“Nope.” To cut down the chitchat, Red slapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’m gonna strike up a round of pool. I saw a table in the back. Good luck.”
Trace saluted him by raising his bottle, then turned back to study the bartender.
She, on the other hand, didn’t spare him a second glance.
Good luck, Red thought again with amusement, making his way to the pool table sitting in a sectioned-off portion of the bar. He racked up the balls and started to chalk his stick. For a moment, he watched as Trace made every effort to catch the bartender’s eye while trying to not be obvious. That had failure written all over it. At least, the way Trace was playing it tonight. Change up the game, change up the results.
The stick disappeared from his hand with a harsh tug. Turning, he came face to face with Sam Nylen. Just the bastard he’d love to meet in a dark alley for a fist-to-face conversation. If his own reputation wasn’t rolled up with Peyton’s—with the M-Star ranch total—he’d give it serious consideration. Instead, he forced a calm into his body and voice. “I think that was mine.”
Nylen sneered at him. “Nancy boys get their toys taken away.”
Rocking back on his heels, when he would rather be throwing a punch, Red said mildly, “It’s always nice to share.”
Holding the stick out, Nylen worked hard to look contrite. Red knew the game. The moment he reached for the stick, either the other man would yank it away again like a two-year-old or hit him. It was a toss-up. So he went for the third option—grab another stick from the rack against the wall. Reaching for the chalk, he asked, “So how are things, Nylen? Find work yet?”
“Piss off.” Without asking, he leaned over and jabbed at the cue ball, sending it careening at the racked billiard balls, barely clipping the side and making a complete mess of the table. But apparently Nylen thought they were playing the game, because he stood back to watch Red line up a shot.
“Piss off’s an interesting way to offer up a friendly game of pool.” Red aimed his cue, pulled back slowly and connected right in the middle, knocking in a solid red. “Solids for me, looks like.”
“I had a job. I had your job. Then Sylvia had to up and die on me.”
“The woman was in a car accident,” Red said dryly. “I don’t think she did it on purpose.” He had no love or admiration for the woman, knowing what she’d done to the ranch, and more important, to Peyton as a daughter. But respect for the dead was something he didn’t take lightly.
“She left me without a job.”
“Hardly.” He paused to send another solid into the corner pocket. “I’m betting if Peyton was happy with your job performance, she wouldn’t have let you go when she took over.”
A look of satisfaction crossed Nylen’s face. It made Red’s stomach roil. “Her mama sure was happy with my performance. Didn’t mind the work I did in the barn either.” He threw his head back, hat falling to the floor as he laughed at what he seemed to think was the world’s funniest joke.
Odd, since it had the opposite effect on Red. Quietly, he took another shot, but came up short and shifted away from the table to give Nylen room.
Nylen rushed through his turn again, doing nothing but creating more bizarre angles for them both to navigate. Red sighed and started calculating his turn . . . both with pool and the conversation.
“The way I figure it, that pretty Peyton was jealous.”
Red managed to keep from throwing up on his boots at the thought. Barely. He took aim, pulled back on his stick, and winced when something hit the back of his leg from behind.
“Oh, sorry.” Nylen stepped back. “Let my cue get away from me.”
“Right,” he muttered, then took the shot, not caring when he aimed wrong and sent the ball in the wrong direction.
“Her mama always had what Peyton wanted. The ranch. Control.” Nylen wiggled his eyebrows. “Me.”
“I’m sure that was very hard for her to bear,” Red said, though Nylen didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm.
“So when she had the chance, she canned my ass. Punishment for not taking her instead of her mother. No matter what she says, I know it was that.”
Not because you were stealing? But hey, why be factual? Red knew now what Nylen was getting at. Covering his ass. Laying groundwork in case someone accused him at a later date of stealing. At least one or two other people had to be within earshot of the pool table.
“The fact is, I can see why you took the job,” Nylen went on, rubbing chalk over his cue.
Now he was lost. He stared at Nylen, no clue how to advance from here.