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But: “Bathroom,” I blurt, hopping down off my stool and hurrying away on wobbly legs.
Breaking news: I’m going to die a virgin.
Two
Flint
Marigold high-tails away from me across the bar, her golden ponytail swishing behind her. She’s in a sage green dress tonight, the fabric dancing around her thighs, while leather boots cling to her calves.
My nostrils flare as I watch her leave, sucking in a sharp breath. Why is it always so hard to watch that young woman walk away from me? Why does it feel so wrong?
She’s too young for you, asshole, a voice mutters in my head. It’s my voice, because I’ve been telling myself the same thing for months. It’s been one hell of a long, frustrating summer.
But Marigold is too young, too sweet, too shy, too everything for a cranky old bastard like me to be panting after her. Better to not go there, to not let my thoughts stray in that direction, because if I get caught up in thoughts of Marigold flushed and begging on her knees, blue eyes wide, her ponytail wrapped around my fist—
Shit.
Now I’m sporting wood in my own damn bar.
The locals lounge in their regular booths, surrounded by half-empty glasses, their cheeks flushed red. One fella’s dealing out cards while another holds court, telling some dramatic story about being stalked along the trails by a mountain lion.
I’ve heard that story before. We all have.
Not much happens in Starlight Ridge, and sometimes folks need to recycle their tall tales. No one cares once the drinks are flowing, and usually that gets under my skin, makes me all cranky and irritated, wondering why it’s so wrong for people to just fall quiet for a change—but tonight that same old story is a comfort.
Teeth gritted, I strain to hear every word, focusing every ounce of my attention on the dramatic tale of the cougar on the trail, until finally—thank fuck—the pressure eases in my jeans and I can step out from behind the bar again without causing a scene.
One last swirl of the cloth, then I place this over-polished glass down on its shelf with a thud. Whatever prank Jana’s playing, she’ll have to try again another time. Marigold’s gone, and there’s no one lining up for drinks. Time to shut myself up in my office and kick myself until closing.
Warm, muggy air sticks my shirt to my back, and I refresh the paper straws in their jar before moving to leave. But a flash of white catches my eye, and my body goes still.
…Huh. Look at that.
It’s Marigold’s sketchbook. The sketchbook. The one she’s been scribbling in for months now, always turning the page when I get close enough to look.
How long has she been in the bathroom now? One minute? Maybe two? It’s hard to judge time passing by when every second with her gone feels like an eternity.
Laughter bursts from a nearby booth, and music hums from the speakers on the wall, and still I’m frozen in place, watching Marigold’s sketchbook from the corner of my eye. Like it’s a wild animal that could spook if I stare at it head-on.
Okay, screw it.
The sketchbook is splayed open, the pencil dropped to one side—so this particular sketch isn’t private, at least. It wouldn’t cross any lines to take a peek. Reaching out, I hesitate for a single breath before spinning the sketchbook to face me.
The pages rustle, their edges worn and stained with graphite. This is a well-used book. It’s seen some good action over the last few months, because Marigold is no poser—she’s not coming here and pretending to sketch, acting all picturesque—she’s a real artist, getting her hands dirty and working the pages hard.
Where did she learn to draw?
What’s her favorite subject?
Does she ever paint or sew or do other arty things too? Christ, I’ve got so many questions about this young woman, I’ll never get enough answers to be sated.
This particular drawing is one I’ve seen before. Two of the bar regulars, Hank and Jimmy, shelter together by the open doorway, cupping their hands around a smoke and trying to protect the tiny flame from the wind. Their shirts flap against their stocky bodies, and their heads are bowed together in concentration. In the background, mountains loom into the sky.
It’s a damn good sketch. I remember thinking that the first time I saw it, and Marigold’s worked on it more since then. She’s been shading and stylizing, making the mountains seem harsher and the wind extra fierce, and now the sight of this sketch makes my chest tug.
Yeah. Yeah.
Those are our mountains. This is our town. This is what it’s like, living on the Starlight Ridge frontier. Marigold nailed it.
