When Jack stopped talking, Colt remarked, “No choice really.”

“Yep,” Jack grinned at him. “That’s why Morrie ain’t here.” Jack’s gaze sought his daughter and his voice was softer when he spoke again. “Ain’t seen Feb act that way in too long.” He didn’t look at Colt when he finished. “Seems this situation has scared some life back in her. Ain’t gonna thank the f**ker for doin’ it but I’m glad all the same.”

Colt remained silent but hid it behind a pull off his beer.

Jack took that time to turn his attention to Colt. “Seems to me there’s advantage to be taken, son, and ain’t no one in a hundred mile radius would blame you for takin’ it.”

Colt dropped the beer and opened his mouth but Jack threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“That’s all I’m sayin’. You’re a man now, you play it as you see fit.”

Before Colt could speak, Jack’s eyes went over Colt’s shoulder and he followed something around Colt’s back.

Colt twisted and saw Feb heft up the hinged portion of bar and slide through, dropping it behind her.

Her eyes caught Colt’s and before she turned away she said, “Hey.”

Another new one.

She never said anything in greeting, not even “hey”.

Then she turned away and walked down the bar. Colt’s eyes followed her ass as she did it. Then they sliced to Jack who he caught grinning at him.

Jesus f**king Christ.

“Not smart, old man, gettin’ your hopes up,” Colt told him quietly.

“My age? Hope’s about all I got left,” Jack returned and headed down the bar.

Jack was so full of shit. The man had everything.

Colt nursed his beer and scanned the bar, cataloguing the customers, going through what he knew about them in his mind and understanding Feb’s hesitation at pointing the finger at anyone. Most everyone there he knew. Most of those he knew his whole life.

There were a few drifters. Jack was a biker, he’d owned a hawg all the time Colt knew him. He had a “biker friendly” sign in the front window. He liked his Harley brethren to come in, take a load off, shoot a game of pool and drink a few rounds in his place.

Morrie and Feb continued the tradition.

Morrie owned a Fat Boy and Feb had more Harley Davidson t-shirts than were probably carried in a single store. At the back, under the collar, if she lifted her hair up or, in the summer or when the nights got too busy and she pulled it into a knot or ponytail on the top of her head, you’d see the story of her last fifteen years laid bare there. In a small decal under the collar, Harley tees announced what store in what city and what state the tee came from. She’d been to Harley stores all over the country. Hell, she had several from the Harley golden triangle, Deadwood, Rapid City, and the granddaddy of them all, Sturgis. She’d worn one the other night and tonight she had on a Sturgis Motorcycle Rally t-shirt, its army green fabric featuring a display of grinning skulls interlinked with flowers at the chest.

Her choker tonight had oblong brown beads.

She was four people down when she felt his eyes on her.

She lifted her head then pointed her chin at his beer. “You want another?”

This wasn’t unusual. She may not have been exactly friendly for the last two years but she owned a bar, she’d brought him a beer.

“Yeah.”

She came closer, grabbed a beer out of the fridge, stuck it in the bottle opener under the bar and yanked off the cap. She placed it in front of him and surprised him by lifting his old bottle and eyeing the swirling dregs in the bottom. Then with practiced ease she tossed it with a crash into the tall, thin, gray plastic glass recycling bin.

Her eyes came to his. “Jack chaser?”

This was unusual. She may have brought him a beer but she hadn’t cleared the old one away and she never furthered the discourse in any way.

“Feelin’ like keepin’ my faculties tonight,” he told her.

She nodded, her gaze sliding away. “Good call. Feds in town. Psycho on the loose. Faculties would be good.”

Jesus. Who was this woman?

Before he could figure it out, she said, “Yell if you change your mind. Stayin’ in Mom and Dad’s RV with them tonight. You feel like gettin’ a buzz on, Dad’ll pour you in the back of my car.”

She started to move away but he caught her by calling her name.

She turned back to him and he asked, “Why’re you stayin’ in the RV?”

She’d looked at him but again her eyes slid away though not before he saw them light in the dark.

“Jimbo’s a bit allergic to cats. Woke up with his eyes matted shut, sneezin’ like crazy.” She looked back at him after she’d hid her humor at this piece of news and said, “Jessie wanted to kick Jimbo out but I explained that a psycho would probably not be afraid of two women wielding one of her many cans of hair spray and a lighter. Wilson and me are homeless for awhile. Slummin’ it in the RV.”

Colt didn’t find this funny.

“Jesus, Feb, just move in with me.”

Feb’s expression told him she did not find him funny either though his intention wasn’t to be funny.

“Colt –”

He cut her off. “There’s no reason to f**kin’ argue.”

She took a step toward him and lowered her voice. “You’re off the hook. Mom and Dad and me are movin’ into Morrie’s if things go okay with Dee and this reconciliation lasts longer than a night.”

“You know how I feel about Jack but he’s not a young man anymore.”

“Maybe not but he’s not stupid either. Something happens he’ll know what to do.”

“Not like a cop would know what to do.”

Her head tilted with her question and her burgeoning impatience. “How much do you reckon I have to be worried?”

“None, you stay with me.”

“Colt, you don’t even like me. Why the f**k would I move in with you?”

“Who says I don’t like you?”

She stepped back on a foot like he’d shoved her shoulders and her face carried an expression like he’d perpetrated a surprise attack.

“Feb –” Colt started.

“February! Woman, what’s it take to get a drink around here?” Sheila Eisenhower shouted from the other end of the bar, standing by Joe-Bob who was staring at her with mild affront and it was highly likely she’d interrupted Joe-Bob’s evening nap.