A Cowboy At Heart. Angel Smits
Cover Text
OLD PEOPLE DIDN’T tend to barhop, at least not in Trey Haymaker’s experience. They tended to find a barstool and plant their backside on it for the duration of their stay. This afternoon, one of the three regulars took up space along the polished wood, which meant the other two couldn’t be far behind.
“What can I getcha, Win?” Trey asked the skinny septuagenarian parked on the corner stool. Winston Ross was one of the few people Trey had known before moving here. The old man owned the cabin up in the mountains outside town that Trey, and his grandfather, had frequented over the years.
Those memories had made Trey reluctant to contact the man when he’d first arrived in Telluride. He hadn’t been sure he wanted to face the past, the pain that always came with the reminder of his grandfather’s betrayal. But fate had had other plans when she’d given Trey a job in the very bar that Win frequented.
Funny how small towns worked like that.
Looking at Win now—his weathered face, his stooped shoulders, his dimmed blue eyes—Trey saw time’s evidence.
Win had grown up here in Telluride, in the center of the Colorado mountains. He’d been a boy before the ski boom, before the old mining town had grown into nearly a city. Trey remembered hearing stories about how Win’s dad had run the gas station, and how in high school, Win’d started working there. Win’s knack for fixing a car had been the secret to not just working for his dad at the station, but to eventually becoming a partner, and ultimately the owner. Townsfolk and tourists alike had kept him in business for years.
Today, though, the old gas station was long gone, and a convenience store stood on that prime piece of real estate. Win was now retired, spending his days with his cronies, instead of under the hood of a car.
For the thousandth time, Trey wished Win could be his granddad, instead of that old—
Trey shook his head, focusing on Win’s words instead of the old pain.
“Same as usual.”
“You got it.” Trey pulled the highball glass out, and, as he fixed the drink, he kept one eye on his friend. “You okay?” Was Win paler tonight, or was it just the lighting?
“I’m fine. Or at least I will be once you finish pouring.” He rubbed his gnarled hands together in anticipation, the rough rasp of his outdoor-worn skin loud even in the noisy bar.
Trey slid the glass over the polished bar, the ice softly clinking when the glass came to a stop at Win’s elbow. “The others coming in tonight?” Usually, Hap and Sam were here before Trey finished pouring.
“S’posed to be, but I ain’t seen ’em yet.” Win stared down at the drink. Was he also wondering where his buddies were? They were getting up in years...
The door opened then, and a cold wind came in with a flurry of snowflakes. Sam held the door open for Hap, who pushed his walker slowly through the doorway. A pile of snow caught on the front of the tennis balls he’d shoved on the metal feet, and a puddle quickly formed as it melted. Trey made a mental note to wipe it up.
“Where ya boys been?” Win called, lifting his drink in a silent salute before taking an exaggerated, taunting sip.
“Ah, shuddup,” Hap grumbled as he reached the barstool beside Win. He nodded at the drink. “Gimme one of them, Trey.” He glared at Trey. “Maybe two.”
“Yes, sir.” Trey fought the smile. He didn’t take Hap’s glare personally. Hap glared