LITMIR.BIZ

      One

      Saturday nights were always busy at the Silver Dollar Saloon. Dylan Kavanagh surveyed the crowd with a gaze that catalogued every detail. The newlyweds at table six. The habitual drunk who would soon have to be booted out. The kid who looked nervous enough to be contemplating the use of a fake ID.

      Around the bar—a winding expanse of wood that dated back to the 1800s and had been rescued from a building in Colorado—the usual suspects ordered drinks and munched on peanuts. The tourists were easy to spot, not only because Dylan knew most of the locals, but because the out-of-towners scanned the room eagerly, hoping to spot celebrities.

      Western North Carolina’s natural beauty drew people for many reasons. Families on vacation, for sure. But the state was also a hot spot for location scouts. Dylan’s home, the elegant town of Silver Glen, was no stranger to famous faces. Just last week one of Hollywood’s iconic directors had wrapped production on a civil-war picture.

      Dylan shrugged inwardly. He had no interest at all in the famous or the infamous when it came to the world of filmmaking, no matter how many A-listers dropped by for a drink or a meal. Once burned, twice shy.

      Suddenly, he realized that he had unconsciously been watching something that sent up a red flag. The woman at the other end of the bar was knocking back drinks at an alarming rate. He frowned, surprised that his head bartender, Rick, hadn’t already cut her off.

      Working his way behind the bar, Dylan inched closer to Rick. Two other servers were helping out because things were so hectic. And that wasn’t counting the three waitresses handling food orders out on the floor.

      When Dylan was in earshot of his employee, he tapped him on the shoulder and muttered, “You need to pull the plug on the lady in pink. She’s had enough, I think.” The woman exhibited an air of desperation that didn’t mix well with alcohol.

      Rick grinned, his big hands busy filling drink orders. “Not to worry, Boss. She’s drinking virgin strawberry daiquiris.”

      “Ah.” It was blisteringly hot outside, an airless summer evening that justified anyone having a cold one...or two or three. The AC was working very well in here right now, yet the woman swallowed her icy drinks with reckless precision. With a nod, Dylan moved away, aware that he was creating a traffic jam in the narrow space.

      Rick, who was two decades his senior, cocked his head toward the door. “Go home, Boss. We got this.” The big, burly man with the country accent was perfectly suited to his job. And he was a pro. He and the rest of the staff didn’t need Dylan hovering and giving the impression he didn’t trust them.

      But the truth was, Dylan loved the Silver Dollar. He’d bought it as a twenty-year-old kid, and after renovating the old building from the ground up, he’d opened what was to become one of Silver Glen’s most thriving businesses.

      Dylan had been a wealthy man when he bought the bar. And if the place ever went belly-up, he’d be a rich man still. As one of the Kavanaghs, the family that put Silver Glen on the map back in the mid-twentieth century, Dylan could easily afford to spend his days and his dollars on idle living. But his mother, Maeve, had brought up all seven of her boys to respect the value of a hard day’s work.

      That wasn’t why Dylan was hanging around the Silver Dollar on a Saturday night. He had put in plenty of hours this week. The reason was far more complex.

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