“Get lucky?” I choke out. This is the first actual conversation I’ve had with Briar, andthisis what she comes up with?
“Yeah. Get rid of that edge you’ve been carrying.”
“What?” I scoff. “Youare callingmeedgy?”
She shrugs.
I hold the dress up against myself. It’s my size, which is somehow the most alarming part. “You packed this.”
“I pack for contingencies.”
I almost laugh. Almost. There’s something happening on Briar’s face that isn’t quite a smile. A hairline crack in the mask that might be humor or might be calculation or might be both.
“Fine,” I say. “But if this doesn’t work, I’m blaming you.”
“Noted.”
I change in the bathroom. The dress fits well. Tight enough to follow my shape without restricting movement, short enough to be a statement. It’s hard to ignore my reflection. I’m used to seeing myself in layers, in practical boots and worn canvas. This version is different. Softer. My hair is down, falling past my shoulders, and the copper catches in the overhead light.
I look like someone who’s looking for something other than answers.
My boots ruin the effect, but I didn’t pack sexy slingbacks for some reason; go figure.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mutter.
“Take the second phone,” Briar says as I head for the door. She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t comment on the dress. The silence, from Briar, is as close to approval as I’m likely to get.
The Railhead is the only bar in Cedar Falls. Low building, corrugated metal roof, string lights along the porch that glow in the dusk. Trucks in the lot. Music through the open door; live, somebody with a guitar who’s better than a small-town bar deserves. The air coming out smells of beer, woodsmoke, and warm bodies.
I walk in and take in my surroundings. Two doors: front and a side exit near the restrooms. The bar runs the length of the right wall. Tables and booths on the left. Pool table in the back corner. Maybe thirty people, mostly men, a few women. The bartender is a tattooed woman with steady hands.
The dress works instantly. Heads turn. I feel the attention the way you feel a change in wind, not every pair of eyes, but enough. I take a seat at the bar, order whiskey, and let the room adjust to my presence.
Within ten minutes, two men have offered to buy me a drink. The first is mid-thirties, heavy through the shoulders, confident grin. “Let me get that for you.”
“I’ve got it. But thanks.” I know I’m here to ask questions, but I don’t want to come on too strong.
He takes the rejection well, nods, moves on. The second is younger, trying too hard, standing too close. “You new in town? I could show you around.”
I smile brightly, then reconsider. He doesn’t look like someone with useful information. More likely to try to impress me with how much he can benchpress.
“I appreciate it, but I’m just here for the drink.”
He lingers a beat too long. I hold his eyes without smiling until he gets the message and returns to his friends, who laugh and poke him in the ribs.
The whiskey is good. I nurse it and watch the room in the mirror behind the bar. Locals relaxing after a day’s work. Conversation and laughter. The live music keeps things loose. This is the town with its collar unbuttoned, the stiff politeness from the daytime stripped back to something more honest.
The bartender is my best bet. She’s been here long enough to know everyone, and she’s got the easy rhythm of someone who listens more than she talks. Which means she’s heard things.
I wait until she’s wiping down my end of the bar and not busy with anyone else.
“This place always this lively?” I ask.
“Saturday nights, mostly. Rest of the week it’s quieter.” She tosses the cloth over her shoulder. “You passing through?”
“Thinking about sticking around, actually. Where do people get work in this town? Ranch stuff, stock handling.” I take a sip of whiskey. “Anybody around here hiring?”
She considers me. Not suspicious, exactly, but measuring. “Most of the spreads run their own crews. Family operations. They don’t advertise much.”