Most Wanted Woman

It was all Josh could do not to remind Etta of the drifter she’d trusted a few years ago. The guy had tended bar only a week before he cleaned out the safe then disappeared.

Etta pointed a long, sturdy finger his way. “While we’re on the subject, I want you to understand that I’m fond of Regan. I don’t expect she needs to get all stirred up over a man who goes through women like water.”

“I don’t plan on doing any stirring in that area.” He glanced at the pies cooling on the counter. “I forgot to stop by the mini-mart, so I need to drive back into town. How about I drop off Regan’s pie while I’m at it?”

“Sounds good.”

He set Anthracite on the floor, gathered up the plates and carried them to the sink. What he did intend to do was look after Etta’s best interests. Which meant finding out all there was to know about Regan Ford.

Chapter 2

“C’mon, Regan. Let’s you ’n me go upstairs to your place ’n have some fun.”

“Not interested.” Regan stood at the tavern’s front door, staring up into Seamus O’Toole’s bloodshot eyes. The beefy Dallas used-car dealership owner’s breath smelled like a brewery.

He leaned in. “There’s lots of women mighty glad they said yes to old Seamus.”

“Not interested, Mr. O’Toole. At all.”

When Regan shifted to open the door, he lunged, thrusting a finger in her face. “Whas’ wrong with you? Don’cha like men? You one of them flamin’…”

As quick as a snake, her hand lashed out, grabbed his outstretched thumb, and forced it back into his wrist.

Howling, O’Toole dropped to his knees.

Behind her, Regan heard the kitchen door swing open.

“Need some help?”

Keeping a grip on O’Toole’s thumb, she glanced across her shoulder. Howie Lyons stood with the door propped open, a metal mop bucket behind him. After six months of working together, Truelove’s night cook knew Regan could hold her own with an obnoxious drunk.

“I’ve got this covered.” She looked down at O’Toole. His face was beet-red, his forehead beaded with sweat. “I said no. Got it?”

“Yeah. Sweet Jesus, I hear ya.”

She let go of his thumb and stepped back two paces.

With his knees creaking in protest, he lurched to his feet. “Ya’ crazy broad! You tried ta’ break my thumb.”

“If I intended to break it, you’d need a cast right now.” She didn’t add that due to her paramedic training, she could also apply that cast. “Did you drive or walk tonight, Mr. O’Toole?”

“Can’t ’member,” he mumbled while massaging his bruised thumb.

Regan shoved the door open. A gleaming silver Beemer sporting a dealer’s tag sat in the parking lot beneath one of the mercury vapor lamps.

“You drove, but you’re walking home.” She held out a hand. “Give me your keys. I’ll put them behind the bar. You can pick the car up when you’re sober, like you did last week.”

When he continued glaring at her, she wiggled her fingers. “Keys. You try to drive, you could wind up in a cell.”

“Maybe.” Wobbling, he dug into a pocket of his khakis. Keys jangled as he slapped them into her palm. “Somebody oughta do something ’bout man-hatin’ women,” he sneered as he lurched out the door.

“Idiot,” Regan said under her breath. After setting the lock, she wove her way around the tables, then stepped behind the bar. She dropped O’Toole’s keys inside a drawer, then hesitated.

Still wearing his grease-smeared apron over his black T-shirt and jeans, Howie gave her a considering look while overturning chairs onto the tables on the far side of the dance floor. “Something wrong?”

“What if that moron staggers in front of a car and gets mowed down?”

“You nearly ripped off O’Toole’s thumb. Now you’re worried about him stepping in front of a car?”

“I’m thinking about Etta. If O’Toole gets hurt, Truelove’s could get sued because he got drunk here.”

“Right,” Howie said. “When I leave I’ll drive the route to his house. Make sure he hasn’t stumbled and hit his head.”

“Thanks.”

Since she had already washed the pitchers and glasses, re-stocked the cooler, wiped down the bar and locked the night’s receipts in the safe, Regan was free to head upstairs. Instead, she began overturning chairs onto the tables.

“You don’t have to do that,” Howie reminded her. “My job.”

“I’ve got time,” she said, hefting another chair.

Snagging an oversize broom, he began sweeping up peanut shells. “I guess neither of us have someone waitin’ at home,” he commented, his voice now harsh and bitter. “Regan, you ever know anyone who claimed to have found religion? Someone who went off the deep end, preaching fire and brimstone?”

“No.” Etta had told her she suspected the night cook’s motive for taking on the tavern’s janitorial duties after his wife left him was to delay going home to an empty apartment.

“It’s hard defending yourself when someone gets certain ideas into their head.” Howie shook his head. “There’s battles a person just can’t win.”

Regan pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. She wasn’t trying to win a battle. She was trying to stay hidden.

After a few minutes of their working in silence, Howie raised a shoulder as he wielded the broom. “I expect havin’ Josh McCall in town’ll make Etta happy, being they’re close.”

Regan felt another stab of unease as she pictured McCall sitting at the bar, watching her just a bit too closely with those dark eyes. Eyes that had made her shiver as she fought their hypnotic pull. She had become so accustomed to the numb bleakness inside her that feeling even a slight attraction to any man unnerved her.

With all the chairs overturned, she walked to the jukebox, its light painting her arm gold as she reached to flip off the power. “Do you know McCall?”

“Sure. His family’s been coming to Sundown long as I can remember. Josh and Etta’s oldest boy were forever getting into mischief.” Howie nudged the mop bucket toward a corner. “Those two caught hell one summer when they raided the Camp Fire Girls overnight jamboree.” He chuckled as he put his back into mopping. “Now Etta’s oldest is a minister and Josh is a cop. Who’d have thought?”

“I figured out the cop part on my own,” Regan muttered.

“What’d you say?”

“Nothing.” She slid the key to her apartment out of her jeans pocket. “I’m going upstairs. Lock up when you leave.”

“Will do.”

Giving the area a last check, she headed toward a door on the opposite side of the barroom. After dealing with the lock, she reached in and flipped on the light. The narrow staircase was as straight as a ruler, with no shadowy nooks or crannies in which someone could hide.

At the top of the stairs she paused, making sure the dead bolt she’d installed on the door was still latched. A study of the door-jamb revealed no notches or pry marks. Everything appeared undisturbed.