Page 3 of The Trail Boss

“Isn’t it always?” Roxie replied, managing a small smile in return. She opened her locker and quickly changed into her uniform— a corseted black peasant style shirt, black leather pants, low-heeled black ankle boots and a black half apron with the Iron Spur logo and pockets on either side—that managed to look professional and alluring at the same time.

Once dressed, she grabbed her notepad and pen, tucking them into her apron pocket. The mirror above the sink caught her eye, and she paused, brushing a few strands of hair back into place. She hardly recognized the woman staring back at her sometimes. Jeremiah had liked her hair long and blonde. Her first act of reclaiming her life had been to cut it into a short, stylish, spiky cut and let the natural dark color return.

When she stepped into the main lounge, the music greeted her first—a low, pulsing beat that seemed to reverberate through the walls. The room was dimly lit, with warm amber lights casting a seductive glow over the polished bar and the plush leather furniture scattered throughout. Conversations hummed softly in the background, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.

Roxie made her way behind the bar, her steps purposeful but careful to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. The club’s clientele—exclusive, wealthy, and often private—preferred discretion. And so did she.

“Roxie, you’re on the middle tonight,” the head bartender, a tall man with a booming voice named Bones—for his ability to break them—said as he passed her a tray. “You good?”

“Always,” she said, flashing him a confident smile. She was confident. It just seemed that tonight her normal confidence was being undermined by memories of the crash and her exhaustion.

The night began as it always did—orders for cocktails and top-shelf whiskey, the occasional flirtatious glance that Roxie skillfully deflected. She kept her head down, focused on the rhythm of pouring, shaking, and serving. The work was repetitive but grounding in its own way.

“Did you hear about Vanessa?”

The words drifted toward Roxie from a nearby booth as she wiped down the counter. Her ears perked up despite herself. Two women sat huddled together, their voices low but animated.

“The one who wears all the lace?” one asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

“Yeah. She’s been coming here for years. Turns out she’s some big-time romance author. Like, bestsellers and all that.”

“No way. I thought she was just a lawyer or something.”

“Apparently not. And she keeps it totally hush-hush. I heard she works out of a little cabin in the Hill Country, cranking out these steamy novels. Makes a killing, too.”

Roxie froze, her hand tightening around the rag she was holding. A romance author? Here? The thought sent a flicker of hope through her chest, quick and bright. She glanced toward the booth but caught herself, forcing her gaze back to the bar. She didn’t need anyone noticing her eavesdropping.

Still, the idea stuck. Someone had made it. Someone who might understand the stories Roxie scribbled in her notebook late at night, the ones she barely had the courage to share even with herself.

That burst of hope gave her added energy and her heart felt lighter as she worked her way through the rest of her shift, though she kept her excitement tucked away behind her usual composed demeanor. The night wore on, but somehow, her spirit had been renewed. If someone else could make it, maybe she could too.

By the time Roxie locked up her locker and stepped into the night, the parking lot was eerily quiet. The faint glow of a streetlamp cast long shadows over the rows of cars, and the hum of cicadas filled the air. She pulled her jacket tighter around herself as she headed for her car, the sharp crunch of her boots echoing through the gravel.

Halfway to her car, a prickle of unease crawled up her spine. She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the empty lot, but nothing seemed out of place.

“Get over yourself. You’re just tired,” she whispered to herself, quickening her pace.

Still, the feeling didn’t leave her. By the time she slid into the driver’s seat and locked the doors, her heart was pounding harder than she cared to admit. She shook her head and started the engine, forcing a laugh as she pulled out of the lot.

“Too much caffeine, not enough sleep,” she muttered, willing the unease to fade as she drove toward home.

But no matter how hard she tried, the sensation of being watched lingered, settling into her chest like a weight she couldn’t shake.

2

ROXIE

The faint smell of lavender cleaner hung in the air as Roxie adjusted the tension on the pole at the back of the studio. Her tired eyes swept across the room, noting the bright smiles and chatter of her students as they stretched on the worn mats. Their enthusiasm was a balm for her exhaustion, even if her body screamed for just one day of uninterrupted rest.

“All right, ladies!” she called out, clapping her hands to get their attention. “Let’s shake off the morning fog and get moving. Warm-up spins, two counts each side. Go!”

The class sprang to life, laughter and playful grumbles filling the space as the women approached their poles. Roxie moved through the group like a coach on game day, correcting grips, adjusting stances, and offering words of encouragement.

“Anita, lift your chin. You want to feel powerful, not like you’re hiding from the pole.”

Anita laughed nervously and adjusted her posture. “Easy for you to say. You look like you were born on one of these things.”

“Trust me, I wasn’t,” Roxie said with a grin, even as the ache in her back flared again. “Keep practicing. You’re stronger than you think.”

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