Bucking the Rules (2 page)

Jo had the distinct impression she'd just been gently insulted. She smiled, amused at the assessment, and fingered the fourth piercing in her right ear. “Well, you know me. I hate gossip and don't bother with it.”

“Your city's showing,” Amanda said with a smile. “Everyone here listens to gossip. It's like a professional sport. Everyone wants to make the first round draft.”

“Have at it. More power to 'em. Gossip away . . . just do it with a drink in your hand and ordering off my menu.” Jo gathered up the receipts and stuffed them in a vinyl zippered pouch. “I don't care what people think, as long as they're paying their tab at the end of the night.”

“Is that how it is in Chicago?”

Jo smiled. “Chicago, New York City, L.A., San Fran . . . you name it. Big cities are about as likely to change as small towns.”

“Which is to say, not at all.” Amanda grinned.

“Exactly.” Jo swatted at her shoulder with the bag and hopped down from the bar stool. “Now get to work. I'm not paying you to sit around and talk.”

Amanda gave her a cheeky salute and hurried off to prep her station for the afternoon lunch crowd.

Jo headed into her office to drop off the bag and pick up the night's cash from the safe. Then, after a quick debate, she left her car keys behind and headed out the front door. The walk would do her some good. Being in the same building day after day—upstairs or downstairs—started to get stuffy and boring.

It still amazed her how quiet things were in Marshall. She passed the tack shop and peered in. The owner, Mr. Hollins, saw her and held up a hand in a tentative wave. She did the same, adding a smile for effect.

She made people nervous still, despite having been there for almost a year. Change was hard for people in Marshall. The town embraced the changes to the bar much faster than accepting her. But then again, the bar served a purpose to folks. So naturally, it was in their best interest to be grateful.

Her, on the other hand . . . Well. She'd just wait and see. Eventually, they'd come around.

She'd just make them.

 

“Name the last time you went out.”

Trace shoveled another bite of breakfast in and chewed longer than necessary to give himself a moment to think.

Peyton wasn't fooled. That was the problem with working with your sister. She saw straight through your bullshit before you had a chance to even use it. “Put down the fork and answer, Muldoon.”

“But how could I possibly ignore this culinary masterpiece Emma slaved for hours to create?” He gave the woman in question a sly smile as she walked by the table and refilled Peyton's coffee mug.

Emma snorted, completely unamused and immune to the sibling squabble. She should be; she'd been hearing it for over twenty years. “What a crock. It's scrambled eggs. Don't drag my breakfast into your little talk, or you'll be eating toaster waffles for a week.”

The horror of missing out on a week of Emma's homemade breakfasts had him putting down the fork and staring at his sister. “It's none of your business. I don't ask about you and Red.” He cringed at the thought.

“That's self-serving. You don't
want
to know about my relationship with Red.” Peyton took a moment to look toward a babbling Seth and nudge a Cheerio closer to him on his high chair tray.

“No, no, I really don't. And it's still none of your business what I do with my life, just because you
do
want to know.”

Emma set a pitcher of OJ down on the table with a heavy thump. “Well, it's my business, and I wanna know why you're holed up in here like a hermit.” Before he could reply with a joke, she narrowed her eyes. “And don't even try turning that into some sort of perverse joke.”

Damn. Emma had all but raised the three Muldoon kids from diapers. And when she did that narrowed-eye thing, none of them was safe. “Come on, Emma. It's not exactly like there's much to do around here. Besides, I've got Seth.” He rubbed one knuckle over his son's soft cheek.

“You know I'll babysit anytime.” Peyton grabbed a banana out of the bowl on the table and began to peel. “So that's not a good excuse at all.”

“It's good enough for me. I hate asking you to watch him if I'm not out at a gig for M-Star. It's not fair. You're not his nanny.”

“I'm his aunt, which is even better. Isn't it, little man? Yes, it is.” She tickled him under his chin and grinned when he squirmed and giggled in delight. “And on that note, I've got some work to do.” She passed by Emma and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the eggs. I'm out!”

“That girl works too hard,” Emma said with a sigh and set a platter of bacon in front of him.

Score. One of Trace's favorite things about Emma—besides her unconditional love and unwavering support of the Muldoon siblings—happened to be her old-fashioned view of men and food. If there was a man in front of her, she was positive he was half starved, and it was her job to fix it.

“You never say I work too hard,” he pointed out, crunching into the first bite of bliss. Seth—seeming to sense his father's pleasure—reached for the strip of bacon. His little face contorted with concentration and one chubby arm waved frantically.

“Sorry, little man. You're a way's off from the good stuff. Stick to Cheerios. You'll graduate to the goods in a bit.”

Bea, the youngest of the three siblings, breezed into the dining room with a swish of a silk robe. Though she probably intended to convey that
just out of bed
look, Trace would have bet his favorite boots she'd spent at least ten minutes fixing her hair and makeup to achieve the look. Waste of time.

“Speaking of not working too hard,” he muttered.

“Hmm?” Bea slid into the seat across from him. “Did you say something?”

“Morning, Bea-Bea.” He gave her a smile. Fighting in front of Emma at the table was a surefire way to get his breakfast yanked out of his hands. “You're out of bed ridiculously early. Sleep well?”

His sister yawned and patted her mouth with one perfectly manicured hand. “It's too quiet. I miss the sound of traffic. I swear, the dead silence woke me up faster than a garbage truck ever would have.”

“Music to sleep by.”

“You know it.” She stared for a moment at the platter of bacon in the middle of the table. Trace knew that look. It was the same look his old dog used to give a treat in his hand just before he got the command to take it. But Bea had more willpower. “Emma, do we have any grapefruit?”

Emma rolled her eyes and set a glass of juice in front of Bea. “Do I look like a woman who has grapefruit in her kitchen?”

Bea pouted prettily and leaned into Emma's side. “But you know I love grapefruit.”

“And I love Hugh Jackman. I don't see him on the table for breakfast.” With a wistful sigh, Emma waltzed back into the kitchen.

Bea stared once more at the bacon, then shook her head. “We might have very different views on cholesterol, but at least I can say our taste in men is a little closer to matching.”

“I did not hear that.” A thought occurred to him. “You know, it's not going to be much fun walking here every morning for breakfast.”

“Hmm?” Bea looked up from her juice.

“From the apartment. The trainer's apartment? Red said you asked for it, and you were moving in.”

“Oh, yes.” She smiled widely. “Rather genius, I thought. Of course, it needs paint badly. And hopefully I can find some covers for that ugly furniture. A new bedspread would liven things up. Maybe Emma would let me take some dishes.” Bea's eyes started to glaze over.

Trace could practically see color wheels dancing in her head. He snapped his fingers once in front of her to get her attention. “Focus, please. I wanted the apartment for me and Seth.”

“Aw, that's a cute idea. The two of you out there, baching it up.” Her lips twitched as she sipped her juice.

“So you'll let me trade? You can take my bedroom here—it's bigger than the one you've got.”

“No.”

No? “Bea, come on. A guy needs his space.”

“So does a girl, and I got there first. Plus, you have Seth. Isn't it nice that Emma's right here every morning? She watches him, after all.”

He took a moment to evaluate his baby sister and see if he could find any weakness in her. A softness to poke at, a loose thread to pull. But her mouth set in that straight, mulish line that was so much like Peyton's—though she'd hate to hear it—and he knew without a doubt, there was no budging her. Not now, anyway.

“Damn,” he muttered into his plate. Trace shoveled the last bite of egg into his mouth and reached for Seth's bib. “Ready for your day, little man? What's on the agenda? A little crawling, maybe some scooting? Maybe Emma will take a blanket out and let you play in the grass. That'd be fun, yeah?” He lifted the wriggling boy from his seat and frowned at the waterfall of crumbs spilling to the scrubbed wood floor. “Shit.”

Seth giggled and clapped, as if realizing this was a word he normally shouldn't be hearing.

Bea raised a brow. “Problem?”

“Yeah. Here, hold him a sec while I go get a dust pan and sweep this up. Otherwise, Emma will skin me alive.”

As he held out Seth under the armpits, she backed up into her chair, arching away from the offering. “Thanks, but no. I don't do babies. We talked about this.”

“I'm not asking you to change a diaper. Just hold him for a minute. It won't kill you.” He waited a beat. “Unless you want to do the crumb sweeping.”

“Give him to me.” Bea held out her arms and took the bundle onto her lap. “Can't he just, like, crawl around on his own?”

“He could, but he wants to be held right now. He's still waking up. It's early.”

“You're telling me.”

Trace headed toward the supply closet, smiling as he heard Bea yelp and scold, “Don't pull those, they're attached to my ears.”

True, Peyton took to aunthood much easier than Bea. But he didn't worry. His youngest sister had a heart of gold under all that makeup and perfume. She might play the cold-hearted bitch on that soap opera thing she was in—or was that her evil twin? Who could keep up?—but in reality, she just needed a chance to get her feet under her again. He had a feeling her extended stay at the M-Star had nothing to do with contract negotiations and “career readjustment” like she'd claimed. But he wasn't going to push it. She'd share, in her own sweet time, what was going on.

Just like he'd take his own sweet time finding a social life in this place. But damn, could they not give a guy five minutes to get settled?

Okay, yeah, it'd been well over six months. But still. He'd get around to it when he was good and comfortable. He finally felt like he had a handle on the whole single dad thing. Slowly but surely, he could add in a chance to meet pretty ladies and have a good time.

Eventually.

J
o watched two hotheads start revving their engines for a fight. Damn. She checked the corner of the bar and made sure her favorite bat was still handy. Not that she ever used it—hardly ever—but at times, it was the visual reality check men needed to take her seriously when she kicked them out. Something about a pissed-off woman didn't always register. But a pissed-off woman holding a bat? Always a big score.

“Want me to step in?” Stu popped his head in from the kitchen. “Or I could send one of my guys.”

“No, I've got it. They're about to receive an invitation to the parking lot.” Jo pulled her hair back at the nape of her neck and walked through the passway to the spot where the two idiots were riling each other up.

“Call if you need me!”

Amanda raced up behind her as Jo approached the two men. “Shouldn't you let Stu—”

“Nope. You know me. I've got it.” How often did she repeat that phrase in any given day?
I've got it. No, I've got it. Really, I've got it.
Was it so hard to believe one woman could handle her own business without a man stepping in every time things got a bit sticky?

Luckily, brawls here didn't seem to happen nearly as much as they did in a larger, more crowded bar. She'd never imagined being able to run a bar without a bouncer. But in Marshall, it just wasn't necessary.

“It's bullshit, that's what it is.” The first man shrugged a hand off his shoulder. It belonged to a buddy wanting to calm him down.

Good luck with that.

“And I say it's not.” The second man's friends cheered him on. Clearly his friends were just as stupid as he was.

Though he was about five inches shorter, and at least twenty pounds lighter, the first man stepped forward, chest pressing against his opponent. “The Vikings don't have a shot at the Super Bowl in this decade, and you know it. Stop while you're behind, dipshit.”

Fueled by righteous anger, the Vikings fan took this as a personal attack and pushed the shorter man back a step. “You gonna make me stop?”

“I'm going to make you both stop.” Jo stepped between them, knowing she had to grab the chance to intervene while she could. “If you want to be assholes, I've got no problem with it. But be an asshole somewhere else. People are drinking and eating and having fun in here.”

The first man actually looked a little contrite, his head hanging slightly. “Whatever. I'm already cashed out.” He nodded to his buddy, the one whose commonsense had been evident before, and they started heading toward the door.

Jo breathed a sigh of relief. Easier than expected. Almost too—

“Pussy!”

And there it was. The big guy just couldn't resist a parting shot. But when the other man didn't respond, he jumped forward to grab him by the collar of his jacket.
His
friends, it seemed, were not only pleased, but encouraged him by pushing against his back.

Unfortunately for them all, Jo was still in his way. She managed to twist enough so when she fell, she only smacked her elbow on the cocktail table, rather than her face. But it was enough to enrage her. Drunks, she could handle. Assholes, sure. But the minute someone hurt something in her bar—including her own body—she got nasty. With a quick spin on the floor, she shot one foot out to connect with the man's knee. His leg buckled and he went down hard, face-first. But he didn't have the same grace and experience as Jo, and his face planted on a chair.

Bull's-eye. Jo was never a super fan of retaliation, but she couldn't be anything but honest . . . that one felt good.

A few male patrons nearby stepped in and asked if she needed assistance. Nice timing, of course. Couldn't have been bothered ten minutes ago, but now that the guy was flat on his face, they were all eager beavers and concerned citizens. She asked two to help scoot the man out the door and into his friend's truck.

“Did he pay?” she asked Amanda as they trailed behind the prone customer.

“Yeah, they cashed out about ten minutes ago. I made sure to keep up with their bill.”

“Nice work.” After the ever-so-helpful patrons shoved the half-conscious man into his truck, she offered them each a free round. “Who's driving this guy home?”

One of his cheering squad mumbled he'd do it. She took a moment to gauge the way he walked, the look in his eye, then asked, “How many beers?”

“Two.”

She looked at Amanda, who nodded in agreement. But Jo still paid attention as they walked to the truck. Not a hiccup or falter to his step.

“Need us to call the cops?”

She watched from the doorway of the bar. When the friend got behind the wheel and took off, she shook her head. “He's on his way. No point.”

The other man nodded at her arm. “Already starting some color there. Should be assault, if you ask me.”

And yet they'd hung back until she was finished dealing with the belligerent drunk. Typical. Jo had learned early in life to never count on a man to do anything. One of the few useful things her mother passed on. “I'll be fine. A little ice and it'll be good as new.”

They both shrugged and headed to the bar to claim their free drink.

“Jerks.”

“Eh, give 'em a break. It's hard getting your hands dirty after a long week of work.” When Amanda gave her a confused look, Jo rolled her eyes and threw an arm around her shoulder. “That's sarcasm. Remember how we talked about that?”

“Right, right.” But Jo could tell she was still mulling it over in her mind. “Still, a real man would have stepped up, regardless.”

“Possibly. Or maybe the real man would see that a real woman can handle herself.”

“No real man out here would dare let a woman step into a fight. It falls under the same category as opening doors and carrying boxes.”

“How nineteen-fifties.” Jo joked often about how ass-backwards everything seemed in Marshall after living in large cities her whole life, but the truth was . . . she loved it. Not the part where men still thought women couldn't handle themselves. But the more simple way of thinking, overall. It was one of the reasons she'd come to a small town, rather than striking out on her own in another big city.

“I've got an order to deliver.”

“Off you go, then. Otherwise, the boss might fire you.” She grinned as Amanda stuck out her tongue and hurried off to the table. After seeing Amanda wasn't too frazzled to keep working the rest of the shift, she headed back to her spot behind the bar. There were enough drink orders to keep her busy until closing time, when she managed to drag her tired ass up the stairs to her above-bar apartment. Not quite the Ritz, but perfectly adequate.

She stripped off her black polo with Jo's Place stitched over the breast pocket and dumped it into a hamper full of identical shirts. Time for laundry. She'd have to run a load while doing the books tomorrow morning. After a quick debate between sleep and a shower, sleep won. Who did she have to impress in bed? Nobody, that's who. So she'd grab the extra twenty minutes of shut-eye any day.

Another depressing thought, she realized as she changed into a sleep tank and some ugly shorts with a rip in one hem. One of the major drawbacks to small town life . . . no pool of single, available men looking for a night of fun. Not that she'd been a total slut or anything in Chicago. Or New York, or San Fran. . . . She just enjoyed a man from time to time, and working in a bar, she had her pick.

Now it was all cowboys who went to bed before the sun was fully set and married men who loved their wives. And good for them, she added, getting into bed and sighing at the glorious feeling of being off her feet.

Well, she'd known getting the bar up and running was priority number one. Now that the first year was nearly complete, she felt more confident. Maybe it was time to start watching for a man to slip into her bed now and again. Who wouldn't like a little extra company to come home to after a long night?

With thoughts of sexy, faceless cowboys in tight chambray shirts dancing through her head, she fell asleep.

 

Trace laid on his back on the carpet of the upstairs family room, his son crawling on the floor beside him. Though the living room downstairs was more spacious, it was a little too perfect for any of the Muldoon siblings. Sylvia, their mother, had taken it into her mind to turn the big house from comfortably lived in to a show palace. Something about looking rich if you wanted to be rich. Not that it worked.

Trace thought it was just another excuse to do whatever she wanted with the family money. And as usual, their father had gone right along with it. The man was brilliant in so many ways, but a businessman and a husband with a backbone—those were two things he'd never managed in his lifetime.

Peyton walked over and flopped down on the couch. “So. Are you going to tell me who his mother is?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. I'll just ask again next week.”

“I know.”

Seth's mom. A weekly conversation topic. Trace had known when he'd showed up at the ranch with a three-month-old baby and no woman in tow, he'd get questioned. He hadn't realized, months and months later, Peyton would still be picking at it. But he should have. Peyton was a bulldog with a bone when she wanted something. But she wasn't heartless. She'd use manipulation to get it out of him if she could.

But it wouldn't work. Who his son's mother was didn't matter. She wasn't in his life, wouldn't be in his life, and that's what was important. Besides, the odds were the story would bore her to tears anyway.

“Come here, little man.” She rolled and reached over with one arm, scooping him up just before he started to pull himself up on the coffee table to cruise. Plopping him on her stomach, she grinned and started messing with his still-bald head. “When are you gonna grow some hair? Is there some sort of baby Rogaine we can give the kid?”

“Doubt it. Plus, being bald is cool. How many athletes shave their heads these days?”

“Hmm.” She rubbed his back through the footie pajama top for a moment. “I'm thinking this guy and I need to start a new tradition.”

“What's that?”

“Movie night.”

“Movie night?” Trace lifted his head a little from the floor. “He's not even one. He can't focus on anything for more than two minutes. Plus, all the books say introducing screen time early can ruin babies' eyesight and lower their attention span, plus the added consequences of—”

“Were you this boring when we were kids, or is this a recent development?” Peyton asked mildly.

“I'd say it's about nine months old. Movie night, Peyton?” He snorted. “What kind of bullsh—crap is that all about?”

“Earmuffs, Daddy.” She grinned and covered Seth's ears with her palms for a moment until he started shaking his head in annoyance. “Okay, okay. So maybe I'm leading into this badly. I have a favor to ask. . . .”

“No. I absolutely will not help Bea move out. She wants the apartment? She can do it herself.”

“Agreed there, though for different reasons. Mostly, I just want to see her actually break a sweat.” Peyton snickered at the thought.

“Like she'd do it herself. She'll just get a few of the hands to come up here after work and do it for her.”

She thought about that a moment. “Damn. You're right.”

“Earmuffs, Auntie Peyton.”

She shot him the finger. “Fine. I want you to go out with Red.”

Of all the favors he'd been imagining, that was the last he'd expected. “Go out where? Out of town? I don't have anything this weekend on my schedule.” Did he miss something? He glanced at Seth. Already he regretted missing another weekend of his son's life.

“No, no. Not out of town.” Peyton stood, shifting and supporting Seth carefully as she maneuvered. With the child on her hip, she started walking slowly back and forth around the room. The swaying motion of her hips lulled Seth enough that he let his head drop to her shoulder. Thank God. “Red's got it in his mind to head for a night out on the town. I think he needs some company, but you know how he is. He's not going to ask one of the guys here. Something about muddying up the trainer–work hand relationship. Balance of power and yadda-yadda.”

“I think you two yadda-yadda'ed the balance of power last year when the trainer and owner started boinking.”

Peyton rolled her eyes. “I'm choosing to ignore that.”

“Choose away,” he permitted.

“The fact is, he's itching to get out. I know he likes staying here in the big house, since he's with me. In my bed,” she added with a smirk.

“Jesus, TMI, Peyton. You two can't let a guy pretend to not know, can you?” Trace rolled over and buried his face in the carpet, arms covering his ears.

“I'm sorry. I forgot what a boring prude you are these days. Didn't you know Red and I host midnight Scrabble matches every evening? I'm currently ahead in the ranking, thanks to his horrible spelling.”

“Better. Continue.”

“But I think he needs a little separation. We work together, we're shacking up—I mean,
playing Scrabble
—together.” She used air quotes around Seth's head for that little tidbit. “He eats all his meals here or in the barn, where he's likely to run into me during the day. And we travel together more times than not. He needs a breather. I can see it.”

Trace watched as Peyton took another lap with his son on her hip. He focused on her eyes, then her hands. They were the two places he knew she showed stress the most. Even as a child, she'd managed to face their bitch of a mother stone-faced. But her hands would clench into fists or widen into stiff boards, and her eyes would shoot daggers when Sylvia's back was turned.