“I’m Emery Patterson.”
A pause.
“Most people call me Grizzly.”
“Samantha Collins.”
“You ever bartended?”
“Yes.”
That was technically true.
During college, for eleven months.
A lifetime ago.
Grizzly looked toward her bag.
“You traveling?”
“For now.”
“Where you staying?”
Samantha hesitated.
“That part of the interview?”
“It is if trouble follows you through my door.”
Behind the bar stood another man.
Younger than Grizzly.
Early forties, maybe.
Lean rather than huge.
Short dark hair.
Blue eyes that did not seem to blink often.
The patch on his vest marked him as sergeant at arms.
WYATT MITCHELL.
He had been watching Samantha from the moment she entered.
Now he spoke.
“She’s running.”
No judgment.
Just fact.
Samantha looked at him.
Wyatt continued.
“People who run usually bring somebody behind them.”
Grizzly tapped one finger against the bar.