Burned in Broken Hearts Junction

  Burned in Broken Hearts Junction

  A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery

  by

  Meg Muldoon

  Published by Vacant Lot Publishing

  Copyright 2014© by Meg Muldoon

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance whatsoever to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Other Works by Meg Muldoon

  The Christmas River Series

  Murder in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery

  Mayhem in Christmas River: A Christmas in July Cozy Mystery

  Madness in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery

  The Christmas River Box Set: Books 1—3

  Burned in Broken Hearts Junction

  by Meg Muldoon

  Chapter 1

  Most people don’t want to know who their soulmate is.

  They pretend like they do. Like if they just knew who their true love was, where they were, and how to find them, all of their problems would just disappear like smoke in the wind. Like all the ugly parts of their life would just fade away into the background and be replaced by red roses and fairy dust and long walks on the beach just as soon as the one finally showed up.

  But it doesn’t work out that way. Doesn’t even come close.

  Believe me. I would know.

  Because your soulmate isn’t the dashing prince who’s strong and intelligent and tender and kind, and who also happens to be drop dead gorgeous with a fat bank account. It isn’t the beautiful princess with a heart of gold, a dynamite sense of humor, and an encyclopedic knowledge of the NFL that puts your guy friends to shame.

  No. Those kinds of soulmates don’t exist. Because those kinds of people don’t exist.

  Your true love is the short man in the corner with Sideshow Bob hair, sweat stains under his armpits, and a laugh that sounds like cat nails on a chalkboard, nursing one too many tequilas and smoking like a chimney. Or he’s the guy with jock good-looks and a sly smile who’s in and out of jail as much as he’s in and out of seedy dive bars.

  She’s the tall pretty blonde who seems to have the world on a string, but spends her nights sneaking sips of vodka in the bathroom, wondering why her father never loved her. Or the homely-looking woman with smeared lipstick and a nervous smile, chewing her nails down to the wick while watching the news on the bar TV, so sure that the world’s going to come to an end tomorrow morning.

  That’s what prince and princess charming really look like for most of us: problematic, unappealing, and mostly damaged beyond repair.

  They’re just people. Like you and me. And the truth is, most of us would rather not know who fate has in store for us. We’d rather just stumble around in the dark, throwing our line in for all the wrong fish in the ocean, pretending like we’re looking for the “right” one.

  Take my best friend, Beth Lynn, for example.

  I’d been telling Beth Lynn Baker for weeks now that she ought to be looking for a stocky lawyer-type with caterpillar eyebrows, thick bottle-top glasses and frizzy black hair, like the man I’d seen in my vision. But here she was, on another Saturday night at The Stupid Cupid Saloon, with a man far too young for her and far too impossibly good-looking to match the description of her soulmate.

  But then again, I didn’t know what else I should have expected from Beth Lynn.

  A former queen of the Broken Hearts Junction Rodeo, Beth Lynn still dressed and curled her hair the way she did when she was 17, and had more trouble than most letting go of her preconceived notions of what her soulmate should look like.

  She sidled up to the bar, holding onto her young arm candy like if she loosened her grip, he might just float away like a balloon.

  “A Cupid’s Slingshot for me,” she said, leaning over the bar, revealing a little too much cleavage as the neckline of her tight-fitting sweater took a plunge.

  She was ordering the drink with her name on it, all right. Stupid was how she was acting tonight. Stupid had been the way she’d been acting for weeks now.

  Her guy’s eyes drifted down where she had wanted them to go, but when he saw that I was looking at him, waiting patiently on his drink order, his cheeks turned bright red, just like a little kid’s.

  “Uh, I’ll take one of those, too,” he said quietly, looking away quickly.

  I grabbed two glasses and the lowest shelf whiskey, combining the spirit with cherry juice, a splash of lime juice, and some honey simple syrup in a shaker. I divided the contents out into the glasses, topped them off with a dash of bitters, and in a few seconds, both Beth Lynn and her boy toy had the house specialty cocktail sitting in front of them on the bar.

  If it were up to me, I’d have used a nice mid-level whiskey. But Dale was being a stickler lately about saving money at the saloon, which translated into charging customers more and slumming when it came to the liquor.

  “Thanks, Bitters,” Beth Lynn said to me, sipping her drink and making a sour face, which went a ways toward highlighting those late-30s-almost-40s wrinkles that had started to settle in at the edges of her eyes and mouth.

  “Y’all here for the show tonight?” I asked going back to my station where I’d been chopping up lemons and limes.

  “We’ll see how the evening pans out,” Beth Lynn said, looking starry-eyed at the kid next to her.

  Jeez. It didn’t seem like such a stretch to believe that he was young enough to be her son.

  Beth Lynn had sunken to new depths of cougarism with this catch.

  I thought about saying something, but bit my lip. The last thing anybody needed from a bartender was a helping of judgment, let alone from a best friend. No matter how much Beth Lynn might have deserved a reality check.

  And besides, I didn’t interfere anymore. After nearly two decades of matchmaking, I’d made a pact to stop meddling with other people’s love lives. I’d helped enough people in my time. And now, I just wanted to focus on getting my own life together. Making something of myself instead of spending all of my time making others happy.

  Still, it kind of bothered me that Beth Lynn was disregarding my advice so blatantly. One of my visions wasn’t something to take lightly. But instead of looking for Mr. Right, she was wasting her days on every young and dumb Mr. Wrong she could find. Last month it was that beefy, greasy gas attendant, Kirby Carruthers. This week, it was this kid with shaggy hair, a five-o-clock shadow, and big puppy dog eyes that made him look even younger than he probably was.

  He whispered something into Beth Lynn’s ear, and she started giggling like a teenager.

  I glanced down at the other end of the bar, making sure I wasn’t neglecting any customers. Or maybe I was just looking to be spared from the stomach-turning scene in front of me. But the Saturday night rush hadn’t quite started yet in The Stupid Cupid Saloon, and everybody had been taken care of. A quiet-before-the-storm type feeling had settled over the bar.

  A truck driver in a wide-brimmed cowboy hat standing by the jukebox hit a button, and the saloon was soon filled with a ‘90s Brooks & Dunn song that reminded me of a simpler time.

  But soon, Ronnie’s wasn’t the only voice echoing throughout the bar.

  “Dammit, Dale! There’s a reason you don�
��t see livestock setting down at the poker table. How many times do you have to lose before you realize that you don’t have the damn betting sense of a donkey?”

  Courtney’s tone had that high-pitched, grating quality that it had when something really irked her.

  I sighed.

  The quiet before the storm was shattered by Dale and Courtney’s usual brawls over money and the lack of it. Arguments that always had a way of drifting out into the main bar area, making everybody within earshot feel uncomfortable.

  “Don’t speak to me about sense, woman,” Dale rebutted. “Not when you’re wearing those fancy designer cowgirl boots ‘arderd straight outta the cat-a-log.”

  Dale’s come-back fell right in line with his usual come-backs: ripping on Courtney’s lavish fashion expenditures.

  “If you were half the husband you promised to be when we wed, then you’d a bought these boots for me with your winnings,” she said. “But since you can’t bet for sh—”

  “You watch your mouth when you speak to me, woman!”

  A few of the customers looked around like they weren’t sure whether or not the saloon was actually open for business given the dispute taking place.

  I nodded at them reassuringly, letting them know that it wasn’t them—it was us.

  For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why Dale and Courtney put themselves and everyone else through this daily ritual. Despite having been high school sweethearts, it was plain to see that the two of them weren’t meant for each other—you didn’t need psychic gifts to come to that conclusion.

  Still, they carried on. Stuck together like two ill-fitting peas in a pod whose only aim in life was to push the other one as far as possible to the other end until the very fabric that held them together burst apart.

  It wasn’t an easy environment to work in, to say the least. Half the time I was caught in their crossfire. But I did the best I could. Because I didn’t have many other options in a town this size.

  Plus, I wasn’t at The Cupid because I liked Dale and Courtney. I was here for something else.

  I tried not to listen to them arguing. I hummed along to Neon Moon, wishing somebody would put a quarter into the jukebox and pick a Dwight Yoakam song next.

  Dwight never failed to lift my spirits. And on a night like this, with Courtney and Dale at each other’s throats, my best friend ignoring my advice, and the impending Saturday night rush of customers on the horizon, I needed my spirits to be at their highest.

  I placed the freshly-chopped citrus in a silver deep-dish tray, and went about making sure the bar behind me was in order, with the bottles all in the right places.

  Good organization was key to surviving a busy night. A disorganized bar meant a disorganized bartender. And that meant a drop in tips. And that meant being late on the rent.

  Again.

  I grabbed the half-empty bottle of Grand Marnier that had somehow misplaced itself on the bottom shelf of the bar, returning it back up top. The short, tight-fitting black shirt that Dale had me and Courtney wear as our bar uniform lifted higher than I would have liked it. I left the bottle on the top shelf, and started wrestling with the fabric, which was riding high, completely exposing my less-than-flat midriff, reminding me that I’d been through a rough few years.

  “Damn, skinny girl shirt,” I mumbled. “Dammit.”

  The top was made for a teenage girl, not a 34-year-old busty woman who had been unsuccessfully trying to lose 15 pounds for three years now.

  I suddenly felt eyes on me. That kind of feeling that you get when someone’s watching you and only you.

  The music ran out just as the hair on the back of my neck stood up on end.

  “It’s only my opinion, but you ought to not feel so self-conscious,” a voice said. “You’re lookin’ just fine tonight.”

  Chapter 2

  I felt my cheeks growing red.

  It was a deep, strong voice with a southern drag to it. Long and slow, not the tight-tongued northern country accents some of the ranch boys around here had.

  I turned around.

  He had a flat, crooked nose. That was the first thing you noticed about him: someone or something had once done a number on him at some point. There was a scar too that ran across the bridge of the nose.

  He had dark sandy-colored hair that reached halfway down his neck, and he wore it slicked back. He had a beard that looked to only be a few days old. I don’t know why, but it reminded me of a look a fugitive might wear to hide his identity.

  His eyes were a stormy grey. Or maybe they were blue. It was hard to tell in the dim lights of the bar.

  He dressed like most guys around Broken Hearts Junction. Dark flannel and a worn cowboy hat sitting on the bar next to him.

  But he wasn’t from around here. That much I was sure of. He’d never been inside The Stupid Cupid Saloon before.

  It’d be hard to forget a face like his.

  I straightened out my shirt with my hands and walked over to him, embarrassed that he’d seen me in such an unflattering moment.

  “Nice of you to say so,” I said. “But I’m not too sure you’re right.”

  “I am,” he said.

  He said it in an abrasive manner. Kind of took my breath away a little bit.

  That, and the way his eyes fell on in me in a cold, honest stare.

  I cleared my throat.

  “What can I get you, cowboy?”

  “Anything to this Cupid’s Slingshot you make here?” he asked, nodding at the chalkboard that showed the bar’s drinks menu.

  “I make it pretty mean,” I said. “It’ll knock your socks off. No lie.”

  He nodded.

  “In that case, I will take an orange soda, if you would.”

  I furrowed my brow.

  “What?” I said.

  “Well, plain old grape soda if you’re fresh out of orange, though it wouldn’t be my first choice.”

  I shook my head. It was the first time anybody had ever ordered an orange soda since I’d been bartending.

  “I’m afraid we don’t get too many children in here,” I said. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  I wondered if that didn’t sound a little harsh. But I saw him crack a smile, and I knew he hadn’t been offended. I went to the other side of the bar, rummaged around in the small fridge and found a bottle of Fanta that we kept there for the High Desert Sunrise cocktail on the menu. I poured him a tall glass and set it in front of him on the pine bar.

  “You’re missing out by not trying a Cupid’s Slingshot,” I said.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “It’s just that I need my socks.”

  I smiled.

  “It’s them blisters,” he said. “I just can’t stand ‘em. You see, I like to wander. And them blisters can be mighty annoying.”

  He took a drink. Then he rummaged around in his pockets for something and stood up.

  “Now, what can I get you?” he asked.

  “What?”

  He nodded toward the jukebox, like he’d been reading my thoughts earlier.

  “I saw you looking in that direction like you wanted to hear something,” he said. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “In that case, anything under the letter “Y” would do just fine,” I said.

  “Yearwood or Yoakam?”

  “Take a guess,” I said.

  That made him smirk for some reason.

  “What?” I said.

  He shrugged, walking over to the box.

  “Seems like you folks are a little stuck in the past around here,” he said. “That’s all.”

  He flipped through the catalogue before finding what I’d asked him to, making the right choice. He slid a quarter in the machine, and a moment later, Dwight’s 1000 Miles filled the bar.

  He came back over and took a seat.

  “Hey man—I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but Dwight’s timeless,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “Say what you will about Brooks & Dunn,
but Dwight’s in a class all his own.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me on that,” he said, picking up his glass and tilting it back. “Just making an observation. No judgment attached.”

  That kind of irked me a little and I felt my ears grow hot.

  I could get kind of protective when it came to The Stupid Cupid Saloon. And when it came to strangers who insulted my beloved bar.

  But I calmed down after a few moments of Dwight’s lovely crooning about 1,000 miles of misery.

  “So what brings you to Broken Hearts Junction?” I said, quartering a few more limes in preparation for the Margarita orders I’d be filling as soon as Saturday night got started.

  He didn’t answer for a long moment, and when he did, it wasn’t really much of an answer.

  “I guess I’m looking for something,” he said.

  “In town?” I said.

  “Might be,” he said, turning the half-empty glass in front of him. “Is it really true what they say about this place?”

  “Depends on who you heard it from,” I said. “For instance, if Dry Hack over there told it to you, don’t believe a word.”

  I nodded to Dry Hack Jones, our most regular and dependable customer, sitting at the other end of the bar. Dry Hack wouldn’t mind me joshing him like that, but he didn’t seem to hear me. He just went right on drinking his usual gin and tonic, staring into space. Probably still lost somewhere in Operation Desert Storm, or maybe the Civil War, the way he usually was when he passed a certain number of beverages.

  “I heard this is where The Rusted Spurs once played three nights in a row.”

  I looked up at the stranger in surprise.

  We didn’t get too many people who came to the saloon these days looking for remnants of The Spurs’ glory days.

  Years ago, when I was just a teenager, The Rusted Spurs, a band out of Tennessee, had made a legendary stop at a little Central Oregon country western saloon in the middle of nowhere. It was right before the alternative country band’s big hit, when they were still somewhat unknown. Right after playing The Cupid those nights, the group took off, reaching damn near legend status in the world of country before disintegrating and disappearing off the face of the country western music map. But for a little while there, the stardust they left behind at The Cupid had drawn in high profile acts from around the country, turning the saloon into an up and coming music venue that became known nationally.