Can't Let Go. Gena Showalter

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      “You’re too trusting,” he said.

      What! “Too trusting? Me?”

      “You must think the best of people. Otherwise you’d fix your ancient locks, and better watch your customers. You have four employees, and there’s no way the five of you can keep track of everyone at once. What if someone steals money from your register? How will you know, until it’s too late? Plus, there are too many dark corners in and around your bathrooms. What if a woman is assaulted? And do you have any idea what’s going on in the parking lot?”

      The thought of anyone being assaulted in her establishment sickened her. “Just so you know, I’m not responsible for the decisions others make. And my locks do their job, which is all that matters. But what do you suggest I do about the dark corners? And what’s going on in the parking lot?”

      “Add motion sensitive lights, as well as hidden cameras.” He said no more, ignoring her second question.

      “Lights, yes.” Even though the constant on and off might be annoying. “Cameras, no way. They’re a violation of privacy.”

      “It’s perfectly legal to put cameras in the hallway outside a bathroom. Also, you need at least two men at the front door. Someone to monitor who enters, and someone to monitor who exits. The latter can issue Breathalyzer tests to anyone planning to drive.”

      A customer signaled her from the other end of the bar, but Ryanne held up a finger, asking for a moment. “Hello. I’m a walking Breathalyzer. And as much time as you’ve spent here, you should know it. The things you’re suggesting will only tick off loyal patrons, costing me business and money.”

      Every spare cent she made went into her travel fund.

      As a little girl, she’d escaped her rocky home life inside the pages of travel books, imagining she was somewhere—anywhere—else. Now she longed to visit those places for real.

      Last week, she’d purchased her first ticket. In two months, twenty-eight days and seven hours, she would be on a first-class flight to Rome, where she would spend four weeks biking through the city and its surrounding countryside, touring the Vatican, oohing and ahhing over famous artwork, eating fresh cheese and homemade pasta, and tasting wine at different vineyards.

      Muscles jumped beneath Jude’s navy blues. “For Ryanne Wade, monetary profit comes before other people’s lives. Got it.” He turned on his booted heel and stalked away.

      Dang him! He always had to have the last word. But...was he right about something bad happening in the parking lot?

      She hustled to the waiting customer and, for the next hour, managed to push Jude from her thoughts as she mixed drinks. It was Saturday, but only 6:30 p.m. Still, the bar was crowded, her waitresses rushing from table to table.

      After her full-time bartender, Sutter, clocked in, Ryanne made the rounds, making sure customers were happy and no crimes were being committed. The regulars smiled and waved at her.

      Most came from Strawberry Valley, where she’d lived the bulk of her life.

      Her mother, born and raised in Mexico, had moved to the United States to marry a Texan. However, the two soon divorced, and a pregnant Selma Wade—once Selma Martinez, now Selma Wade-Lewis-Scott-Hernandez-Montgomery—moved to Oklahoma City, where she later met and married a prominent Blueberry Hill businessman. Like husband number one, he hadn’t kept her attention long, and she’d divorced him in favor of marrying a pillar of the Strawberry Valley community. When those two divorced, Selma married Earl, another Strawberry Valley resident, only a far less reputable one. All too soon she’d divorced him, as well. She dated around before marrying her fifth husband and moving to Colorado, where she still lived.

      That’s when newly minted eighteen-year-old Ryanne made the quality decision to move in with Earl, her third stepfather. He’d owned the bar, but he’d had trouble running it after his cancer diagnosis. And though she’d come here to help him, the wonderful man had helped her, supporting and encouraging her the way a father should, even when people accused him of falling for a “cheap Lolita.”

      A pang in her chest, Ryanne blew a kiss to his picture, which hung above the bar, right alongside postcards of every country she’d ever dreamed of visiting. Greece. Egypt. Finland. Iceland. Actually, all the lands! Ireland, Greenland, Switzerland, the Netherlands, Thailand, and England. Australia. Africa. Costa Rica. France. Germany. Israel. China. Mexico. Russia. The Virgin Islands. Basically, she planned to travel from one end of the earth to the other, and everywhere in between.

      Throughout the rest of the building, she’d preserved Earl’s country-western motif. The walls had patches of exposed brick, and above the dance floor were the words Wild West, every letter surrounded by colorful neon lights. For bar stools, saddles were welded to metal bases. In the corner, swinging saloon doors partitioned off the bathroom hallway.

      Do you have any idea what’s going on in the parking lot?

      Jude’s words rolled through her mind, and curiosity got the better of her. With her favorite .44 holstered inside her boot, she marched to the rear exit. In the alley, cool night air couldn’t mask the pungent scent of garbage due to be dumped. The overripe smell hadn’t driven away the people who sat along the wall.

      At the end of every shift, she liked to give leftover food to the homeless, and word had spread.

      “Hey, guys,” she said with a wave. “Anyone seen anything suspicious going on out here lately?”

      A man known only as Loner stood to wobbly legs. Dirt streaked his skin and caked his hair while stains littered his ragged clothing. Her heart ached for the man. She didn’t know his story, only knew his eyes were dulled by hopelessness. Life had given up on him, and he’d given up on life.

      “There’s been a young man skulking through the shadows,” he said. “Tall, blond. Looks constipated all the time. We thought he worked for you ’cause he paid us to report any drug sightings or—” Loner tugged at his collar “—flesh peddlin’.”

      Constipated? Only Jude. The man hated every second of his existence.

      Why did Jude care what happened on her property, anyway? Why did he think people were selling drugs and sex? Oh...crap. What if people were selling drugs and sex? Acid churned in her stomach, quickly burning a path up her throat.

      “And did you have to report anything to him?” she asked.

      Loner shifted from one foot to the other. “Past few nights, different men have climbed inside a van and, uh, it started rocking soon after. Those men took off about fifteen minutes later.” Again he pulled at his collar. “Not sure if no money was exchanged, though.”

      Poo on a stick!

      Ryanne had heard so much cursing on a daily basis, she’d decided to keep her words and thoughts, like, superclassy. Snort.

      She sooo did not want to call the cops about this. While she loved the hardworking, honorable men and women who worked for the Strawberry Valley PD, she didn’t fall under their jurisdiction. Instead, Blueberry Hill PD would be sent out, and one of their officers—Jim Rayburn—wanted her shut down by fair means or foul. Sometimes he showed up at the СКАЧАТЬ