A Romantic Suspense Thriller by Alex Temple

Available on Amazon.com

Alex Temple is known for her Lost Mansion Cozy Mysteries, which this is not. If you’re offended by adult language and sexual content, please avoid this one. On the other hand, don’t pick it up expecting Erotic Suspense. That’s if for the disclaimer.

Mac Lyons stops in a small town in Colorado (the title is a translation of the Colorado state motto, in case you wondered) for dinner and a beer. In the saloon he wanders into, he’s barely placed his order before he notices the striking Eliana Cameron waiting tables in another part of the saloon. Of all the gin joints, right?

He spends the rest of the night, pretty much, just watching her move through the crowd. She seems remarkably personable and easy-going, until a drunk tried to molest the other waitress. Mac stood to deal with the man and his two friends. She already had it and didn’t need his interference. She chewed him out once it was over. At least he got her name as a result of the confrontation. And the fact that she didn’t date. She had already stepped away and probably hadn’t heard his comment of, “That’s a shame.”

Mac is pretty much an open book. Eliana’s secrets have secrets. Ride along with Mac as, one by one, she discloses her secrets to him.

Chapter 1, The Shooting Star

Friday, Fall Festival Day 1

There had been a time in his life, growing up near Albany, New York, when Chester “Mac” Lyons would have never pictured himself enjoying a cold beer in a place like this. Rethinking that, he supposed he may have pictured himself in a place like this when he was eight and playing cowboy, but at that age he probably would have bellied up to the bar and ordered a Coke. If he had been feeling particularly tough, he might have gone for a root beer. Hell, he would have probably gone for a black cow — root beer with a scoop of ice cream floating in it. Tough guys could order whatever they wanted. But eight-year-old cowboys grow up, move on, and can order an honest to God beer when they want to.

Even all grown up and with a cold beer in front of him, he was still looking for a place in the world. A man with his set of skills could earn pretty good money in the private security sector. He was seriously considering it. Crossing the country on a motorcycle gave him ample time to consider his future. That was part of the reason he was biking from the East Coast to the West Coast rather than flying. Adventure wasn’t on his radar.

A number of his friends, men he had served with, had gone into security once their enlistments had been up. He had already, at twenty-nine, seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. He wanted something different, something with more stability and less violence. He had taken advantage of the GI Bill to get himself an undergraduate degree in anthropology. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do with it but figured that, worst case, he might be able to get a teaching position in a high school or a junior college. If he found someplace to settle down for a while, he was toying with the idea of upgrading to a Master’s degree from an online university. That was more because he liked studying anthropology than for any practical reason.

Considering it was the twenty-first century, and that even out here in rural Colorado, building codes were enforced, this building was pretty much the real thing — an almost authentic western saloon named The Shooting Star. He grinned and briefly considered bellying up to the bar and ordering a root beer float. He didn’t though.

The building was old, with age-darkened, hand-hewn rafters supporting the high ceiling. If he looked closely enough, it was possible to distinguish sprinkler heads and grounded electrical outlets up there. The sawdust scattered over the wide planks on the floor didn’t hide the evidence of many a spilled drink. Mac wouldn’t have been overly surprised if some of those stains came from spilled blood. The old building had that kind of a vibe. He could easily imagine a round table and a tense poker game, chairs crashing backward as the men jumped to their feet, followed by a shoot out when one of the players was called out for cheating.

Tonight, the crowded bar was rowdy in a good-natured sort of way. Most of the people patronizing the Star tonight were probably tourists, in town for the country western festival that was currently going on — drawn in by the loud music blaring out into the street through a pair of iconic, swinging saloon doors. That was why he had come in. After traveling all day, he figured he’d have a quiet dinner while people-watching in an atmospheric old saloon. He laughed to himself. That had been the extent of his entertainment for the last month — watching strangers interacting with other strangers in bars.

He was passing through on his way to Northern California and eventually on up to Oregon, having decided on taking the scenic route over the Rockies. He had family in Oregon — he’d make it there eventually, but had a hankering to see California, too. He wondered what California was like in the winter? He hadn’t researched it. Northern California might be cold.

The Shooting Star’s bartender was a very pretty woman with hair tinted an unlikely shade of pink. He picked up that her name was Sally from customers yelling their orders at her. He guessed she was around thirty. She had clearly been bartending long enough to have developed an impressive degree of efficiency at setting up drinks for her two waitresses to deliver to the thirsty customers.

The place served food, too, if you wanted a burger or, well, a burger. Mac had no problems with burgers. This seemed the kind of place where if you ordered it more than medium rare they’d ask you to leave. Fortunately, he preferred his burgers, and his steaks, medium rare, so he was good.

Oddly, he saw no sign of a bouncer. That got him to wondering if he could get a job here, at least through the end of the twelve-day long Festival. According to the signs posted throughout town, today was the official start. He wasn’t looking for a place to settle down with a permanent job but extra pocket money was always good to have. He thought he should be able to spend twelve days in town, working at an easy job he was overqualified for, while sleeping in his tent in the woods in order to reduce his expenses. That should still allow him time to make it over the mountains before the winter weather started causing road closings. Right now, there was only the occasional dusting of snow at the highest elevations.

The woman who brought his burger — a perfectly grilled medium rare with frizzled onions and extra pickles on a sourdough bun — was as pretty as the bartender in her own way. In fact, all three of the employees that he could see were definitely pretty. There had to be someone else, in the back, flipping burgers. He could think of worse places to work. Going by the calls of the other patrons, both of the servers were named “Babe.” This one was young, with short-cropped blonde hair and a curvy figure on a body that looked about five-four. She might even be a teenager. He didn’t know what age you had to be to work in a place serving alcohol in Colorado. It varied by state. It didn’t matter — whatever the law was here, he had cruised past that age years ago.

The other server caught his eye, though. He figured her to be mid to late twenties. She wasn’t just pretty, she was beautiful. For the first time in his life, he understood what was meant when a woman was described as striking. She was much taller than the younger woman. He guessed she would come in at six-feet. Long, chestnut brown hair was pulled back into a pony tail with out a few wisps that had escaped. He didn’t think she was even wearing makeup. If she wasn’t, she certainly didn’t need any.

He had been watching the entire room just because that had been his habit for years. Back in the day, it had been a learned survival skill. More than once he had been in a bar where it wasn’t out of the question that a drunken soldier might take exception to his looks. He couldn’t think of a single good reason to let that skill grow rusty now that his life was significantly less exciting than it had been for too many long years.

He shifted most of his attention to watching the tall woman. He didn’t feel like he was perving — he wasn’t taking her clothes off with his eyes. He was still watching the entire bar. There was something very graceful about the way this woman moved. Maybe she had been a ballerina when she was younger. He didn’t know, maybe she still was. She possessed the kind of fluid grace he associated with ballerinas. In all honesty, he had never been to a ballet. That didn’t mean he couldn’t have treasured preconceptions.

He had only eaten half of his burger when he heard a small commotion start up in the vicinity of one of the small tables nearer to the bar.

He had missed the opening moves of the incident although it was clear how it had started. An asshole customer had pulled the younger of the two “Babes” into his lap. Mac glanced up at hearing her surprised expletive. Based on her now scrambling along the floor to get away from the customer — now struggling to get to his feet and take up the chase — and the blood streaming from the man’s nose, it looked like she had got him a good one with an elbow. Maybe a fist or a palm blow. That much was already over before Mac glanced up. As the fellow roared, Mac learned why he hadn’t seen a bouncer in the bar. It was possible that they had it covered.

The older “Babe,” his ballerina, was there, standing between the bully and the girl. She showed zero sign of fear — only confidence tinged with annoyance. Mac had the impression of a mother bear defending her cub. There was no way this woman was old enough to be the mother of anyone in the bar, not even her young fellow waitress.

The bar had gone silent. Her voice calm but stern, Ballerina Babe said, “I’m afraid I need to ask you to leave my bar. I don’t allow rude behavior in here. Come back another night when you’re sober.”

She glanced very briefly at Mac, who had risen to his feet to help. She noted that he had an air of military, or ex-military, about him. He had come in a good forty minutes before the men at the troublemaker’s table. He hadn’t been sitting with the drunk. So he was a complication — either a Samaritan or, judging by the expensive clothing the troublemaker was wearing, possibly a bodyguard. More likely a Samaritan.

She read his intent to get involved. She leveled a glance at him and said, her voice equally stern, “You! Keep out of this.” She didn’t have time for him now. She recognized trouble when she saw it. He probably came in at six-foot-three or six-four. The way his tight-fitting Henley stretched across his chest, it looked like his muscles must have muscles. A broad-shouldered, solid-looking man. She doubted he had an ounce of fat on him. Eye candy. Her type. If it turned out he wasn’t with the drunk asshole, and she didn’t think he was, she might sit with him for a few minutes once this was taken care of.

The man she confronted had already been drinking before coming through the saloon doors. She could tell that, although he may have been using drugs. That was always a possibility. She knew damn well he hadn’t been overserved here. His two equally well-dressed buddies had already had a few too many as well. It was more likely that drugs were involved. These guys didn’t look like the type who would be barhopping.

Mac stopped in his tracks. If she thought she could handle this, he didn’t want to be responsible for escalating the situation. He looked more closely at the three belligerent men. They all outweighed the woman by at least eighty pounds. While they didn’t look particularly buff, they didn’t look overly flabby either. Then he looked back at the woman. She hadn’t taken as much as a single step back. If the rest of her body was anything like her arms and shoulders, she was muscular. It took more than muscles to subdue three large men. He hoped she understood that.

The other server had retreated to safety behind the bar. None of the other customers were moving to help. That was surprising. He could — barely — understand tourists standing aside hoping to witness an authentic western barroom brawl. The closest ones had their cell phones out, probably recording the scene. But this was a small town. He would have expected the locals to move in to help.

Available on Amazon.com