CHAPTER SEVEN

The name of the bar blared cheerfully from a green marquee over the front doorway. Despite the cold, the door was thrown open, emitting a generous belch of country music and beer-fueled revelry from inside. Gaudy poinsettia decorations blinked from the front windows, a tinsel-clogged wreath dangling from the door handle.

"The Four-Leaf Clover, huh?" Emma said as they trudged toward it, their boots crunching in the gravel of the parking lot, cars clumped tightly together at the far end. "Sounds like a fun place."

"Hmm," was Jones' only response.

He'd been quiet—morose, almost—since they left his rig at the repair shop. Their tow had shown up not long after the awkward conversation about Henry, and they'd been at the repair shop until nearly seven. At which point one of the mechanics at the shop, sympathetic to the plight of a fellow trucker in distress, had kindly offered them a ride to the nearest motel, a ramshackle place called the Bluebird.

Emma's offers to help pay for the room were, of course, refused: and a little more curtly than with her other offers. She'd sat off to the side while Jones argued with the clerk at the counter, and had used the motel's pitifully weak wi-fi to check Facebook on her phone just in case someone back in Storeybrooke had posted about Graham. Nothing, though. With dismay, Emma briefly wondered if she'd left Storeybrooke for no reason. She pushed the thought out of her head, unable to bear the idea that Henry was there, alone, because she'd fled on nothing more than a rumor.

This bar was the only relatively non-terrifying place they'd been able to find within walking distance that served food this late. Emma didn't mind—she'd been in her share of hole-in-the-wall joints, and kind of liked them. She sensed that Jones, being a solitary soul and somewhat picky eater, was less pleased.

Still, she thought if he tucked away a plate of fries, maybe even a couple of beers, that might help. Hunger never improved anyone's bad mood. "Gonna let me buy you a drink, at least?" she asked hopefully.

Jones shrugged, his face downcast. But after a moment he gave her a half-hearted sort of smile. "Guess I could live with that," he said quietly.

Inside, the bar was lively, loud with the clink of glasses and the boom of laughter and conversation. With a start, Emma realized it was Friday. She'd completely lost track during their travel westward. Jones paused at the door, his face set in a resigned, blank sort of expression. "Come on," said Emma, beckoning him after her. "I'm hungry."

She stamped her boots on the mat, sighing with pleasure at the warmth as she took off her hat and walked straight to the bar. There were only a few empty seats. "Can we get food up here?" she asked the bartender, plopping onto an open stool.

"You betcha," said the woman placidly, and with a glance at Jones, reached under the bar to pull out two laminated menus, well-worn and a little sticky. Emma noticed (with some relief) that both of the barkeeps were women, dressed in no-nonsense t-shirts and black jeans.

The menu was nothing fancy: roadhouse food, mainly grilled or fried meats, cheeses, and carbs. "What's your poison, hon?" asked the bartender, in the sort of lush voice that betokened a longtime smoker.

Emma had felt Jones slide onto the stool next to her, as she craned her neck to see the taps. "Labatt," she said firmly, then sat back. She didn't usually drink beer, but neither did she have any interest in getting too drunk, too fast: it was nearly a mile back to the motel.

"The same, if you please," Jones said from beside her, and picked up his menu. They were silent for a moment as the bartender sashayed off to get their drinks. Emma didn't have to look at the menu for more than thirty seconds; she was famished, and there were onion rings right at the top, proclaimed to be Missouri's Biggest and Best! Probably the greasiest, too, but she wasn't about to complain.

She looked around the room, interested. It was the first time in a long time that she'd been in such a raucous, crowded bar. Granny's was great and all, and she'd enjoyed going out to the Rabbit Hole with Mary-Margaret that time Sean had proposed to Ashley, but neither locale reached any more than a low buzz of conversation, even on weekend nights.

A few young men, practically teenagers, were playing pool nearby and guzzling beer from a pitcher. Across the room, by the jukebox, a several couples and groups of friends were dancing, cowboy boots thudding on the wooden floor. One woman was wearing a sequined shirt, which dazzled light across the room as she spun; Emma noticed with delight that her partner was wearing a bolo tie, with inlaid turquoise, atop a fringed button-up.

The bartender returned, plunking down two ludicrously large steins of beer in front of them. "Want to start a tab?" she asked, giving Jones a somewhat beady eye.

He immediately reached for his wallet. Oh, what the hell, Emma thought. Quickly, she whipped her phone from her pocket and pulled a credit card from the slot on the back of the case, handing it to the woman. "My treat tonight, actually," she explained. "He's been doing all the driving."

With an amiable shrug, the bartender took the card and left. "You said you were going to buy me a drink, not open a tab," Jones complained, tucking his wallet back into his pocket. His tone wavered somewhere between mournful and accusatory.

Emma gave him an even look. "Listen, you've bought me how many meals now?" she demanded. "I'm beginning to feel like a kept woman, Captain."

That made him smile, if reluctantly. "Aye, I suppose that's fair," he admitted. "All right. Cheers, love."

They clinked beers and drank. "Besides," Jones added, wiping foam from his upper lip and looking twice as chagrined, "here I am, acting like a spoilt child, when you're the one who's really adrift on the wind."

Emma sighed and shook her head. "No, I get it," she admitted, leaning comfortably on the bar. "I've never really had a place to leave behind, until Storeybrooke. And even then, I only stayed because of Henry. Your rig, though… it's your home. Your place."

Her companion was silent, nodding. Then it was his turn to sigh and take a deep draught from his beer. "Aye, she is," he said hoarsely, looking down into the stein with an expression of grief usually reserved for funerals. Emma, tempted to laugh at the she, nearly pointed out that the truck was just getting repaired, and that he'd see it—her—the next day. But Jones knew that.

He took a deep breath, seeming to shake off the melancholy, and smiled at her—for real this time. "So. I know you haven't even gotten one beer in you yet, but… Henry. That's your boy?"

The blow to her stomach was soft this time, less shocking than it had been earlier, and Emma swallowed. "Yes. He's twelve," she said, wondering for a moment how. It only seemed like yesterday that he was a precocious little ten-year-old.

"And at the risk of sounding, er, nosy…" said Jones cautiously, "right now he's with his… dad? Mum?"

Emma snorted. "Appreciative as I am of the non-heteronormative nature of that question," she said dryly, "he is in fact with his mother. His adoptive mother. The one who…"

She stopped herself before she could say it aloud, taking a shaky breath. She lifted her drink again and let the beer wash over her tongue, numbing her further to the pain. Her face was burning. Every time she told Jones something else, she felt like she was one step closer to being booted off his rig for good. First she'd admitted she was homeless and fleeing a murder charge… now he knew she'd abandoned her son in doing so. What if he knew she'd been in prison when Henry was born, too?

But with no food in her stomach for several hours, she was already beginning to feel pleasantly buzzed from the beer. And abruptly, belligerence rose up in her. She'd done her best for Henry—she had been protecting him when she left, just like when she gave him up for adoption!

"It's Regina. She… look. Here's the thing," Emma explained desperately, as Jones' brows shot up. "I gave Henry up for adoption when he was born. I was barely eighteen, and I still had a four-month prison sentence ahead of me. I couldn't be a mother. So I tried to give him his best chance at life. And then she adopted him. Raised him in Storeybrooke, never even telling him he was adopted until he was almost nine. So that's why I went there in the first place. He was so lonely, so unhappy, that he nicked her credit card to jailbreak his own sealed adoption record and find me. He took a bus to where I was in Boston and found me."

She paused again, her breath coming fast and angry with the grief and fury. Her mind conjured the memory of that night: the small boy, bright-eyed and smiling, standing on her doorstep no more than thirty seconds after she'd blown out her birthday candle and wished not to be alone. Hi! I'm Henry. His eyes had been fixed on her with such intense hope and excitement.

Jones sighed, yanking her back to the present. For one panicked moment she was sure he'd get up off the barstool and leave. Why on earth would such a normal, well-adjusted person stick around to listen to her hot mess of a life?

But he just put his hand over hers. "Oh, lass. I'm sorry," he said, with a wry little smile. "No wonder you've not said a word."

And for the second time that day, just the relief of having someone understand was enough to make her sniff back tears. "He's just such a smart kid, you know?" Emma said, her voice catching. "He's this little shooting star of enthusiasm and kindness and… and curiosity, and energy. One of those kids that when he gets an idea in his head, he doesn't give up until he's seen it through."

"Sounds like a lovely boy. Like he would keep you on your toes, too," Jones remarked kindly.

Emma gave a breath of a laugh again. "God, you have no idea," she said wistfully. "But he's so sweet. Thoughtful, and bright, and brave… everything I'd ever hoped he could be. Just…"

A wash of fiery anger passed over her, eclipsing the sorrow. "I just didn't get to raise him, damn it," she said, through clenched teeth, feeling her face go bright red.

Of course, that was the moment their bartender returned, planting her hands on the bar and leaning forward. "Figured out what you're…" she began.

Then she stopped, peering suspiciously at Emma. Her eyes narrowed, she demanded, "Hey, honey. You all right? This one bein' an asshole?"

She hooked a thumb at Jones. Luckily, Emma's companion had the good sense to know a protective mother bear when he saw one, and he kept his mouth shut, although Emma saw him giving her an amused side-eye.

"No, no," Emma said, laughing a little and scrubbing away the few tears that had risen. "He's being very nice, actually. I'm… worried about my kid, that's all."

To her relief, the woman nodded and relaxed, with a sympathetic grimace. She had the kind of tough prettiness that seemed ubiquitous to bar mistresses, forty-something with heavily outlined eyes and flat-ironed hair, but with a kind sort of light in her eyes that Emma suspected came in handy when it came to tips.

"I feel you, hon," she said, and gestured to the younger bartender, a big husky girl who couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty. "That one has given me no end of grief. Ran off on me twice this year, the little shit. But—" the woman shrugged, grinning "—kids. As long as they come home safe, guess that's the important part, right?"

"Right," Emma said, the word like shards of glass in her mouth. She picked up her stein and, with conviction, chugged the rest of the cheap lager, barely tasting it on her raw throat.

With an explosive breath, she thumped the glass back down. Someone sitting nearby whistled loudly. "Right," she repeated, but this time with determination. "I'll drink to that. And speaking of which, can I have another? Maybe alongside the biggest basket of onion rings you've got?"

Jones looked simultaneously horrified and impressed, but their bartender just laughed. "You got it, babe," she said, picking up the empty glass and regarding it with admiration. "And for the mister?"

Emma looked over at her companion, who gaped slightly for a moment, taken aback. "Ah," he said at last, and looked down at the menu, then back up at the bartender. "I think I'll just… enjoy the company for a little while. If that's all right."

"Suit yourself, English," the woman said, but her shrug was once again friendly. "Y'all need me again, just holler for Tracy, okay?"

Her rather sharp eye was fixed on Emma, who nodded firmly, feeling a little like her head was floating a few feet above her shoulders. With a snort, Tracy sauntered away again, pausing for a moment to slap off a running tap and pour a full bar mat into the sink.

"That was an impressive stunt, Swan," Jones said, and she turned to see him smiling, the light returned to his eyes. "I trust you're feeling a bit better?"

Taking a long breath in through her nose, Emma looked him square in the face. His striking blue eyes were clear, so honest and calm that equilibrium seemed to settle back over her. And she realized that this was the first time she'd talked to someone about giving up Henry since she'd first arrived in Storeybrooke.

"Yes. Much better," she said at last, and smiled, sliding off her barstool. "Come on. Let's get drunk and play darts. I really feel the need to kick somebody's butt at something."

They ended up splitting the ludicrously large basket of onion rings—Emma had to admit, they were delicious—and playing pool for awhile instead, both dart boards being occupied by a gaggle of youngsters. The pool tables and other games were in a small game room off to the side of the bar, the light low and the sound from the jukebox muted. Strings of Christmas lights draped the walls crookedly, surmounting ancient cardboard yuletide cartoons.

She was somehow unsurprised to find that Jones was much better than she was. "I'm tempted to accuse you of hustling me," she joked, taking a swig of beer and watching as he neatly sank the eight-ball for the second game in a row.

The double rods of his prosthesis were rounded and smooth, curving together in a hook shape and meeting in the middle to form a loop. He simply set the loop right on the felt of the pool table and balanced his pool cue on top, just like a bridge.

Jones grinned as he straightened up, tapping his cue lightly on the floor and shrugging. "Wouldn't be the first time," he said cheerily, cheeks blazing red. "I have to be careful who I play with. I got booted out of a bar in Texas once, after winning two hundred bucks off some local. Who, I did not realize until afterwards, was the proprietor of the aforesaid watering hole."

Emma laughed, tickled by his dry phrasing. "Yikes. You do have that young Paul Newman sort of look," she teased.

In fact, it had only been two days since he had shaved, but he already had another heavy dusting of ginger scruff, which she found unsettlingly attractive. The beer wasn't helping to distract her from it; nor was the game, since every time he bent over the pool table to take a shot, she was treated to an eyeful of his firm, round, jeans-clad derriere, and tight shoulders that flexed like a panther's as he angled his cue.

He was half-turned now, surveying the dart boards, and she found herself looking at the solid curves of his body. They had taken off their heavy jackets and hung them near the door, since it was a pleasantly tropical level of balmy warmth. Although Emma still had on a sweater to guard against the drafts coming from the door, Jones was wearing a simple grey Henley, the buttons at the chest carelessly undone.

Emma felt her mouth go dry at the soft touch of light on his collarbone, the gleam of sweat in the small hollow of his throat. He'd pushed the sleeves of his shirt up while they were playing, and although his left arm was obscured by the dun-colored brace of his hook, the right was lean and darkly furred, with a delicate wrist. There was a complex tattoo on the inside, several inches of ink between wrist and elbow, but she hadn't looked closely enough yet to see what it said. There was definitely a heart in it, though, and she felt a stab of fascinated envy.

Sweet Jesus, I need to get myself under control, Emma thought dimly. She took another drink, aware of a breathless trembling in the back of her mind, and knowing she should feel a lot more distressed about wanting to walk her fingers up his chest and into the hair that peeked from his collar.

"Looks like one of the dartboards has opened up," Jones said, nodding to the other end of the game room, and set aside his pool cue to pick up his own drink. "Want to try your luck there, lass?"

He gave her a grin and raised his brows mockingly. Emma hopped off her stool and picked up her beer stein, lifting her chin with dignity. "Absolutely. Let's see who gets hustled, now," she challenged.

Of course, he was good at darts, too. But not better than me, Emma thought. She squinted at the board, more for show than because it helped, and lifted her arm, holding her third dart lightly between thumb and middle finger.

"Come on," Jones said loudly from beside her, heckling. "Just throw!"

Emma ignored him, but even without looking over, she could tell there was a grin on his face. She'd beaten him soundly in the first game, while he'd only won by a mere ten points in the second; now, on the rubber round, she was down to fifty-seven points, while he still had seventy. With a flick of her elbow, she tossed the dart; with a smack, it lodged in the outside ring of the bullseye.

"Ha," she said smugly. "Thirty-two."

Jones grumbled and slouched from his perch on a nearby stool, as Emma went to the board to collect her darts. But as she turned back, his expression was still cheerful, his cheeks flushed from the beer. Emma was already a little drunk; he obviously was, too. It wasn't like either of them needed to stay completely sober.

"All right," he said, taking his place at the line of tape on the floor, turning his body sideways and narrowing his eyes ostentatiously at the dartboard. "Let's see if I can do this Swan-style. First I have to—" He stuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth, making a ridiculous grimace of concentration.

"I do not look like that!" Emma said loudly, laughing. It was getting late, but although the crowds had begun to thin a little, the music was blasting even louder than before.

"Aye, you do," Jones insisted, with an impudent grin. "Then you hold your arm just so—" he demonstrated, pinky exaggeratedly curled in midair "—and you throw like you're dusting the place with fairy dust, just… like… this."

He lobbed his dart clumsily at the board, fingers spreading wide and wrist flopping; the dart missed the board entirely, thwacking into the wall and bouncing to the floor. Jones burst out laughing at the same time as Emma did, both of them hee-hawing until they were bent over, red-faced.

"I do not—throw like that," Emma managed, tears of laughter blurring her vision.

Jones hiccuped with one final laugh, shaking his head and reaching for his tankard. "Maybe not that badly," he admitted, wheezing for breath, "but I simply can't see how you're winning. Terrible technique, lass."

A nasal, slightly slurred sneer sounded from behind him, making Emma start. "Yeah, nice fuckin' throw, jackass."

Emma looked up, blinking, to see a belligerent-faced young man standing between them and the bar. She thought he couldn't be much older than twenty-one, if that; dressed in a band t-shirt, hoodie, and ratty jeans, he still had spots on his cheeks, his chin sprouting barely grown peach fuzz.

The kid gestured to the dartboard. "You gonna fuck around all night, old man, or you gonna give someone else a turn?" he demanded. A couple of his friends were standing behind him, their faces similarly surly. Emma slid forward so her feet were on the ground again, clenching her fists. She knew a boy looking for a fight when she saw one, and this kid was raring to go.

Jones had unconsciously straightened his back at the sound of the voice, the grin on his face fading. He said nothing for a moment, just took a long drink of his beer with unhurried leisure.

At last he swallowed, letting out an explosive breath, and set his beer on the wall rail, next to Emma's. He turned to face the younger man; Emma couldn't see his expression from behind, but she'd caught a glimpse of his eyes before he moved, hot and flashing with anger.

"First, I'd ask that you mind your tongue around the lady," Jones said calmly, his voice eloquent and clear in contrast to the younger man's grating drawl. "And second—no, we're not going to play all night. If you'd like to let us finish our game, we'll give over the board. Provided that you ask politely."

The kid stared at him, disgust clouding his features, and scoffed, looking back at his friends. Emma counted three—no, four of them, all young men clad similarly in grubby jeans, a hoodie here and a flannel there. "Listen to this fancy-ass punk," he said loudly, and they snorted, shaking their heads. "Oh, mind your tongue, sir! Like I gotta watch my mouth around that ho?"

For a second Emma was too distracted by the kid's effeminate mockery of Jones' words to pay attention to the latter half of his sentence; then his narrowed eyes turned in her direction, and the penny dropped. "Hey!" she exclaimed, anger surging, and hopped off her barstool, advancing on them. "What the hell did you just call me?"

As she went to go around Jones, he stopped her, putting out his arm. "I think you'd best walk away, lad," he said, warning. There was a growl in his voice, and Emma could now see that the color had retreated to his cheekbones, leaving the rest of his face pale with fury.

The kid laughed, his friends following suit. "Or what?" he said scornfully, and stepped forward so that he and Jones were nearly toe-to-toe. Emma's breath caught in her throat; the comparison couldn't be more stark, the tall, handsome, lean trucker staring coldly down at the shorter young man, whose round face was creased in a nasty smirk.

"You gonna beat me up one-handed, old fart?" the kid continued. "How 'bout you fuck off, and let the real—"

He'd turned his face up into Jones' to deliver this sneering taunt, but didn't get to finish it. Before Emma could stop him, her companion, moving so quickly she barely saw it, rabbit-punched the kid in the guts. As the younger man's breath came out in an explosive whoof and he doubled over, eyes round with surprise, Jones shoved him backwards, where he was caught by his friends.

"Killian—!" Emma began, furious, ready to yell at him to stop. But it was her turn to be cut off, as the kid's friends promptly shoved him back at Jones, his pimply face twisted with rage, one fist swinging.

"You cheatin' fucker!" he bellowed hoarsely. Emma backed away a step, frozen with astonishment and uncertainty. Jones had blocked the blow, reciprocating with a fist of his own, and before long the two men were staggering back and forth, trading punches.

Her heart pounding, Emma looked wildly around; none of the kid's friends appeared to have any interest in joining in, although they were cheering him on with gleeful faces. The music was still going, and patrons had gravitated their way over to watch, some gawping in shock while others grinned and whooped.

She couldn't see either of the bartenders anywhere, and there didn't seem to be a bouncer, but… she needed to stop the brawl, either before they got thrown out, or before someone got hurt. It may have been awhile since Jones had been in the military, but Emma got the feeling he was good in a fight. Whirling, she grabbed both half-full steins of beer, and turned with one in each hand, preparing to souse both men with them and holler for them to knock it off.

But before she got the chance, Jones straightened up, gripping the front of the kid's shirt with his right hand, and kneed his opponent in the balls. The young man went down like a sack of potatoes, wheezing and clutching himself, rolling over slowly on the beaten linoleum.

"Hey, that's not fighting fair!" shouted one of his friends; abruptly three of them detached from the crowd and leapt forward, tackling Jones simultaneously. They went down in a pile, landing on the floor in a tangle of limbs; Emma heard a faint crack! as someone's skull pinged off the pool table.

"Stop! Stop it!" she yelled, starting to panic. The kid had been one thing, but… three alcohol-fueled young men against Jones, all on his own? She spun back and slammed the beer steins down, then stepped forward, ready to grab the first hooligan she could get her hands on and haul him off.

To her surprise, one of the kids had already rolled out of the fight and scooted away; he was sitting on the floor with his mouth hanging open stupidly. The other two quickly followed suit, standing up and leaving Jones on the floor; Emma felt her heart skip a beat to see the trucker limp and unmoving, arms sprawled wide. Her vision suddenly crystal clear with shock, she could even see what the tattoo on the inside of his right arm was: a heart with the word Milah in it, bisected by a dagger.

"Killian!" she cried, and shoving one of the kids aside, threw herself down next to Jones. He let out a groan, face contorting, and she realized he wasn't unconscious, just stunned. "Killian, talk to me," she said, grabbing his shoulders, hearing her voice tremble. "Are you okay?"

He groaned again, coughing, and winced as he raised a hand to his head. "Ow," he said faintly. His eyes cracked open, and he looked at her, dazed, trying feebly to grin. "Oh. Hey, beautiful."

Emma's heart was crashing against the inside of her chest, but relief gushed through her, leaving a void that was soon filled by anger. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she hissed, and turned to look at the young men. The first kid had sat up, still clutching his crotch and breathing heavily, looking more shocked than angry. "What's the matter with all of you? Friggin' idiots!" she yelled. "Can't even get a beer and play some darts without a bunch of stupid, drunk men punching each other!"

She turned back and helped Jones sit up; he wasn't bleeding, but as she ran a hand over his hair, she could feel a knot already swelling on the back of his head. His face was deeply flushed, and he was clutching his stomach and breathing heavily.

"The hell is all this?" came an impatient voice. Emma looked up; the other patrons were starting to mill back to their seats, and the bartender named Tracy broke through, clutching a bar towel.

She stopped next to the first kid and glared down at him, spreading her hands with exasperation. "What the shit, ya little moron?" she demanded, and reached down to haul him to his feet by the hood of his sweater; he was a good three inches shorter than her, and was half-bent, holding onto his wounded crotch for dear life. "What did I tell you guys about getting into fights in my place?"

The young man shook his head helplessly. He had a bloody nose, and it was running down into his mouth. "I—I didn't start—" he began feebly.

"Yeah, I bet," Tracy interrupted hotly. She looked around, shaking her head. "Shane, Tommy… man, you guys just can't give me one Friday night off, can you?" She let go of the first kid, and waved a disgusted arm toward the door. "Get out of here. Go on, beat it, before I call your mothers."

A couple of nearby patrons guffawed at that, making the young men scowl. Emma turned away and helped Jones stand up; he swayed dangerously and clutched at the pool table, wincing. Quickly, she bolted away and grabbed a chair from one of the nearby dining tables, then plunked him into it.

Tracy stamped over, apparently having shooed the younger men out of the bar. "He okay?" she demanded shortly. She was radiating with an intense anger that didn't seem to dissipate as she gave Jones a piercing once-over.

"I think so," Emma said doubtfully, eyeing Jones closely; he was hanging onto the edge of the pool table for dear life, staring intently at the floor as if it might roll away beneath his feet. "Sorry. We'll… we'll leave, too. Can I close my tab?" she asked helplessly.

The woman snorted, but grudgingly nodded and walked back toward the bar. "Do you have a concussion?" Emma asked Jones tersely, her stomach dropping at the thought of somehow getting him to a hospital this late at night, with no car. She'd have to call an ambulance, probably.

But he slowly shook his head, taking a long breath and letting go of the pool table to gingerly touch the back of his head. He hissed in pain, but said briefly, "No." Letting out the breath, he looked up at her, grimacing. "Sorry, lo— Emma."

"Yeah, well… you should be," she said grudgingly. For the first time, she noticed that he had the beginnings of a black eye. Guess that little twerp managed to land a punch, after all. She made a mental note to find him some ice when they got back to the motel.

Tracy returned after a minute or two, carrying a pen and a check tray. She said nothing; just handed it to Emma, staring flatly at Jones. Emma sighed internally. Being wary of male guests was probably just a defense mechanism in the bartender's line of work, after all.

Emma signed the check, adding an outrageously large tip, and stuffed her credit card back into her phone case. "Sorry," she said again, meekly, and handed the tray back to the bartender.

"I know," said Tracy, resigned. She folded her arms. "Do yourself a favor and wait another couple of minutes, to make sure those bozos have left," she advised, and frowned. "Which way y'all going? Toward downtown?"

Emma shook her head. "The other way. We're staying at the Bluebird Motel."

The woman nodded. "All right. You should be okay, then," she said. Turning to go, she paused, and added, "Don't freeze out there."