“Yes, you should have.”
“My apologies, Gracie…I mean Grace Ann.”
“You apologize?” Surprise lit up her face, and once again, he was reminded what an attractive woman she was, or could be if she’d loosen up a bit.
“Yes, I didn’t take Pete’s duties seriously. The thing is, I don’t know where to find the farm where Hortense is, let alone where the Carneys live. Would you be willing to come with me?”
Gracie’s mouth opened and closed twice, as if that was the last thing she’d expected him to suggest.
“I…”
“Otherwise, Hortense will have to wait until the morning, and as you reminded me, the Carneys need their horse trailer come morning.”
“Yes, I understand, but—”
“It’s pitch-black out. Even if I had good directions on where to go, I’d likely get lost. I never have had a good sense of direction.” God would forgive him for the lie. He had a keen sense of his location, the way some people had perfect pitch.
“Well, yes, I suppose I will need to accompany you.”
“Great. Come inside while I collect my coat.”
Gracie hesitated. Hank could almost see the war raging inside of her. After a moment, she stepped into the parsonage. She stood just inside the door, as if she feared the necessity of a quick escape.
Hiding his amusement, Hank reluctantly turned off the television and reached for his thick coat, which he’d tossed across the back of the sofa. His half-eaten peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich remained on the plate.
“That was your dinner?” Gracie asked.
“Yup. I assumed the church widows would be delivering me casseroles,” he teased, and to his amazement, he saw Gracie’s lips quiver with what might be construed as a smile. He stared at her for a full minute. “You know, Gracie, you’re actually quite lovely.”
The frown snapped back into place as fast as an alligator’s jaw. “Don’t you dare flirt with me, Hank Colfax.”
“Oops, sorry.” He hid a smile as they left the house together.
His truck was parked out front and he opened the door for her and then placed his hand on her elbow to help her inside. She paused halfway into the vehicle and stared down at him. “You don’t need to open the door for me, either. I’m capable of doing that on my own.”
“Of course, you are,” he said, determined to remain as agreeable as possible.
“It was a nice gesture, though,” she conceded.
Hank could have sworn she blushed before she looked away. Once she’d settled inside, he closed her door and then raced around the front of the truck and hopped into the driver’s side.
He turned on the ignition and then cranked the heater up as far as it would go. Sleet pelted against the windshield. Snow was forecast for the rest of the week. Winter weather in the northeast corner of Washington State was often brutal.
“You set?” he asked.
“I am. And thank you. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I came to the house.”
He turned to look at her in the dim light from the street lighting. “I promise to read over the list before bed tonight.”
“That will make both our lives much easier.”
The truck choked out a plume of black smoke before they drove off. “You comfortable?” he asked.
“Yes, thanks.”
They rode in silence to the end of the street before Gracie seemed to relax. The truck’s heater made it cozy warm.
“I don’t know how this switch between you and Peter is going to work. This is an especially busy week.”
“At The Last Call, too,” he said, concerned for the first time. Pete’s list burned a hole in his pocket. He had no clue what was going to be asked of him over the next week.
“I can’t help wondering how Peter is doing.”
Hank was thinking the same thing. The poor sucker had no clue what he was getting himself into.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Tilt the glass,” the grisly, bearded man sitting on the other side of the bar snapped at Pete. “Look at all the foam that’s collecting. Do you even know what you’re doing?”
“Sorry,” Pete said, and quickly followed the old man’s advice. He had an unkempt beard and wore a ratty-looking knit cap with several moth-eaten holes.
“You ain’t no bartender,” the man sitting next to the bearded one commented, eyeing Pete curiously.
“That I’m not.” Pete was in full agreement. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t keep up. Hank had mentioned needing to hire extra help, and that was no joke. The tavern was packed, and he was stuck with doing it all. Filling pitchers of beer, delivering them to the tables of demanding clients, collecting the money, washing mugs. He hadn’t had a single moment to stop and breathe from the time The Last Call opened.
“Hey, we need another pitcher of beer over here,” a rowdy group of lumberjacks shouted from the center of the room.
“On it,” Pete promised. He was sweating, and no way was he keeping up with the orders. He needed help and he needed it desperately. Hank had warned him Mondays would be busy because of the football game. Several of the patrons were involved in watching the television and didn’t seem to pay attention to how long it took him to refill their beers. The reprieve didn’t last long, however. Unrest followed, with irritating shouts from customers wanting refills. Pete was working as fast as he could and didn’t have a hope of catching up.
Grabbing another pitcher, Peter started to fill it, slanting it as the old man had advised. It did help, but the foam seemed to accumulate ahead of the liquid. Already there were shouts of discontent rising from the tables.
“Where’s Hank?”
Pete looked up from the pitcher. “He’s taking a few days off.”
The man frowned. “Never said anything about it.”
“Yes, well, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”
“It must have been an emergency for him to get this yahoo to fill in,” the grisly man at the bar commented to the one sitting next to him.
“I’m Pete,” he said, taking the opportunity to introduce himself to the bar patrons.
“Walt here,” the one with the unkempt beard said.
Pete glanced up long enough to grin. “Hank mentioned you. Said you were one of his best customers.”
“Did he say anything about me?”
“And you are?”