I peer over my shoulder again to catch a better look at the woman. I’d put her in her midforties—a good decade older than Toby. “She’s pretty.” She’s certainly put a lot of effort into her appearance, though her jeans are suctioned to her body and the crop top isn’t the most flattering for her figure, but if she’s looking for attention, she’ll certainly get it in this room.

“You know who’s not pretty? Her six-four, two-hundred-seventy-pound husband.”

I burst out laughing.

“It’s not funny!” Toby declares, but he’s struggling not to smile.

“You’re right, it’s not.” But seeing him so flustered is.

“I’m not driving her home tonight. She can take a cab,” he says with firm resolution, but something tells me he’s made that declaration before, too.

I steal another look at the married vixen who has sidled up to a tall, rugged man with a crooked nose, the kind that’s been broken more than once. With her rosy cheeks and the lazy swagger of her hips, I’d bet she’s already tipsy, which begs the question of how she got here in the first place. “Maybe she’ll find a ride from someone else tonight,” I offer.

The telltale creak of the door sounds—it’s become background music to the noise in the Ale House tonight—and Toby’s eyebrows arch. “Huh. I think this is a first.”

I check over my shoulder to see who stepped in.

And balk at the sight of Roy Donovan standing in the doorway, sizing up the crowd.

“What is he doing here?” I eye the wide-rimmed cowboy hat atop his head, his crisp-collared and clean blue-and-red flannel shirt, blue jeans that look new, cowboy boots that look like they’ve been polished.

“No idea.” Toby glances at the chili table, and his mother, who is too busy gabbing to notice their new guest.

Others have noticed, though. Several heads swivel to the door, curious expressions on their faces.

Roy’s sharp gaze meets mine and, slipping his hat off, he strolls toward me.

“Ah, crap,” I mutter under my breath, turning back around to face the bar and seek refuge in Toby’s kind face. Unfortunately, he’s abandoned me to serve someone on the other end of the bar.

“Anyone sittin’ here?” Roy asks in that now-familiar Texas accent, his hand on the stool Jonah vacated.

Not only is Roy Donovan here, he’s looking to sit next to me.

“Uh …” I turn to catch Jonah’s attention, hoping he’ll see my predicament, but he’s occupied in an animated conversation with Jack. I admit reluctantly. “No. It’s free.”

“Don’t sound too excited on my account.” Roy hangs his cowboy hat on a wall peg beside him before settling onto the stool. He hooks the heel of his cowboy boot on the foot rail. “Was wondering if you’d be here.”

Really? Why? I take a long swig of my beer, mainly to avoid having to respond.

“You look cleaner than the last time I saw you.”

“So do you,” I throw back.

Toby returns, saving me from Roy’s retort. “What can I get ya?”

“A bottle of beer. Don’t care what kind, but make it cheap.”

“All right. One Coors comin’ right up.”

I shoot Toby a panicked “help me” look.

“So, how’s your dog doin’, Roy?” Toby asks as he fishes a bottle from the fridge.

“Pretty good. He’s up and walkin’ around again.”

“Thanks to Calla.”

Roy grunts.

Toby sets the bottle of Coors in front of Roy, and a fresh Corona in front of me, winking. “You look like you’re ready for another one.”

I’m guessing I’ll need twenty more before the night is through, if this conversation goes much longer.

“Here.” Roy slaps a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter. His weathered hands are a mess—his cuticles torn, his skin wrinkled, his knuckles cracked. “For mine and hers.”

“Uh … Thanks.” I steal a quick glance at Toby, who flashes a surprised look before heading to the till. I thought Roy didn’t give or do anything out of kindness?

Roy stares hard at the bottle in his hand. “How’s that old goat doin’?”

Are we attempting small talk? “Still alive.”

Roy smirks. “Have you trimmed his hooves yet?”

“We’re supposed to do that?” I cringe as I imagine touching those dirty things.

He rolls the bottle in his grip but doesn’t take a drink. “You need to keep goats’ hooves trimmed, otherwise they could end up infected. Bacteria and all that.”

“Oh. Great. I’ll let Jonah know.” I may tolerate Zeke following me around, but I draw the line at goat grooming.

Roy’s gaze wanders over all the pictures pinned to the back wall with thumbtacks, seemingly engrossed.

Did he have a wife, as Muriel claims? I can’t imagine Roy having another softer side that could lend itself to a loving relationship. Then again, I couldn’t fathom what anyone found appealing about Jonah when I first met the angry yeti.

“Had anything sniffin’ around your pen lately?” he asks suddenly.

“You mean like your malamute?”

His eyes narrow on me, and for a second I wonder if I’ve expended any goodwill I’ve earned. “Nah. He’s chained up for the time bein’ so he can heal. Besides, he won’t do nothin’ to that old goat.” He peers over his shoulders at the people and sneers. “All these campers comin’ up here, not storin’ their food and trash properly, causin’ problems for the rest of us. You two better be keepin’ your trash indoors,” he warns.

“Jonah grew up in Alaska. He knows what to do.” And I grew up in Toronto, with Tim and Sid rooting through our garbage cans at every chance, so I’m not entirely inept when it comes to wildlife. “We keep it in the workshop.”

“Calla!” Muriel’s husky voice carries over the noise. She waves an apron in the air before her gaze veers to Roy and thins.

“Did my mom happen to mention she was gonna put you to work tonight?” Toby asks with a grin.

“Uh … no. Seriously?”

“If there’s one thing she doesn’t joke about, it’s workin’.”

I groan as I ease off my chair. Maybe Muriel’s doing this to give me an out for having to deal with my neighbor. A “kindness” as she calls it—ending the suffering of wretched creatures. “Thanks for the beer,” I offer, because, unlike Roy, I won’t be outright rude.

His head bobs slowly, his focus on the bottle within his grasp.

I assume that’s all the response I’m getting from him and so I make to turn away.

“I know I can be a real SOB,” he says. “But thank you, for what you did for Oscar.” His gaze flashes to mine briefly, long enough to show me the sincerity in his words before he turns back to his bottle.

It looks like I got the right side of the coin toss today.

“Hope you like chili,” Toby hollers after me, his laughter following me as I cut through the crowd.

Chapter Twenty-Five