She locked the minivan before heading inside the quaint building with its stained cedar siding and thick plank-covered porch. God, enough with the Western motif! She half-expected to be greeted by a saloon girl straight off a Hollywood set, but inside, the hotel looked like it belonged in the twenty-first century.

She’d tried to talk to James Cahill earlier, but she’d been thwarted by a nurse built like a fullback who had blocked her entrance to Cahill’s room. Since Charity had learned that Cahill was finally awake, but amnesic—didn’t that beat all?—it might be better to gather information from other sources, have her facts down, before she went face-to-face with him. She had a gut feeling he might not want to be all that forthcoming.

She eyed the surroundings, including a long front desk manned by a woman in her fifties who was helping a customer. To one side was a single elevator and an open staircase, near a tall Christmas tree glistening with white lights and red ribbon. The opposite side of the desk area opened to a wide dining area and a bar where several patrons were nursing drinks and staring at a flat screen mounted on one end.

Twinkling Christmas lights had been strung over the archway to the bar area, and Charity couldn’t help but think the yuletide festivities were a bit overdone. But then James Cahill made the bulk of his money at this time of year, didn’t he? He profited from all the goodwill and big bucks that were a part of the holiday spirit.

A real prince of a guy.

She headed into the bar, where she slid onto an open stool next to a fortyish man in a Mariners ball cap sporting a trimmed goatee that was just starting to show hints of gray. A half-drunk glass of beer sat in front of him, and he was watching some basketball game on the muted TV. He turned away from the television long enough to check her out, his gaze lingering a second longer than necessary; then he picked up his drink and turned his attention back to the game.

The barmaid was dropping a slice of lime into a glass and flicked a glance Charity’s way. “I’ll be with you in a sec,” the blonde said and placed the drink in front of a woman three stools down. Then it was Charity’s turn. “What can I get for you?” Blondie asked. She was pretty, Charity thought, with her blue eyes, cute little nose, and easy smile. Her name tag read SOPHIA. Charity felt she’d hit pay dirt. This woman—Sophia Russo—was the woman James Cahill had been rumored to be seeing while still involved with Megan Travers.

Perfect.

“I’ll have a whiskey. Straight up.”

“Any particular kind?”

She eyed bottles displayed on lighted shelves in front of a mirror mounted behind the bar. “Jack. Black Label.”