“One fight at a time, Carly,” Wyatt said in a soothing tone, but his words had the opposite effect. They made me impatient. Although he was the one who’d suggested we take our corrupt fathers down, the idea had made me feel strong for the first time in a long, long while. His promise was one of the main reasons I’d chosen to stay in Drum, but nearly three weeks had passed since Bart Drummond’s right-hand man had tried to kill me, Wyatt, Jerry, and Deputy Marco Roland, and we’d done nothing.

Had Wyatt manipulated me? I’d dated a long string of narcissists, culminating with Jake, my former best friend and fiancé. Somehow I’d always missed the signs until it was too late.

“So we start tonight?” I pressed.

His expression wavered. “It’s been a long day for the both of us.”

Another stall, which sounded perfectly reasonable—they all had—but when I added them all together, it made for a pretty clear picture.

It would be a long, long time before this man told me anything.

“Well, it sure would be nice to at least enter the ring on one of those fights.” I turned around, avoiding the urge to look back, and walked over to help Lula bus the last table.

“Lula, can I ask a favor?”

She looked at me with her large, trusting eyes, and I thought about the horrors she’d faced. Who had taken care of her after her mother had gone to prison? But I shook off my thoughts. Surely that was the last thing she’d want to talk about. “Can you cover Wyatt’s table for me?”

“Wyatt Drummond?” she asked, her brow shooting up.

“Yeah,” I said, making no secret of pointing to his table. “Over there. It’s at the edge of our sections. I can take one of yours in exchange.”

“Can you take two?” she asked in nearly a whisper. “Football nights are crazy.”

“I’ll take as many as you like,” I said. “And I’ll share the tips with you.”

“You don’t have to do that, Carly.”

“We’ll sort it out later,” I said. “But you’ll be doin’ me a huge favor if you handle Wyatt.”

“Of course,” she said, nodding her head, “I’ll do anything for you, Carly. You just have to ask.”

I wasn’t sure why that worried me.

Chapter Four

Just as we worked out which two tables I’d cover for her, some of the guys started showing up. When I’d first started working at Max’s Tavern, I’d thought it was strange that so few women showed up for football nights, but Ruth had explained the Methodist Church hosted a knitting club on Monday and Thursday nights, although she was fairly certain it involved more wine drinking and gossip than it did knitting.

“Lula’s back!” one of the guys shouted, grinning from ear to ear. He was an older man, in his late fifties, and he pulled her into a hug and twirled her around in a full circle.

She let out a squeal. “You put me down, Fred Myers!”

He laughed and set her down as though she were made of glass. “We missed ya, Lula girl.”

Her cheeks flushed as she gave him a soft smile. “I missed all y’all too.”

“You’re not leavin’ again anytime soon, are ya?” he asked in a worried tone.

“No, sir,” she said solemnly. “I’m stickin’ around for good this time.”

“Mighty glad to hear it!” Fred exclaimed, then headed over to a table near the TV and out of Lula’s section.

More men wandered in to watch the game, all of them enthused to see Lula, and she made the same sheepish look every time. As the night progressed, I realized most of the men treated her kindly and tolerated her slowness and her occasional mistakes with generosity, and I also realized I’d been mistaken about the situation. Before I’d met Lula, Max and Ruth had led me to believe that Lula was popular because she had an ingénue personality. But now I could see that the men genuinely cared about her, and my heart nearly burst.

Wyatt soon figured out that I’d handed him off to Lula, but I ignored his attempts to get my attention. It wouldn’t kill him to stew a little bit, and I wasn’t sure where I stood right now. I needed time to sort things out.

Around halftime, Todd Bingham walked through the door with his toadies filing in behind him like an entourage, which wasn’t far off the mark.

His appearance caught me off guard. I hadn’t seen him since he’d shown up in the tavern the night that Carson Purdy had tried to kill me. What was he doing here tonight?

But I understood the second his gaze landed on Lula. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end even before his gaze turned to me. A grin spread across his face, but it didn’t meet his eyes, not that I was surprised. Bingham had been plenty jovial when quizzing me about what I’d seen the night of Seth’s murder, but none of it had been genuine. Bingham struck me as a sadist who took perverse pleasure in watching people squirm, and he was clearly waiting for a similar reaction from me now.

He’d wait all fucking night. Todd Bingham had no reason to bother me anymore. He’d unmasked the traitors who’d attempted to steal his business, their identities confirmed by me, and he’d meted out his “justice.” Although he’d told me that he would let the final two men run, their bodies had turned up in a ravine down the mountain last week. Further proof, as if I’d needed it, he was not to be trusted.

I cocked my head and gave him a surly gaze. “Are you waitin’ for an escort to a table? You know how this works. Find an open table, and you’ll be waited on as soon as we get to you.”

He didn’t like my retort, but I didn’t care. I was done letting men intimidate me, even ruffians like Bingham.

I turned my back on him and caught a glimpse of Max, who was now behind the bar, working side by side with Ruth. The scowl on his face suggested he’d noticed my exchange with Bingham, although the roar of the crowd was loud enough to drown out what we’d said. I saw him reach down his right side, and even though the bar hid his body from the waist down, I suspected he was reaching for the hunting knife strapped to his leg. He was expecting trouble. Did he know something about Bingham that I didn’t? Was the criminal up to something new? I definitely didn’t like the way he’d been watching Lula. I’d be sure to keep an eye on that situation.

I waited on a few customers, placing orders for cheese dogs, nachos, and wings, as well as refilling beers and the occasional whiskey or tequila shots. Those were ordered more frequently on the weekend, when the men were in a more celebratory mood.

When I finally made it to Bingham’s table, he was surrounded by his friends—a term I used loosely for the men who always seemed to gather around him like a cloud of gnats. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he stared up at me with an expressionless gaze. “Lula’s back.”

“You’re pretty observant,” I sassed back.

“And you’re pretty smart-mouthed,” he countered, but he didn’t look as furious as I’d expected.

“And now that we’ve gotten reacquainted,” I said with my hand on my hip, “how about I take your order?”

“Where’s Lula been?” he asked.