The Heart of Christmas - Misty Cove, Book 1, Chapter 1

Chapter 1

***

The small-town bar pulsed with the beat of a country song as Ryland Sage eased his way inside. What had the sign along the Oregon Coast Highway said the name of this town was? He couldn’t recall. Pausing just inside the door, he tugged his ball cap lower as he glanced around.

Packed to the gills. So loud, conversation wouldn’t be expected. And lights barely bright enough to help him see his way through the crammed-together tables. Perfect. It was exactly what he was looking for. His agent wouldn’t want any speculative stories circulating about what he’d been doing in a podunk backwater of Oregon.

Truth was, he didn’t even really know what he was doing here. He’d just needed to get away for a few days. Clear his head. Get a break from the cameras. Okay, and a break from Celine, too.

He angled past a couple who only had eyes for each other and sidled up to the bar, planting his elbows on the surface.

The bartender, mid-twenties with a stubbled blond jaw and a man-bun of dreads, briefly looked up from the rag he was using to wipe down the counter. “What can I getcha?”

If the bartender were a character in a script, he’d be a down on his luck surfer, making ends meet as a mixologist.

Ryland wanted a drink. But he might drive farther tonight. He hadn’t quite decided what his final destination would be. “Water with lime. And a bacon cheeseburger. But can I have a salad instead of fries? Ranch dressing?”

The man flicked him a glance, but otherwise didn’t seem to miss a beat. “Coming right up.”

Ryland turned his focus to the basketball game on the TV in the corner. Golden State and the Bulls. He sure hoped the Warriors were going to have a better season this year than they did last, although from the current score, maybe not. But every TV in the place was playing the game, and the patrons seemed to be invested. Groans rose from half the room when a questionable foul was called against the Warriors. The other half shushed them, and several men loudly intimated they were whiners.

The bartender set his water on a cocktail napkin and slid it in front of him. When another clamor spread through the room, he leaned closer to yell, “Burger’ll be out in a few.”

Ryland nodded and touched his index finger to the bill of his cap.

The bartender hesitated and gave him a second look.

Ryland chastised himself for the gesture that his character on Blue Streets, Ben Hunt, had made famous, and concentrated on stirring his straw through his ice.

Thankfully, a drunk crash-landed on the barstool next to him and demanded the bartender’s attention.

Even so, Ryland could see that the newcomer, who was about the same age as Surfer Dreadlocks, had only captured half the man’s focus.

He felt a muscle in his jaw bunch. Was he even going to get to eat his burger? Maybe he should have let another week’s worth of beard grow before he’d escaped Tinseltown.

The drunk pounded the bar. “This week, Grady! I need another.”

The bartender continued to study Ryland.

Ryland met the man’s gaze with a steady look.

Finally, the bartender named Grady gave him a slow nod, then turned his attention to the drunk. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Zeke?”

Ryland released the breath he only then realized he’d been holding. So, maybe there were still a few decent human beings on this planet.

Zeke, the drunk, threw his hands so wide, Ryland had to dodge one. “What are you, my mother?”

Grady didn’t seem fazed. “Go home, Zeke. Sleep it off.”

“You gave him a drink!” Zeke stabbed an unsteady finger toward Ryland’s water.

Grady used his rag to wipe the bar in front of a just-vacated seat. “He’s drinking water. And that’s his first.” He smirked at Ryland as though to see if he’d caught the joke.

Ryland mustered a smile. But he wasn’t sure from where. He felt bone-weary. And he couldn’t figure out why. He’d finally gotten the break he’d been hoping for. He’d just signed a lucrative three-movie contract. The move to the big screen ought to have him soaring on an endorphin high. But the deal hadn’t given him the boost he’d hoped it would. He felt…dry. Like an autumn leaf skittering along a rough cement sidewalk, losing pieces of himself along the way.

Zeke transferred his accusatory gaze to Ryland.

Great. Just what he needed.

“What kind of man drinks water at a bar?” the drunk demanded.

Ryland chose not to respond. He focused on the game instead. Hey, look at that. Golden State had pulled within three.

“I’m talkin’ to you!” The drunk leaned into his personal space.

Ryland lifted his water and sipped, attention still focused on the TV. Maybe if he didn’t make eye contact, the man would leave it be.

“I said, ‘What kind of man drinks water at a bar?’ friend.” The man called Zeke poked his shoulder and laughed uproariously as though he’d just told the world’s funniest joke. His loud voice was starting to draw the attention of those nearby.

Ryland pulled in a slow breath. Would an answer satisfy him? He met the man’s bloodshot gaze. “The kind who still has a ways to drive tonight.”

Zeke smirked. “Can’t handle your liquor, huh?” Then his brow furrowed. “Do I know you?”

Grady slid Ryland’s burger into the space before him. He fixed Zeke with a look. “Just a stranger passing through, Zeke. Like you, he’s on his way out the door just as soon as he finishes his burger.”

Zeke stared blankly at the empty space in front of himself. “I don’t have a burger.”

Grady’s only reaction was a hint of humor that tucked around the corners of his eyes.

Ryland pondered the man’s expression. Face impassive. His mouth and cheeks hadn’t moved, but he was clearly amused. He liked that expression. He’d have to practice it. The subtlest of changes in the facial muscles, yet so much emotion had been revealed.

Grady nodded to someone behind Zeke.

Ryland turned to see a large man with muscles that defied the bounds of a black t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of the bar. A bouncer.

“Goodnight, Zeke,” Grady said.

The bouncer took Zeke by one arm.

“Wha— Look!” Zeke snatched up Ryland’s water glass. “Only fair he gets the boot too.” He held the glass up as proof of his logic.

Grady lifted both palms in a placating manner. “All right. All right, Zeke. He’s on his way out the door right behind you.” He met Ryland’s gaze and gave a subtle shake of his head that said he could stay as long as he wanted.

“Don’t patronize me!” Zeke yelled.

At the same moment, he shoved Ryland’s glass back onto the bar. It tipped over and drenched Ryland’s burger and his lap.

Ryland shot backwards, knocking over his stool in his haste. The loud crash caused a hush to fall across the room, and he could almost feel every eye in the place focused on him. He kept his head down as he brushed at the liquid soaking into his jeans. He clamped his teeth together so he wouldn’t be tempted to say something that could later come back to haunt him on YouTube, or the news, or worse yet, some tabloid.

“Come on, Zeke.” The bouncer reached for the drunk’s arm.

But the man brushed him off and landed on unsteady feet in front of Ryland. “I do know you.” He squinted to peer into the shadows beneath the bill of Ryland’s cap. “You one of the creeps been pestering Wynn?”

Ryland accepted the handful of napkins Grady thrust across the counter to him. “I have no idea who Wynn is, so no.” He was soaked. Maybe it was time to call it a night and get a hotel. A hot shower did sound mighty appealing right now. Maybe a long swim first.

“You’re a liar!” Zeke swung hard and fast for a man who’d seemed so unsteady only a moment ago.

Pain bloomed across Ryland’s cheek. His ballcap went flying.

His reaction was so swift, so automatic, so much a part of the choreography he’d practiced every week for the past seven years that he moved before he even realized what he was doing. One moment he had a fist in his face and the next he had Zeke’s head pinned to the bar and one of his arms thrust up behind his back. Just as quickly as his instincts had kicked in, Ryland released the man. To his horror, he saw that he’d slammed the drunk’s head down hard enough to split his cheek.

He lifted his palms. “Sorry, man. I really don’t want any trouble.” He took a step back, realizing as he did so that his own face was bleeding too.

“Did you see that?” Zeke bellowed, swiping at his cheek. He stared at the little dab of blood on his fingers in horror. “Call 9-1-1! He attacked me!”

 

***

 

Wynn Mason locked up the clinic and tromped wearily to her car. It had been a long day—always was when a five-year-old fell off a swing and came in with what was most likely a broken arm. Thankfully, his parents had acted immediately and had been more than willing to drive to the hospital over in Medford for further assessment. Her small-town clinic definitely had its limitations.

As she drove down Main Street, she frowned and did a double-take at all the cruiser lights flashing in the parking lot of The Salty Wolverine. She scrunched her nose and shut off the basketball game on the radio as she pulled a quick flip-around in the parking lot of the IGA. Which one of Pop’s boys had done what now? Had one of them snuck into the bar?

Her father, a former police officer, ran a home for rebellious teen boys. A boot camp of sorts. The boys lived on their ranch for a year, learning hard work and respect. But the current slate of boys had only arrived a couple weeks ago. It wouldn’t surprise her at all if one of them had run off from the ranch and tried to pass themselves off as older in the bar.

She braked to a stop in one of the spots and threw the car into park, then yanked her keys and dashed past the juniper bush decorated with a single lonely string of red and green Christmas lights. Grady must have had a fleeting moment of Christmas cheer.

Grady’s crazy loud TVs assaulted her with the music of a commercial the moment she stepped through the door. She searched the dark room and finally located the officers squaring off between two patrons. And then her gaze landed on Zeke. She rolled her eyes. Of course, it was Zeke. She might have known. But thankfully, he wasn’t her worry anymore. She was turning toward the door when she noticed Grady motioning for her attention. He gestured her closer.

She slid onto one of the barstools, ignoring the ruckus down the way. Zeke yelled something she couldn’t quite make out as the basketball game returned to each screen. Oh, Golden State had tied it up.

Grady pressed his palms against the bar and lifted his brows at her.

“What did he do now?” She had to raise her voice over the commotion caused by the game.

Grady shook his head and leaned toward her over the bar. “...drunk. I asked...to leave. You know how he is. ...started a fight...stranger...I think he’s....”

Wynn frowned. She could barely make out his words over the top of the blaring TVs and exuberance of the patrons. But it didn’t matter. She’d gotten the gist. She glanced toward the officers, but couldn’t see much because of all the people who had gathered around to video the incident. A couple of tall, broad-shouldered men stood between her and the scene of the brawl.

She pushed away from the bar. “Okay, well, since it’s not one of our boys, I’ll head on out.”

Grady reached out a hand. His gaze held hers, hopefully. “Want a burger?”

She hesitated. She should just go home. She knew Grady had gotten his hopes up after she had broken things off with Zeke last month, and she didn’t want to lead him on, but in some ways she could be held responsible for Zeke’s current ill-temper, so maybe she should stick around and see what happened. Not that she could actually see.

Her gaze flicked to the TV behind the bar. Watching the rest of the game would be better than listening to it. Especially if the Warriors were going to make a go of it.

She sank back onto the barstool. “Sure. Make it a bacon cheeseburger, hold the onions. And sweet potato fries.”

Grady offered a wink. “On the house.”

She opened her mouth to decline, but he’d already turned away. She frowned. She ought to have left the moment she’d seen it wasn’t one of Pop’s boys in trouble.

The crowd disbursed a little, and she could see that Jonah Park was one of the officers—he had graduated from high school in Zeke’s, Grady’s, and her class. Zeke was now in cuffs and making a loud protest. The other man also appeared to be in restraints. She couldn’t quite make out his face in the shadows of his baseball cap, but it looked like Zeke had clocked him a good one. That split cheek was likely going to need stitches. And, of course, the clinic was closed at this hour. She’d assumed that they’d determine it was Zeke’s fault, but if the other man was being arrested too... Maybe there was more to the story.

As Officer Schneider and Jonah led the men away, her gaze settled on Jonah.

She pressed her lips together. Don’t offer. But what else was she supposed to do? After all, she’d just been reminding herself that all this was partly her fault.

She reached out.

Jonah stilled, one hand remaining on the stranger’s arm. The man kept his head down.

“I can come administer stitches.”

Jonah glanced between the two men and nodded. “They likely both need it.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He motioned an acknowledgement and nudged the man toward the door.

Wynn frowned. She studied the man’s back. Even though she still hadn’t caught a good glimpse of him, he seemed familiar somehow. That was crazy because she’d clearly heard Grady refer to him as a stranger.

Grady tugged the plate away from the space down the bar. Wynn watched as he drained liquid from it into the bar’s sink and then scraped the full meal into the garbage. Zeke must have done something to the food.

A moment later, Grady tugged a plate from the pass-through and set to boxing it up.

When he slid her plate in front of her, she motioned toward the Styrofoam boxes in the stack at the end of the back counter. “Make it to-go for me, would you, Gray?”

He frowned. “You’re not staying?”

She lifted one shoulder. “I need to go stitch up some faces.”

His lips thinned, but he complied and handed her food to her in the to-go container.

She motioned to the other box. “Is that for the guy Zeke punched?”

Grady nodded.

She gestured for him to hand it over. “I’m going to the station. I’ll take it to him.”

 

 

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