Chapter 1
I noticed the fiery redhead the minute he walked into my bar. O’Halloran’s was a magnet for Irish tourists who had made their way backpacking or camping on the Northwest Pacific Coast Highway. That’s how they landed in Cougar Creek, Southern Oregon. Half an hour off the coast and with our very own hot springs, we made a quaint little stop for travelers.
This one didn’t look quite like all the rest, though. He was a little taller, a little more perfect, and he didn’t look like he was here so much for a good time. He stared grimly at me as he walked directly to me.
“Are you Helen O’Halloran?”
“Helen Davis,” I said. “Can I help you?” I crossed my arms and leaned back on one of my feet, staring up at him. At five foot ten I was pretty tall for a woman, but it didn’t seem to matter with this guy; he towered over me.
I didn’t care. I wasn’t about to take any flak from somebody in my own bar.
That’s when I noticed the fiddle case in his hand. The fiery red head was a musician.
“I want to play some music,” he said.
I was completely taken aback, my eyebrows arching. “Are you any good?” I asked, wondering what type of music he played, because his black T-shirt, jeans vibe didn’t come across as an artsy, happy musician.
“I do a mix. It’s good.” He shrugged.
“I’ll let you play one song,” I shrugged.” What the hell. It was Friday night, and we didn’t have any music playing at O’Halloran’s. There weren’t many people in the pub. It was off-season, the weird time in spring in between the winter merry makers and the summer day trippers.
I was exhausted though, and I didn’t want this to get out of hand. A couple of songs in the corner, we’d see how the public took it, but I looked at the clock. It was eleven o’clock already. One of the good things about owning a pub in a small town was that you could shut it whenever you wanted to.
I slipped into the kitchen to check on the food prep. My cook, Jag, was cleaning up when I handed him the last order of the night.
“Cabbage and hash,” I said, slipping the docket over to him. “That’ll be the last order of the night.”
“I thought you were going to have me work until two in the morning or something crazy,” Jag laughed.
“No, we’ll just ply them with alcohol until we send them all stumbling out the front door in an hour,” I said. The strains of the fiddle rose over the clink of Jag’s frying pans. He paused and looked up.
“What’s that?” he asked, looking a bit disgruntled.
“I don’t know. Some kid came in and wanted to play fiddle,” I said. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It matters if it keeps customers around longer.” Jag commented.
I smiled at Jag, crossing my arms. “You know, I am trying to run a business here.”
“You also kind of need to rest.” He looked kindly at me.
I could tell what he was saying. I look tired, haggard, and old.
At forty-six, that’s what I thought and felt most of the time anyhow, but I didn’t need some younger man telling me it was the case.
That was annoying.
“I don’t tell you how to run your life,” I said. “You don’t tell me how to run my life. Now make the food and get it out on time. Don’t get distracted by the music.”
I could see his foot tapping under the counter as he checked the order and began dicing some onions.
I turned and went back out into the pub area. I took a deep breath. I loved this pub. I did inherit it from my father when I turned twenty-one and I had spent the last twenty-some odd years running it and keeping an authentic Irish pub open and alive here in Cougar Creek.
I ran my hand along the polished wooden bar.
This was all I had of my dad. All I knew of him and all that mattered. My mom hadn’t known him very well. She had heard about the pub but ignored the entire thing until the day I turn twenty-one and she handed me the deed to this property.
She and I hadn’t gotten along since then. This pub had been my home. I lived upstairs and worked downstairs. Cougar Creek was my neighborhood and the drinks always flowed and we always had a good time. I’d had a long-term relationship at one point for five years and I moved in with him over on his ranch. I’d driven to the pub to come to work, but, well, I never felt at home. I always sort of liked having my space and running my own business full-time. I had plenty of camaraderie in the evenings with the pub open and plenty of quiet during the day. Hell, I didn’t even use my car unless I had a special trip to the coast or to one of the bigger towns. Everything else was walking distance and I liked it that way. This was exactly where I wanted to be, and I had everything I needed.