Beatles tune about times of trouble.
Oh, Kirk could relate to the words of “Let It Be.” Odd the tie-dyed bartender hadn’t put on “Truckin”’ or some other Grateful Dead song. Maybe there were rival factions in Nederland between lovers of the Dead and of the Beatles.
“Hell, no!” yelled a wizened cowgirl. “Put on some hot Wynonna!”
The bartender, looking bored, ambled over to the CD player while Paul crooned, “Let it be, let it be.”
Let it Bree, thought Kirk, wondering how in the hell she’d gotten him into this mess. New music started playing. A woman’s husky, sultry voice oozing heat and sin. Had to be Wynonna, whoever she was. But if he didn’t know, these old gals certainly did. They began thumping the bar in time to the music, whistling and whooping at him to strut his stuff.
He glanced at Bree. She had to put a stop to this nonsense.
But no, she was now straddling the same bar stool he’d just been at, thumping and whistling and whooping just like the rest of the tribe.
Traitor.
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