Lonesome Lawmen Mini Bundle

Two-2

The music reached out the wide double doors of the log building. In a swirling haze of smoke and beer, it extended a cheerful invitation to come on in and join the party. If the number of trucks crammed into the dirt parking lot was any indication, there were a lot of takers. Jake pulled the truck into place at the end of one crooked line. He shut off the motor and studied the poorly lit exterior. It hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d been here with his big brothers. The day Matt’s divorce was final, Jake remembered, after a little mental time travel. They’d climbed every cliff in sight, then gotten stinking drunk. Brutal but effective. Matt had felt so bad, it left him one way to go: up.

The people milling in and out the front door looked much the same as the clientele had then. A mix of old and young, a few tourists, some genuine cowboys on a tear ogling clusters of barely clad cowgirls, and several older couples serious about doing some dancing. Jake glanced at Bryn. She didn’t appear to appreciate the bar’s country charm.

“How—” Bryn started, stopped, then settled for gesturing toward the bar.

“We go in. We buy a couple of beers. We nose around. See if we smell anything interesting.”

The bouncer chose that moment to eject two struggling figures. They staggered, took a couple of wild swings at each other, then tripped over the low lodge-pole fence that separated the parking lot from the entrance.

Her eyes widened. “O-kay.”

Jake hid a grin. “But first we do something about you.”

“About me? What do you mean?”

“You’re too buttoned down. Lose the jacket, undo some shirt buttons and mess up your hair a bit,” Jake directed. “And when you walk, do it like that.” He pointed to a sassily twitching female butt in tight jeans passing in front of the truck. “If our guy is in there, we don’t want him thinking too much.”

“No,” Bryn said, “we wouldn’t want that.” With her teeth gritted, she made the necessary adjustments. “Better?”

Jake grinned. “Let’s see that walk.”

He jumped out and trotted around the truck to help her down. Was it her imagination that he’d acquired a slight bowleg? She showed him her walk, ire adding extra oomph to her walk. She turned to face him, letting a raised eyebrow ask the question.

“By George, I think she’s got it.” Jake gestured toward the open doors. “Let’s go.”

Good thing she hadn’t been expecting high praise. She fell into step beside him, stowing female angst in a well-used compartment in her brain. Hot on the outside—despite Jake’s tepid approval, she knew she was—a cold professional on the inside. She was hunting now, and she had a scent.

Her nostrils quivered. Too bad it was beer.

Jake paid their cover, then followed her to the bar that ran the length of one wall, his touch light and impersonal against her back. She pretended to sip the beer he bought her as she studied her surroundings. The place hadn’t been well designed for acoustics. Canned music blared from somewhere besides the stage, which was empty of people if not instruments. That and the sound of too many loud conversations started an ache behind her eyes as she made mental notes about the layout. Bar to the right of the entrance. Minute stage opposite. Restroom signs over the door on the left. Tables past that. Dance floor dead center and circled by milling groups of people. She noticed a short ladder that lead to a sad little balcony halfway up the wall where the haze of smoke and dust was the worst, a sound and light tech hunkered over a control board.

Her survey brought her back face to face with Jake. He wiped a film of moisture off his upper lip with his sleeve, but the level of his beer hadn’t changed.

“I’ve died and gone to hell,” she muttered.

Jake hid his grin behind his beer. “Think you’ll have more success with the guys than I will.”

“Do you?” Bryn managed to hold back a shudder. Despite his doubts about the importance of the bar, Jake’s brother, Matt, a U.S. marshal working out of Denver, had faxed him sketchy bios he’d scraped up on the most likely suspects: the barkeep and the band members. They’d all been around for a couple of years and one of the band members, a woman named Phoebe Mentel, managed the bar. Who owned the bar was under investigation.

Jake had taken particular pleasure in telling her about the men in the band.

“Four guys—Jesse, Mert, Leg, Toes,”

“Leg and Toes?”

“Fraid so.” Jake had grinned. “And the woman. Same last name. Mentel. Three brothers, one cousin and one ex-wife. Barkeep’s name is Chet Jones.”

“Right.” Oh, for the peace and quiet of the Internet. When she caught up with him, Phagan was going to pay for this. “I don’t see any of them yet.”

“There’s one,” Jake muttered, “heading to the stage. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Bryn spotted the guy as he leaped the wooden barrier, picked up a guitar and started adjusting the strings. She gave a soundless sigh. She’d seen his type before. The hard part wouldn’t be getting his attention. It would be losing it.

“You—” she started to say, when someone pushed past her.

“Phoebe!” The nasal voice of the man who bumped her was as grating as chalk on a blackboard. The body emitting the voice even less appealing.

A woman, apparently the Phoebe he was after, froze, then turned to face him with obvious reluctance.

“Earl.” The name came out a Southern-scented sigh, one edged with irony. It suited her.

She was a bit taller than Bryn and had a flawless complexion and wonderful bones, the kind that aged well. Only a tiny frown marred the skin between her dark eyebrows. Her dark hair swept out from under the edges of her cowboy hat in a smooth dark sweep, then curled under her strong chin. Eyes the color of her hair regarded Earl with something less than enthusiasm.

“I wanted to ask you—” Earl began

“I have to get ready for the set, Earl.” She softened her dismissal with a slight, though charming smile. Her husky voice had been created to stroke the pleasure centers of men, Bryn noted. Add to that her country-fresh vigor and generously curved figure, and it was no wonder Earl looked whipped.

As if she sensed Bryn’s scrutiny, Phoebe’s gaze swept the crowd and found Bryn watching her. She shrugged and gave Bryn a “men!” look, but there was a watchful quality behind her rueful glance. Bryn had no choice but to return her smile.

Phoebe turned to go, just as Jake moved into position behind her. She slammed into him with enough force to take him back a couple of steps and knock off her hat. Like a scene from a movie, her hands spread across his chest as she tried to catch her balance. His hands went to her waist to aid her. Gaze slammed into gaze and just for a moment, Bryn thought she saw—something happen between them. Something electric and elemental. Then the shutters slammed down in eyes blue and brown. She saw Jake rub the back of his neck. A red flag to those who knew him, that the U.S. Marshals Service’s best tracker was worried.