Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 112850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
“Is that smell coffee?” Wyatt asked.
“Full pot in the kitchen. Help yourself to whatever’s in there,” I said and headed toward my en suite bathroom.
=♥=
For a town tucked out of the way of just about anywhere, the Silver Star Saloon & Café was packed to the brim with patrons. Scantily dressed, summer heat seekers spilled from the front doors. Many staying to visit under the awning-covered sidewalk as the sun blazed overhead. Based on the red, white, and blue decorations that had seen better days adorning both sides of Main Street, the town celebrated the Fourth of July in style. Clearly, they had gotten everything out of the three-day weekend that could be gotten.
Although I hadn’t lived in this particular small town while growing up, I missed these kinds of festivities. Where the only thing I had to worry about was keeping both hands attached to my arms while shooting off rounds of firecrackers.
Without much thought, I took a turn into the first available parking spot as Wyatt rambled on about something from the back seat. It was funny how easy it was to tune the guy out, though I’d had twenty years of practice.
“You guys go in first, I’ll follow,” I said, cutting off the engine. Yes, in the past, it had been remarkably easy to hide in plain sight, but I never dropped my guard.
“Sure,” Wyatt said, grabbing the roll bar of my Jeep, jumping from the back seat to the pavement in a single motion. Scout, on the other hand, used the door like a human being.
“Walk in the middle of us. I’ll handle recon,” Scout instructed.
“Better plan.” We fell in line easy enough. I took a quick glance down the street, flipping my ball cap around so the bill faced the front as I searched for the liquor store. No place stood out, but the relaxation I’d managed to achieve since arriving held firmly in place.
Like most of the time, Wyatt garnered all the attention with his friendly smiles and southern drawled howdies. Wyatt fit here, as if he were a local. Any eyes fascinated by the new arrivals overlooked me in favor of staring at Scout bringing up the rear. The shift came with apprehension. Something about the energy he radiated drew all gazes like prey wary of a potential predator. He was a big guy, but the no-nonsense resting bitch face had people quickly casting their curious glances away. Better for my anonymity that way.
Wyatt pushed through the bar’s front doors then through another set of authentically old saloon doors. The knocking bells drew all eyes to us. Eight-foot folding tables filled the main room with zero formality or any hint of a seating arrangement. The chairs were the standard metal fold-out seats, rolls of paper towels were stationed on the tabletops at intervals of about every other chair. The plates were cream-colored melamine, surely chosen for their shatter-resistant nature.
Since Wyatt was in the lead, he navigated in and out of the tables, taking the three free seats farthest from the door. They were against the wall in a corner, sitting side by side. Scout took one side of Wyatt, I took the other. From this angle, I had a vantage point for the entire dining room and anyone who walked through the front doors. When I moved in the seat to get comfortable, the chair creaked and scraped against the back wall. The deep indention in the walnut paneling proved I wasn’t the first patron to have that problem.
“Serves one plate of food, called the Cowboy breakfast,” Wyatt said, reading from a chalkboard positioned on the bar top. “The variation comes with whether you wanna add a pancake or not. Good enough. You won’t get lost in decidin’ what you want.” His elbow popped out, hitting teasingly against mine.
This simple eating experience might actually be one of the top five reasons why I loved this part of the world. They served one meal, scrambled eggs, three pieces of bacon, hash browns, and biscuits with peppered country gravy. Like Wyatt said, the pancakes, two of them, were optional, one I opted for.
Carbs. I loved and missed eating carbohydrates. Another treat saved for this time of the year.
A waitress, dressed in short, blue jean cutoffs, and a well-worn, tight-fitting Silver Star Saloon T-shirt came to the table. She carried three plates of food, one placed in front of each of us. Wrapped silverware came from her back pocket, and those were handed over in the same fashion as the plates.
“Pancakes?” she asked, never fully looking at us as she wrote on a small pad.
“We all want the pancakes, right?” Wyatt didn’t wait for our answers as he continued. “And I’ll take an extra plate of breakfast.”
She lifted her gaze to mine. “Coffee?”
Our eyes met. There was no change in her expression. “I’ll have ice water and coffee.”