with Ted and Luke. I made my way toward them, pushing gently through the throng. Chatter and laughter roiled around me; I heard the cowbell over the bar ring, a signal that somebody had bought the place a round. A rich somebody, I reflected.
Which wasn't surprising. Most of the folks who were up here to be packed into the mountains by the pack station crew had plenty of dollars. Horses, mules, and packers did not come cheap; those who weren't long on money carried their gear in a backpack. Shoe buckaroos, as the cowboys called them.
There were probably a few shoe buckaroos in the bar tonight, and some who were just car camping in the Forest Service campsite at the other end of Deadman Meadow. But the majority would be what Ted called "customers," heavily emphasizing the first syllable. Most would be staying in the cabins that clustered around the lodge, eating in the cafe and drinking in the bar, en route to being packed into a mountain lake. These were the people who made Ted a lot of money, and he was always very happy to see them.
On the other hand, he didn't much like to talk to them, and usually avoided the bar. Lonny's presence had created the exception, I surmised.
I started to work my way as unobtrusively as I could between two men in cowboy hats in order to get to where Lonny was standing.
"Excuse me," I said, as one of the men turned around.
He was in his late twenties, blond and handsome, and arrogant with it. He was also, I realized a quick second later, very drunk.
He looked me up and down. I was pinned by the crowd behind me, and he was firmly blocking the route to Lonny.
"Excuse me," I said again.
"Well, you're a pretty thing." He drawled it out.
I sighed. "Thanks. I need to get through here, if you don't mind."
"I don't mind at all. Just you squeeze your pretty backside right in." He shifted slightly to one side, leaving a six-inch gap between himself and his neighbor.
I shrugged and insinuated myself shoulder first; at the same time I felt him grab my ass-hard. It pissed me off. I'm used to drunks and I'm used to cowboys; I'm used to drunk cowboys, for that matter. But I didn't like this guy. I kicked him in the kneecap with the pointed toe of my boot.
"Fuck off, asshole," I said clearly. I wasn't prepared for his reaction.
He yelped and grabbed me by the breasts. "You like this better?" His eyes were mean.
"You son of a bitch." I said it loudly enough for the people around us to hear.
The cowboy-hatted man next to us turned, took a look, and said, "Knock it off, Steve." His voice was deep and hard and familiar. Dan Jacobi, I realized.
Steve let go of me.
Dan Jacobi gave me another glance, in which recognition dawned. "Apologize to her," he said to his companion.
Steve looked sulky. "The hell I will. I work for you; you don't own me."
"Apologize to her." Dan Jacobi enunciated each word clearly.
Steve shrugged and turned back to the bar. "The hell with it.”
Dan Jacobi put a hand on his shoulder. Steve looked at him. Effortlessly as an ax splitting firewood Dan drove his fist into Steve's gut.
The blond gasped and grabbed his stomach and sat abruptly on the floor of the bar.
"I'll apologize for him," Dan Jacobi said. "He's busy."
Wheezing and retching, the unfortunate Steve half crawled and half walked to the door, doubled over with both hands holding himself. I had the impression he would be puking for a while.
"Sorry about that," Dan Jacobi said. "He's had too much to drink. Can I buy you something?"
"It's not necessary," I said.
Lonny had witnessed our little scene, along with the rest of the barroom crowd, and stood by my side. "What did he do?" he asked me.
"Grabbed me." I grinned. "I kicked him; he didn't like it."
"Good for you." Dan Jacobi smiled briefly. "How about I buy you both a drink?"
"Sure." Lonny answered for both of us. "Gail, this is Dan Jacobi. Dan, Gail McCarthy."
"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Dan said. "What'll you have to drink?"
"A Stoly vodka tonic with an
Which wasn't surprising. Most of the folks who were up here to be packed into the mountains by the pack station crew had plenty of dollars. Horses, mules, and packers did not come cheap; those who weren't long on money carried their gear in a backpack. Shoe buckaroos, as the cowboys called them.
There were probably a few shoe buckaroos in the bar tonight, and some who were just car camping in the Forest Service campsite at the other end of Deadman Meadow. But the majority would be what Ted called "customers," heavily emphasizing the first syllable. Most would be staying in the cabins that clustered around the lodge, eating in the cafe and drinking in the bar, en route to being packed into a mountain lake. These were the people who made Ted a lot of money, and he was always very happy to see them.
On the other hand, he didn't much like to talk to them, and usually avoided the bar. Lonny's presence had created the exception, I surmised.
I started to work my way as unobtrusively as I could between two men in cowboy hats in order to get to where Lonny was standing.
"Excuse me," I said, as one of the men turned around.
He was in his late twenties, blond and handsome, and arrogant with it. He was also, I realized a quick second later, very drunk.
He looked me up and down. I was pinned by the crowd behind me, and he was firmly blocking the route to Lonny.
"Excuse me," I said again.
"Well, you're a pretty thing." He drawled it out.
I sighed. "Thanks. I need to get through here, if you don't mind."
"I don't mind at all. Just you squeeze your pretty backside right in." He shifted slightly to one side, leaving a six-inch gap between himself and his neighbor.
I shrugged and insinuated myself shoulder first; at the same time I felt him grab my ass-hard. It pissed me off. I'm used to drunks and I'm used to cowboys; I'm used to drunk cowboys, for that matter. But I didn't like this guy. I kicked him in the kneecap with the pointed toe of my boot.
"Fuck off, asshole," I said clearly. I wasn't prepared for his reaction.
He yelped and grabbed me by the breasts. "You like this better?" His eyes were mean.
"You son of a bitch." I said it loudly enough for the people around us to hear.
The cowboy-hatted man next to us turned, took a look, and said, "Knock it off, Steve." His voice was deep and hard and familiar. Dan Jacobi, I realized.
Steve let go of me.
Dan Jacobi gave me another glance, in which recognition dawned. "Apologize to her," he said to his companion.
Steve looked sulky. "The hell I will. I work for you; you don't own me."
"Apologize to her." Dan Jacobi enunciated each word clearly.
Steve shrugged and turned back to the bar. "The hell with it.”
Dan Jacobi put a hand on his shoulder. Steve looked at him. Effortlessly as an ax splitting firewood Dan drove his fist into Steve's gut.
The blond gasped and grabbed his stomach and sat abruptly on the floor of the bar.
"I'll apologize for him," Dan Jacobi said. "He's busy."
Wheezing and retching, the unfortunate Steve half crawled and half walked to the door, doubled over with both hands holding himself. I had the impression he would be puking for a while.
"Sorry about that," Dan Jacobi said. "He's had too much to drink. Can I buy you something?"
"It's not necessary," I said.
Lonny had witnessed our little scene, along with the rest of the barroom crowd, and stood by my side. "What did he do?" he asked me.
"Grabbed me." I grinned. "I kicked him; he didn't like it."
"Good for you." Dan Jacobi smiled briefly. "How about I buy you both a drink?"
"Sure." Lonny answered for both of us. "Gail, this is Dan Jacobi. Dan, Gail McCarthy."
"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Dan said. "What'll you have to drink?"
"A Stoly vodka tonic with an
Similar Books
