her up the stairs and down the carpeted hallway. “I’m not much of a dancer,” he said quietly as he set her suitcase by her door.
“Me, either.”
“Really? Or are you just saying that to make me feel better?”
“No, really.” She unlocked the door and turned to face him. “I hung out with the brainy kids. We considered ourselves too cool to go to dances, so I never really learned how. I sort of regret it now.”
“That’s surprising. I pictured you being into the whole social thing, maybe even the homecoming queen.”
She burst out laughing. “Oh, Finn, you have a lot to learn about me. You can start tonight as you steer me awkwardly around the dance floor.”
“We’re not actually going to do it, are we?” He stared at her in horror.
“Of course we are. Pam’s remark tells me that these folks love their dancing. It’s like when you’re in a country where you don’t speak the language. The locals appreciate it if you at least give it a try. Sitting there like bumps on a log would be a mistake. We should dance, even if we’re bad at it. It’ll be excellent PR.”
“It’ll be a disaster.”
“No, it won’t.” She gazed up at him. “It’ll do us both good. We’ve established that we’re both perfectionists and we probably carry that to an extreme.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“I’m speaking for both of us. Let’s see if we can tolerate dancing badly.”
He groaned.
“Man up, O’Roarke. Have a few beers. Cut loose. I know you have it in you after hearing about the toilet seats and the sugar-to-salt routine.”
“Okay, but you’ll be sorry. You’re wearing sandals, don’t forget, and I’m wearing boots. Don’t blame me if you’re limping by the end of the night.”
“I won’t blame you, but I might ask you to give me a foot rub.”
His breath caught.
“See you in five minutes, cowboy.” Grabbing her suitcase, she handed him his laptop, ducked inside her door and closed it in his face.
He stared at the closed door for several seconds. A foot rub. She was taunting him, which wasn’t very nice of her, all things considered. But, God, how he loved it.
* * *
TWENTY MINUTES LATER when Chelsea walked into the Spirits and Spurs, she recognized immediately that this was the real deal. She’d seen places that gave the appearance of being historic frontier watering holes, but this saloon had earned its ambience the old-fashioned way through years of serving drinks to thirsty cowhands.
The tables were scarred but sturdy, while the polished wooden bar, complete with beveled mirror behind it and plenty of shelves and brass fittings, was a thing to behold. Finn must be wild with envy—it was the kind of bar he’d lusted after but hadn’t been able to afford. These beauties, most of them shipped from back East more than a century ago, didn’t come cheap.
Chelsea could easily imagine miners, cattlemen and gamblers bellying up to that bar in days gone by. Obviously this saloon had seen it all and then some. The band was tuning up, so the party was about to get started.
A woman wearing jeans and a Western shirt walked toward them. A long blond braid hung down her back and she moved with assurance, as if she owned the place. Chelsea was willing to bet that she did.
She confirmed it immediately. “I’m Josie Chance, and you must be Chelsea and Finn,” she said as she shook hands with both of them. “Welcome to Spirits and Spurs. Thanks for escorting them over here, Pam.”
“Fortunately they came peacefully.” Pam grinned at them. “But if you’ll excuse me, I see my darling husband over at the bar and we haven’t checked in with each other in a couple of days.”
Josie waved her away. “Go for it.”
Chelsea noticed Pam heading toward a distinguished-looking cowboy with a gray mustache. “Has her husband been out of town?”
“No, Emmett lives at the Last Chance Ranch. He’s the foreman there. They were married Christmas before last, but they maintain separate residences and get together when they can.”
“That’s fascinating. Don’t you think so, Finn?”
“I’m sorry. What?” Apparently he hadn’t heard a word because he’d been too absorbed in his surroundings.
“Never mind. Cool bar, huh?”
“It’s amazing. I love this whole place, Josie. It has the kind of atmosphere I’m going for at O’Roarke’s Brewhouse, but I haven’t quite achieved it yet.”
Josie smiled. “Give yourself another hundred years.”
“That’s how old it is?” Finn glanced up into the rafters. “No wonder it feels so authentic.”
“And it has ghosts.”
Finn’s eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding.”
“I hope she’s not.” Chelsea shivered with excitement. “I’ve always wanted to see one.”
“Well, I have seen one, right in this room after closing. I knew the saloon was supposed to be haunted by the ghosts of past patrons, so I renamed it Spirits and Spurs, thinking I was being clever. Then I saw my first ghost and realized I was being accurate.”
Chelsea sucked in a breath. “That is so cool.”
“That is so creepy.” Finn didn’t seem as happy about the ghost situation.
“Not everyone believes it.” Josie shrugged. “Their choice. I know what I saw and I stand by the name. By the way, I’ve tasted your beer, Finn, and it’s excellent. If you can guarantee me a steady supply, I’ll put it on the menu.”
“I’d be honored, ma’am.”
“Aha! Spoken like a Wyoming boy. Nice hat, too.”
“We were in coach,” Chelsea said, “but the hat rode in first class. Both legs. The flight attendants were very accommodating.”
“I understand how that could happen.” Josie gave Finn a speculative glance. “Women appreciate a nice hat. Anyway, I’ve monopolized you two long enough. The rest of the gang is sitting in the far corner where those two tables are pushed together. Let’s get your drinks ordered before we go over. What’ll you have?”
“O’Roarke’s Pale Ale,” Chelsea said, knowing it would please Finn. Besides, she liked it.
“Make that two, please.” Finn said.
“Why am I not surprised?” Josie beckoned to a waitress and gave her the order before turning back to them. “Hand-crafted beers are a fun idea. I’ve always thought owning the saloon was
