“How you doin’?” she asked with a friendly smile. How long is Cal’s damn shower going to take?
“Yeah, you got beer?”
She nodded. “Draft or six-pack?” She glanced at the truck out of the corner of her eye and the fact that Chelsea hadn’t moved over near the passenger door once the first man got out told Maggie all she needed to know.
“Six’ll do.”
“Right in the cooler,” she said, standing back so he could enter the store.
He was waiting right inside the door. He looked at her over his shoulder.
“Over there,” she said, pointing.
He smelled, but not of ranching or fishing. He smelled of body odor, greasy food, gasoline and smoke, not wood smoke but probably tobacco smoke. And the way he looked at her, it was the most threatened she’d felt in a long time. They’d had a patient go postal in the ER once and that had scared her enough to pee her pants but security got him under control quickly.
There was no security team here.
She went behind the counter by the cash register, wondering if he was going to rob her and cut her up into little pieces. The broom was within her reach if he got too close or pulled out that knife. But he put the six-pack on the counter and took out a wallet he kept on a chain. Then he looked over at the bar. “Get me one a them bottles,” he commanded. “Whiskey.”
“We don’t sell...” She stopped herself. What was she thinking? “We don’t usually sell by the bottle, but you’re probably my last customer for the day. I’m closing up in ten.” She went across the aisle to grab a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from under the bar and took it back to the cash register. She had a thought. It might be a stupid thought but Maggie usually assessed and made decisions quickly and it was the only thought she had. She knew he was wrong and she didn’t want him wandering back into the vast wilderness and doing harm to Chelsea. She began ringing up the purchase. “You passing through?”
“More or less,” he said.
“I got two empty cabins if you want it to be less,” she said. “Fact is, middle of the week hardly anyone’s around so we lower the price if it’s one night. Twelve dollars. I can’t do that for more than one night. Can’t do that on weekends, you know—we stay full on weekends. In good weather.”
Stop chattering, she told herself. Her knees felt liquid. If Cal would just walk through the back door, maybe she’d come up with a better idea.
“You can park around the back of the cabin, if you want it.”
He looked at her suspiciously. It looked like he was onto her. He turned from the counter as if to leave but instead he brought back an armload of snack food—chips, pretzels, jerky, nuts. He piled it all on the counter. “Add it up. Gimme the key on that cabin.”
She rang everything up, gave him the total and he handed her a credit card. The credit card belonged to Gilbert Anthony Smyth. Wrong, wrong, wrong! She ran it and it showed approved on the machine. She turned and grabbed the key, slapped it on the counter and said, “You don’t need a receipt, do you?”
“Why?”
“Most people don’t,” she said with a shrug. “You can’t deduct supplies unless you’re on business.”
He sneered at her. Like he was on business?
She bagged up his things and he left the store.
Maggie sank behind the counter, her knees useless. She heard the truck start and motor slowly around the store along the drive that led to the cabins.
No one had reported Mr. Smyth’s card stolen or the machine wouldn’t have approved it. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Or maybe the card was taken off his body? Or were they tracking it? Oh God, how long had that child been with those two?
“Yeah, you got beer?”
She nodded. “Draft or six-pack?” She glanced at the truck out of the corner of her eye and the fact that Chelsea hadn’t moved over near the passenger door once the first man got out told Maggie all she needed to know.
“Six’ll do.”
“Right in the cooler,” she said, standing back so he could enter the store.
He was waiting right inside the door. He looked at her over his shoulder.
“Over there,” she said, pointing.
He smelled, but not of ranching or fishing. He smelled of body odor, greasy food, gasoline and smoke, not wood smoke but probably tobacco smoke. And the way he looked at her, it was the most threatened she’d felt in a long time. They’d had a patient go postal in the ER once and that had scared her enough to pee her pants but security got him under control quickly.
There was no security team here.
She went behind the counter by the cash register, wondering if he was going to rob her and cut her up into little pieces. The broom was within her reach if he got too close or pulled out that knife. But he put the six-pack on the counter and took out a wallet he kept on a chain. Then he looked over at the bar. “Get me one a them bottles,” he commanded. “Whiskey.”
“We don’t sell...” She stopped herself. What was she thinking? “We don’t usually sell by the bottle, but you’re probably my last customer for the day. I’m closing up in ten.” She went across the aisle to grab a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from under the bar and took it back to the cash register. She had a thought. It might be a stupid thought but Maggie usually assessed and made decisions quickly and it was the only thought she had. She knew he was wrong and she didn’t want him wandering back into the vast wilderness and doing harm to Chelsea. She began ringing up the purchase. “You passing through?”
“More or less,” he said.
“I got two empty cabins if you want it to be less,” she said. “Fact is, middle of the week hardly anyone’s around so we lower the price if it’s one night. Twelve dollars. I can’t do that for more than one night. Can’t do that on weekends, you know—we stay full on weekends. In good weather.”
Stop chattering, she told herself. Her knees felt liquid. If Cal would just walk through the back door, maybe she’d come up with a better idea.
“You can park around the back of the cabin, if you want it.”
He looked at her suspiciously. It looked like he was onto her. He turned from the counter as if to leave but instead he brought back an armload of snack food—chips, pretzels, jerky, nuts. He piled it all on the counter. “Add it up. Gimme the key on that cabin.”
She rang everything up, gave him the total and he handed her a credit card. The credit card belonged to Gilbert Anthony Smyth. Wrong, wrong, wrong! She ran it and it showed approved on the machine. She turned and grabbed the key, slapped it on the counter and said, “You don’t need a receipt, do you?”
“Why?”
“Most people don’t,” she said with a shrug. “You can’t deduct supplies unless you’re on business.”
He sneered at her. Like he was on business?
She bagged up his things and he left the store.
Maggie sank behind the counter, her knees useless. She heard the truck start and motor slowly around the store along the drive that led to the cabins.
No one had reported Mr. Smyth’s card stolen or the machine wouldn’t have approved it. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Or maybe the card was taken off his body? Or were they tracking it? Oh God, how long had that child been with those two?
