“Okay, fine.” She was anxious, ready to get it over with. “The bar sounds good.” It didn’t, but they were running out of options. James held the door for two women who were hurrying into the hotel, a woman in a full-length coat holding tightly to the leash of a French bulldog in a tight red sweater. The taller of the two women, a redhead who seemed about fifty, was dragging two roller bags, a scarf covering the lower half of her face as she made her way to the desk, where the couple was still in a heated debate with the hotel clerk while one of their kids was sliding down the banister.

“Come on.” James touched Rebecca’s elbow with his good arm, guiding her away from the hotel entryway.

The air was crisp and cold enough to fog when they breathed. As they headed down the street, Rebecca glanced to the spot where she’d spied the woman with the long braid on the street, but no one was watching her now. Maybe she’d imagined that whoever it was had been staring at her room; perhaps the woman had just been looking at the hotel.

Then why did she turn away so suddenly when she caught sight of you?

“Something wrong?” James asked as they reached a corner.

Every damned thing. “Nope.” She was just unnerved, spying Sophia, then the woman, and now James.

He offered her a smile, but she pulled her gaze from his face. No. Nope. No sexual tension. Nada. Just conversation.

Hands in her pockets, as she’d forgotten her gloves, Rebecca kept in step with James as they crossed the street, turned a corner, and two blocks later, ended up at a redbrick building with a striped awning.

The Brass Bullet Bar looked as if it had been constructed at the turn of the last century and, aside from the addition of several flat-screen TVs, hadn’t been updated since the end of the Second World War. High-backed booths lined a wall opposite a walnut bar that stretched the length of the building and was backdropped by a mirrored wall where dozens of bottles glimmered on narrow glass shelves.

Sawdust and peanut shells littered the floor, and the odor of wood dust mingled with the smells of beer and ale.

James led her through the few tables scattered in the middle of the room, and they found a booth near a back exit. She slid onto the bench seat opposite him and saw him wince a bit as he sat down.

“Riggs Crossing’s finest,” he said with more than a trace of sarcasm. Before she could reply, the bartender arrived, her wild gray curls tied back by a red bandana that matched her western-cut shirt.

“What can I get you?” she asked, sizing up Rebecca.

“Something hot. Irish coffee?”

The barkeep glanced at James. “You?”

“Bud. On tap.”