She cocked her head. “I don’t think you can sink a boat on a sandbar.”

I waved my hand. “You know what I mean.”

Pushing out a breath, she said, “And what about Marco workin’ here?”

“For the millionth time, we’re just friends.”

“Y’all looked like more than friends when you were touchin’ his face.”

I shrugged, both of us coming to a stop as we neared her car. “It’s like I told you. We got closer after he nursed me back to health.”

“You really expect me to buy that you came down with the flu at the exact time Lula came back? What really happened?”

She didn’t know the truth about Lula and the Drummonds, and it wasn’t my place to tell her. Nor did I intend to tell her that Bingham had helped me find Greta, Lula’s friend. He’d dispensed his own brand of justice on those men for the wrongs they’d done—and intended to do—to Lula, and I didn’t want to get on his bad side. “I had a really bad case of the flu, and Marco says I nearly died a few times. I don’t have insurance, so he took care of me at his place. I owe him, Ruth.”

Her eyes narrowed and she studied me closely for several long seconds. “I believe he nursed you back to health and even the nearly dyin’ part, but not for one minute do I believe it was the flu. Something happened to you when you were looking for Lula—like maybe you got shot—and Marco took care of you.”

I shrugged. Her presumption was close, but I didn’t care to confirm or deny it. “Go home to Franklin, Ruth.”

She winked. “I’m hornier than a mountain goat in heat, and if I don’t get me some, I’ll wither up and die.”

I winced. “I could do without the visual, but go on. What are you doin’ standing here talking to me? Go see your man.”

She laughed and hopped into her car as the back door opened. Wyatt walked out, scanning the parking lot, and his gaze landed on me.

Steeling my back, I walked over to him. He clearly had something on his mind, and if we were going to be working together, it would be best to get this conversation out of the way.

“Do you want me to follow you home?” he asked.

“That guy’s not gonna bother me,” I said. “He’s probably knocking at death’s door with alcohol poisoning.”

He lowered his voice. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “Thank you for stepping in. I should have thanked you earlier.”

“If that guy had…”

“I’m fine,” I said, adjusting my purse strap. “He only pinned me to a wall.”

I could tell he wanted to say more, but he remained silent for a couple of seconds. “So you and Marco…” His gaze held mine.

“My love life is no concern of yours, Wyatt Drummond.”

“I’m not asking for myself, Carly. I’m askin’ because there’s a chance he’ll be assigned to help with the investigation of the body out at the lodge construction site.”

I blinked. “What?”

“He holds a loyalty to Max that might make him…partial.”

“Are you suggesting that Marco might try to cover up murders to protect your father?” It was laughable, but if I said so, he’d just scowl or suggest, again, that Marco and I were involved.

“Just be careful, Carly.”

I laughed, but it was bitter. “Oh, that’s rich comin’ from you. What are you so worried about?” And because he was fraying my last nerve, I couldn’t resist adding, “You don’t think Todd Bingham will have my back?”

His eyes flashed in surprise. “Will he?”

“You tell me, Wyatt. You’re the one who suggested I was on his payroll now.” After we’d officially broken up, Wyatt had accused me of being on Bingham’s payroll, and I hadn’t seen fit to correct him. He’d made up his mind without asking, which had only confirmed I was making the right decision.

He grimaced. “I said a few things that I now regret.”

“Well, that’s all in the past.” Part of me was still disappointed things hadn’t worked out with him, if only because his promise to help me expose my father had given me hope at a time when I’d sorely needed it. But he’d reneged on that promise as quickly as he’d made it. “I’m goin’ home.”

“Is the fact I’m workin’ at the bar gonna be a problem?” he called after me.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Wyatt,” I called over my shoulder. I got in my car and started the engine. He stood at the doorway, watching me pull out of the parking lot.

Working with Wyatt was going to be a challenge, but hell would freeze over before I admitted it.

Chapter Four

The next afternoon was busier than ever. The construction site was still shut down for the sheriff’s investigation, and since the crew had nothing else to do, they came to the tavern. Lula called in sick, and part of me couldn’t help wondering if Bingham was circling his wagons. I’d presumed the body was connected to his father, but Todd Bingham himself had made several people disappear.

We were all thankful that Sweetie Pie was working, which was saying a lot. Even so, we were too shorthanded for the crowd, so Max made a limited menu that he posted on a whiteboard. Their options were a hamburger or cheeseburger and fries, a club sandwich and fries, or the special of the day—a pulled pork sandwich and fries. No special orders were allowed. They had to put on their own condiments, and if something came on it that they didn’t like, they could take it off themselves. We had a few grumpy customers, and I was worried we’d send them off to Watson’s Café, which was a block down Main Street, but most were drinking beer, a beverage they couldn’t get at the ’50s themed restaurant.

Jerry, my friend who lived in the Alpine Inn—and was a regular for practically every meal—came in early and sat at his usual lunch perch at the end of the bar. The other patrons came in between noon and one, setting up at the tables and booths and not making any move to leave as the afternoon wore on. Thankfully, there was no sign of Blake or his friend.

“We can’t keep up like this all day,” Ruth finally complained around two thirty. “When are we gonna be able to take a break?”

Max studied the room with a frown. “How about you both take off for an hour, and I’ll just tell them it’s self-serve? They can come to the bar for their drinks.”

Ruth frowned, clearly worried Max wouldn’t be able to keep up with the drink orders, but I was all for it, especially since I hadn’t been to the library in a couple of weeks.

Ruth took off soon afterward, saying she had some errands to run, and I grabbed my sack lunch and headed down the street, casting a glance at the nearly empty Watson’s Café. I knew some of the men were frequenting the place, but the majority had been coming to Max’s.

I wondered if Greta, who was a waitress at Watson’s, would be interested in making a move. Of course, she and Max had history—of the one-night stand variety—so I doubted it would work. Greta might have been interested in him before her kidnapping, but she hadn’t been coming around to the tavern. I suspected her new allegiance to Todd Bingham had something to do with it.