Julie R. Neidlinger: Lone Prairie Blog

Blogathon 2006: Chapter 3.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

And there it was, the trouble he'd been fearing.

It wasn't the two men sitting at a table, the larger man with the wide, black hat and his back to the door who had slowly slid his hand down to his gun instead of turning to see who'd come in. That was never a good sign. Nor was it his wiry companion, one of shifty, small eyes who'd leaned in across the table after watching Dove pause just inside the doorway, out of the sunlight that framed him as a target while his eyes adjusted to the grimy darkness. No, they were what he'd come to expect.

The trouble he saw before him was the feminine kind.

Her white dress, ringed with the dust of the floor on the bottom, was a once-delicate lace, now worn too much to be considered fine any longer. She was ferrying drinks from the barkeep to the men at the table and when he walked in, she stopped.

Evidently she knew trouble when she saw it, too. She averted her eyes too late for him not to have noticed her noticing.

"What can I get you?" the barkeep offered, his eyes sliding across the room to where the two men sat, trying to spread cheerful over a slice of obvious nerves. Dove turned to him.

"Whiskey." That's all he ever drank; no sense stopping now no matter how fine the lace had once been or how blue her eyes were.

"Lily," the barkeep said, gesturing to the woman. "Bring me the empty glasses from the other tables."

"You got no glasses?" Dove asked.

"We're a bit short. Long on senseless fighting, short on glasses."

"Not a real peaceful town, I take it."

The barkeep slid a shot glass of whiskey in front of Dove. "Not enough peace. Hard on the furniture. Keeps the blacksmith busy, though. He's handy with wood."

Dove finished his drink in one quick swallow and inquired about lodging.

"Planning on stayin' a while?" the barkeep asked. Lily was trying hard not to listen, though it was obvious, from the tilt of her head and the slow way that she gathered the clinking glasses, that she was. Dove slowly turned his head to the two men at the table.

They were listening, to.

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Labels: blogathon