“I have no idea. Are you good on drinks?” I asked. “My section’s caught up if you want me to fill any orders.”

“I’m good.” She headed off to one of her tables, and I studied the entrance to the back. In the seven months I’d been around, I’d only seen the two of them hole up in Max’s office twice. The first time was when Max was hiding Lula, their half sister, and it had happened again when Wyatt was about to be arrested for murder after his ex’s body was found. Whatever they were discussing wasn’t good news.

I considered going back and trying to eavesdrop, but a couple of customers walked in and sat at one of my tables.

About five minutes later, Wyatt walked out and headed for the front door. When he saw me, he gave me a long, unreadable look before he left.

“And what was that about?” Ruth asked behind me.

Max walked out of the backroom next with a haunted look in his eyes.

“I don’t have a clue.” But I intended to find out.

Chapter Two

I woke up the next morning, stretching in my bed and wishing for the umpteenth time that Drum had a gym. While I tried to make healthy meals for Hank and me, my hours at the tavern weren’t conducive to exercise. Marco and I sometimes ran together, but I hadn’t seen him in nearly a week…which was starting to worry me. We’d had a discussion that hadn’t ended well, and now I wondered if he was giving himself space to figure out where to go from here.

Marco had been my best friend for most of the seven months I’d spent in this town, but a couple of months ago, I’d begun to realize I had more than friendly feelings for him. He’d made it obvious he had feelings for me too, but we both knew I had major trust issues.

Finding out your fiancé wanted to have you murdered tended to do that to a woman, and I’d followed up that disaster by dating Wyatt, whose secrets had nearly gotten me killed. After all of that, I’d resigned myself to possibly entering a nunnery.

So Marco and I both pretended we were just friends. Still, after our last conversation, it was clear our pretending wasn’t going to work much longer.

I suspected he was already tired of our dance.

A soft mewl caught my attention, and I smiled as my nearly four-month-old gray kitten pawed at my hair.

“Hey, Letty. Good morning to you too.” Maybe it was strange to name a cat after a person, but my kitten Violet was feisty and fearless and liked to do things on her own terms, just like my friend who had lost her life to cancer.

Scooping her into my arms, I snuggled her for a moment before she decided she’d had enough and jumped out of the bed, pawing at the bedroom door.

I followed her, heading into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee. I was much too reliant on the stuff to keep me going. It was borderline unhealthy, but it was necessary since I got so little sleep. Maybe it was time to consider finding another job.

I nearly snort-laughed at the thought. I’d been lucky to get my job at the tavern. A good portion of the people in and around Drum were unemployed. I made decent money, and if I were being honest, I had nothing going on in my life other than work, hanging out with Hank and our two kittens, and the time I spent with Marco. And of course my tutoring club, but I couldn’t run it if I didn’t work at the tavern.

I took my coffee and opened the front door. Letty shot outside, running straight for Hank’s bird feeder. Birds squawked and flew into the air in protest.

Hank, who was sitting in his chair on the porch, shot me a scowl. His crutch was leaning against the house and his kitten, Smoky, was curled up on his lap while he stroked the back of her head. Although we’d taken the cats in as a pair, Smoky had claimed him, and Letty had claimed me.

“Sorry.” I set my full mug down on the table between the chairs. “Want some fresh coffee?”

He held out his nearly empty mug, and I went back into the kitchen and refilled his cup before returning to the porch. I handed his mug off to him, watching as Letty slunk around the bird feeder, probably hoping the birds would come back.

“I think we got the wrong cats,” I said with a grin as I sat in the empty chair.

“You think I should’ve gotten the murderous cat?” he asked with a dark look.

I gave him a sideways look before I took a sip of my coffee. “I was thinking she stirs up trouble, but if that’s your takeaway…”

Any sixty-seven-year-old man had a past, but Hank’s was more colorful than most. Over the course of the past seven months, I’d discovered that Hank used to run the largest marijuana distribution outfit in eastern Tennessee, as well as some other illegal drugs. I still hadn’t pinned down when he’d “retired” but my best guess was around a decade ago. Hank didn’t like to talk about his past, and I usually didn’t press him on it. I’d seen him kill a man without hesitation, then calmly tell me how to go about destroying the evidence. He’d shot the man to save my life, but the way he went about it told me it wasn’t the first time he’d killed someone, and he’d pretty much told me that he suspected it wouldn’t be the last. Drum, Tennessee wasn’t exactly a sweet and cozy town, but it wasn’t the town activities that had elicited the statement. He’d told me if my father or any of his men came looking for me, he’d kill them on the spot.

I believed him.

He laughed. “Girlie, you think you don’t do your fair share of stirrin’ the pot?”

I grinned. “Gotta keep things from getting dull.”

Releasing a contented sigh, he leaned back in his seat and sipped his coffee. “You thinkin’ about changin’ your hair color?”

I reached for the ends of my shoulder-length hair. I was a natural blonde, but I’d been dying it auburn since I’d changed my name last November. “What makes you ask that?”

“The box of hair dye in the bathroom.”

I gave him a puzzled look, then it dawned on me what he was talking about. “Ginger wants me to go strawberry blonde. She must have left it when she cleaned the house yesterday afternoon.”

“That’s too close to your natural color, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said. It felt like a lifetime ago that I was blonde. “And no, I’m not going that light, although I’m kind of tired of being red.” Poor Hank. Since my dye job was so much darker than my normal color, I was constantly touching up my roots. It seemed like the house was always full of dye fumes.

“It’d be easier to get a wig,” he said.

I laughed. “You ever wear a wig, Hank?” I asked, then took a sip of my coffee. “They’re itchy and hot.” Then I added with a smirk, “And no. I’m not shaving my head.”

“You can’t spend the rest of your life dyin’ your hair to stay hidden.”

“Why not? Plenty of women dye their hair so often they don’t even remember their natural color.”

“That part’s easy enough to figure out,” he said with a snort. “They only have to look at their bush.”

“Hank!” I protested with a laugh. “Gross. And most women wax down there now.”

His eyebrows shot up. “They what?” Then his eyes narrowed. “Do…” He shook his head. “Never mind.”