Page 12 of Christmas at Hart's Ridge

“A kid,” Ethan said flatly. “Seriously? In the first place, there’s always a creep or two hanging out at the ballet, harassing the dancers. Bethany knows how to handle herself.”

I frowned, not liking the sound of that. Who was watching out for her in New York? Ethan wouldn’t let harm come to her, but he was only there for a week at a time. What about the other fifty-one weeks of the year?

“Also, twenty-five. We aretwenty-five. I don’t know how to tell you this, but that’s considered an adult.”

I shook my head, a denial of my baby brother’s age as much as Bethany’s. I was responsible for Ethan. Always. Had been as long as I could remember. I couldn’t recall the first time I was left in charge. It had always just been the way of things. Our parents were mountaineers, always off on some big adventure or another. While they were gone, I was the man of the house—and the woman, which was evenmoreresponsibility, quite frankly.

Not that they ever left us alone, exactly. That would have been illegal. No, they just left us in the care of our grandma, who was rapidly descending into dementia. So I had taken care of her, too, to the best of my ability. Maw Maw had passed away when I was fifteen, at which point Rab and Shannon Buchanan—I couldn’t remember the last time I had called them Mom and Dad—decided I was old enough to babysit myself and my little brother while they were climbing mountains all over the world.

Deep down, I suspected that my parents had discovered they weren’t cut out for the parent life with their first kid, and the second one was an accident. But I never shared this thought with Ethan.

Ethan was still my responsibility, all these years later.

And right now, that responsibility included Bethany. Because Ethan cared about Bethany, and I cared about Ethan. Also because she was an employee of Goat’s Tavern and, unlike Jasmine, she was not in possession of long nails that would and could draw blood, should the situation require it.

“If it worries you so much, keep an eye on her,” Ethan said. “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal about Bethany. Jasmine is right there. You’re right here. She’s fine. You look out for everyone who works here.”

That was true. It was my job, my responsibility as owner of Goat’s, to see that my employees were safe. I looked back at the bar. I looked at her face and only her face. I did not look lower, though it took superhuman effort to keep my gaze where it belonged. And she looked fine. Like she was having a good time, even. Not scared or worried at all.

If I squinted a bit, I could almost see her as she had been. As she wassupposedto be. A scrawny kid. Ethan’s girl. Not this goddamn woman who had felt so fuckingrightin my arms last night. It was only when I opened my eyes wide that everything went sideways.

But goddamn it, she was my responsibility. I would take that on, even if it meant wearing blinders until New Year’s.

Bethany

Serving drinks at Goat’s Tavern was not my first job, technically. I had worked my way up the ranks from chorus to soloist to principal at the New York Ballet Company, getting paid every step of the way. But dancing didn’t feel like a job so much as a lifestyle. Everything revolved around it.

This was different.

There were similarities. Certain skills I had honed as a principal dancer served me surprisingly well as a bartender at Goat’s Tavern. For example, I knew how to smilejustright to convince patrons to part with their hard-earned cash but discourage them from putting their hands on my body. Whether I was angling for tips at a bar or donations at a gala, the smile worked equally as well.

I also had ballet to thank for my high tolerance of pain stemming from being on my feet for hours at a time. Bartending was actually easier in that respect, because at least I wasn’t on my toes. Plus Luke had sprung for a thickly cushioned mat behind the bar that eased the ache considerably.

But still, somehow it felt like my first job. Dancing was mysoul. Bartending? It was a job. I was having fun, Jasmine was great to work with, and there were worse things I could do for money. It was interesting that, judging from the fat wad of cash I had collected so far, bartending might pay more than dancing. In worth, if not in actual dollars, because those dollars had to stretch much farther in New York City than in Hart’s Ridge.

That was the ugly truth about creative endeavors, wasn’t it? Sure, they paid, a little. But they took all of your heart, all of your soul, leaving you with very little afterward. The real payment was applause and adulation, and who was I to ask for more than that? A million girls would kill for my position at the New York Ballet Company. I knew that.

But I couldn’t pay my bills with applause.

I couldn’t have children with adulation.

Dance was a hungry master. It broke my body, took my full concentration, everything I could give it. And it was worth it. It was all worth it. Hell, I didn’t even know if I wanted kids. I had never considered a life other than dance.

Still, there was something to be said for this, too. For something that was just a job. Something that paid the bills and left me with enough extra—both in dollars and time—to have a little fun. Something that wasn’t an obsession.

For all of my success in ballet, there had been heartbreaks and failures, too. Roles I wanted desperately that went to someone else. Stumbles in front of an audience. A teacher who simply hated my red hair.

I wanted to be good at bartending. I cared about what people thought of me and I didn’t want to let Ethan down. But it wouldn’t break my heart or wreck my week if I made a mistake. There was a relief to bartending being just a job and not my whole life.

I did, however, hope fervently that any and all mistakes would be made when Luke wasn’t looking. Which would be hard to manage, because it seemed like he wasalwayslooking. And no doubt finding fault, judging from the frown he wore. Disconcerting, that. Because Luke had always been easy going. The kind of guy who smiled at everyone and never took anything too seriously. What was it about me that he found so upsetting?

By 8:30, the crush of customers had mostly died down. There were a few stragglers left in various stages of sobriety, or lack thereof. Two women came in, a blonde and a brunette, and settled at the bar. They removed their coats and scarves, revealing tight, low-cut sweaters, laughing loudly at some inside joke, drawing the glances of the male patrons.

I didn’t recognize them. But then, I didn’t recognize anyone easily after so many years away, even people I had known most of my childhood. Still, my decade in New York had taught me to recognize quality, and those two women were definitely wearing it. The brunette had a purse I knew cost more than my month’s rent. That meant they were probably staying at the fancy ski resort in Evergreen, not local to Hart’s Ridge. Why they had made the trek to a dive bar on the other side of the mountain was anyone’s guess.

“Ladies,” I said, a bright smile pasted on my face. “What can I get for you?”

They put in orders for glasses of Chardonnay, looking behind me and surveying the room as though expecting someone.

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