.”

Another grunt, and then he turns away. A moment later, I have some liquid courage in a short glass. He didn’t give me the name of the brew. But he hasn’t said any actual words to me, so maybe that was expecting too much.

I try not to look pretentious as I sniff the amber liquid before taking a sip.

Whatever he gave me is good. Under the burn of the alcohol, there’s a soft hint of caramel, teased with vanilla.

As I enjoy the play of flavors over my tongue, I angle my chair toward the front door.