Page 76 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses

Tanner grunted and scuffed his boot through the dirt. Fine, the illustrious Four Leaf Clover. He refused to stand around, waiting to talk to a woman who had told him on more than one occasion that she wished he had never been born. A gust of air ripped at his shabby Chesterfield and the declaration resounded in his mind as it did each time he thought of her. Each time he recorded her progress across a crowded street as she sought to evade him.

To hell with you, too, Kat Peters.

Tanner glanced up as he reached the boardwalk. Wreaths of red-berried holly and some grayish leaf he couldn’t identify dangled from every wooden post and whitewashed storefront. A cloying scent lingered, one that called to mind time spent round a fire, the air thick with cigar smoke and candied yams. He and West sneaking sips of Syllabub and Madeira, and later, vomiting in Elsa’s rose bushes.

Christmas.

He hadn’t realized the holiday was so near. What day was it, anyway? Nineteenth? Eighteenth? Hell. Another Christmas without his family. His mother would cry, his father would rage. Why hadn’t he come home...the bank needed him...blasted newspaper business...dangerous. Tanner glanced at his arm, touched the scar on his chin.

He stepped to the boardwalk, unable to miss the saloon, as Adam had said. The Four Leaf Clover announced itself in grand style, ornate green letters spilling across a filthy window. Ivy was draped across the entrance and wound in tight spirals on the posts outside. The saloon was the most guileless Tanner had ever seen.

He paused, looking down the narrow street. Wagons pulled by sway-backed nags, women in worn gingham, baskets bobbing against their hips. A mercantile, a livery, a millenary. He leaned back, raised his hand to shade his eyes. Peters’ Millenary. He snorted. Just his goddamn luck.

Shouldering past the swinging doors, he held his arm against his side, and ducked a fat twist of mistletoe. The calming mixture of tobacco and whiskey wafted over him. He smiled. Now that was more like it.

A woman flaunting generous curves and a thatch of tangled, blond hair stepped forward, snagging his good arm before he reached the bar. Her bosom strained her bodice, inviting closer inspection. Tanner let his gaze linger before lifting his head. Cheap perfume, sweat, and powder entered his nose on his next breath. Ah, well, what could he expect?

“Howdy,” he said, presenting a practiced smile. It was the first time he had said howdy in his life.

She giggled and leaned closer, pressing her bosom into his elbow. He shifted and felt her nipple pucker into a tight bud. He’d remember the word if it worked this well.

Red lips parted. “Oh, honey. Are you a cowboy?”

“No.” Tanner lowered his chin and his voice. “A newspaperman.” He gave the title the stamp of a lover’s caress.

Cowboy-lover’s shoulders drooped, sucking her breasts inside her dress. “Dang. I’ve been wanting to meet a gen-u-ine cowboy for a long time. I heard, well” —she wrinkled her nose— “I heard they’re fun. Too far out here to meet a real one. Plenty of farmers, though, and farmers are a healthy bunch. Pretty fun, farmers.”

“Newspapermen are even more fun. Guaranteed.” Another elbow caress might get her going. A couple of drinks. He sniffed. A bath for both of them. Clean sheets.

Cowboy-lover skimmed a chipped nail up his sleeve. “Honey, you look tired.”

Tired? For two months, he’d slept on warehouse floors and prowled Richmond’s docks like a starved cat, conversed with dregs and tramps, and all for a story that had nearly gotten him killed. He’d come to Edgemont to let things calm down and run straight into Kat Peters. A bitter sigh slipped past his lips.

Cowboy-lover smacked her lips, the paint-filled wrinkles quivering. “Don’t worry none, honey. I’ll fix you up fine and dandy.”

“Two whiskeys, Doris. From my bottle. We’ll be at the usual table,” a deep voice behind them instructed.

Cowboy-lover flashed a sour smile and marched behind the bar.

Tanner managed a short laugh. Men in love with their wives always disapproved of trollops. “Adam. Perfect timing as always.”

“Not much has changed, I see.”

Tanner shrugged and smoothed his hand over the bar. Witnessing his fingers tremble, he clenched them into a fist.

Adam’s gaze lowered, then he gestured to a dark corner in the back. “Come on. You look like you need a drink.”

Cowboy-lover swept past them, slapped glasses on a scarred table, rubbed her hip against Tanner’s, sniffed at Adam, and pranced away.

“You’ve made her very happy, Tan,” Adam said.

Tanner slid into a chair, grimacing when he banged his arm on the wooden edge. “Oh? How’s that, Chase?”

“Doris doesn’t get a lot of...attention around here.”

Tanner took a sip, rolled the whiskey around his mouth and swallowed. The liquid blazed a fortifying trail, settling quite nicely in his gut. “Well, she’s not so bad, if that’s all you have.”

Adam leaned forward, searching his face. A shot of discomfiture snaked along Tanner’s spine. He couldn’t guess what lurked in his eyes, was afraid to examine closely. He avoided mirrors for just that reason. Shoving his buttocks back as far as he could without toppling from the chair, he lowered his gaze to his glass.