Jo remembered Bea Muldoon—Trace and Peyton’s youngest sister—as she glided through the door. There was no other word for it. Some women wore heels like they were born to wear them, and Bea was one of them. Jo watched, amused, as several male heads turned and followed her every move, the gentle sway of Bea’s hips as she walked up to join her brother at the bar. Normally, Jo would call it practiced, and respect the dedication to the art. But Bea made it look as natural as breathing.
Bea patted her brother’s shoulder, then looked horrified at herself. “I need to go wash my hands, repeatedly. Jo, sweetie, do you have any lye soap, or maybe a sand blaster back there?”
That’s one of the things Jo loved about Bea. She immediately treated you like her best friend. As someone who moved around often, she’d been grateful to meet people like Bea. “Sorry, just regular soap and paper towels, though they might be rough enough to qualify as low-grade sandpaper.”
Bea sighed and headed in that direction. “It’ll have to do.” She didn’t look around to notice if others were staring as she walked to the bathroom. But they were.
Trace laughed. “She’s just pissy because she had to get a little dirty. All for a good cause, though. And I did warn her. Not my fault she didn’t take me seriously.”
Jo set the glass of water down on the coaster. “What in the world did you drag her into?”
“Drag? Hell, she jumped at the chance. I think she’s bored at home.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “She probably needs to get out more, see a few friends. But she claims nobody around here gets her.”
Jo sympathized. “Years away from home will do that to you sometimes.”
“Didn’t happen to me,” Trace rationalized. Then his face brightened. “Hey. Two city girls, you might get along. You should hang out.”
“Thanks, but I can get my own date.” She winked at him and started pouring Bea a Diet Coke when she saw the woman walk their way. “I assumed …”
“Thank you, God.” Bea gulped down half of it in one very un-Bea-like slurp. “I think I had five pounds of dust coating my tongue.”
“Jesus, Bea, we were in there for less than an hour. And frankly, I had to drag you out.”
“Where’d you go?” Jo couldn’t handle the curiosity any longer.
“The animal shelter,” Trace said. “Went to drop off some donations from the ranch, and Miss Priss here”—he cocked his head toward Bea—“begged to come along.”
“It turned out for the best, didn’t it?” she shot back.
“Not if you keep complaining and whining like a girl.”
“Hey,” both Jo and Bea said simultaneously. Then they laughed.
It felt good, laughing with another woman. She appreciated Amanda’s friendship, but the employer-employee relationship added a complicated line she didn’t want to cross. It held them back from being closer, forming a more permanent bond.
Okay, so maybe Trace was on to something.
“Ready to order, or should I lock the cage door and toss in a rare steak to see who wins?”
“Salad.” Bea scanned the menu quickly. “You can do that, right? Something that doesn’t come with a side of buffalo or cow?”
“Yes, smartass.” Jo grabbed the menu and tossed it on a pile behind her. “You want yours with bacon and three cups of cheese, right?”
Bea stuck her tongue out, but smiled. “If you have a raspberry vinaigrette …”
“You get Italian dressing.”
Bea turned to Trace. “The service here is lovely. I can see why you suggested it.”
So it had been Trace who’d brought the siblings to the bar. Jo bit back a smile at that. “You want haute cuisine? Meet up with the other foodies in New York.”
Bea’s eyes fluttered closed and one hand paused dramatically over her heart. “If only.”
Trace handed Jo the menu. “Burger, rare as you can make it. Fries.”
“I like the easy ones.” She punched in the order on the screen and then did her best to keep her distance. Not just out of principle, but because she didn’t want to intrude on the sibling bonding.
Yeah, they bickered like kids squabbling over a toy, but she could tell they loved each other. And they still had some work to do in order to catch up. So she’d give them their space. Besides, she had other customers at the bar, and more than one of them wanted to chat about Gimmie’s closing.
Her standard “It’s too bad, a strong local economy is good for everyone” line was received well enough, with nods and smiles. But inside, every time, she couldn’t help but do a little mental shimmy in response. It wasn’t her fault the bar was closing; it wasn’t as if she’d run the owner out of town. He’d been looking to sell, he didn’t have a buyer, and he wanted to move closer to his brother. No guilt involved.