He didn’t look like a retired hero or a retired history professor. He looked like a thoroughly irritate dangerous old man, past sixty at least. Margo, at sixteen and forty-some weeks, swallowed hard and told herself, Get a grip. Remember the speech you rehearsed. Unfortunately, not only had the body of her speech fled, so had the carefully prepared intro, leaving her floundering for words as she set down her case and scooted into the booth her life’s hero had chosen. He’d already taken a seat at the very back. The booth reeked of beer and cheap smoke.
The bartender, a good-looking young man with a great smile, arrived with a tumblerful of bourbon and an expectant air. He slid the bourbon unerringly across the dimly lit table toward Kit Carson, then turned to her.
”Uh …” She tried to think what she ought to order. Make a good impression …. Margo vacillated between her favorite-a raspberry daiquiri-and something that might rescue the shreds of her reputation with this man. She hadn’t seen prices listed anywhere and tried to estimate how much this interview was going to cost. Oh, hell …Margo threw caution to the winds, figuring decisiveness was better than looking like a dithering idiot. “Bourbon. Same as Mr. Carson’s.”
The waiter, a dim shape at best in this hell-hole of a corner, bowed in a curiously ancient fashion and disappeared. Kit Carson only grunted, an enigmatic sound that might have been admiration or thinly veiled disgust. At least he hadn’t asked if she were old enough to drink. The bourbon arrived. She knocked back half of it in one gulp, then sat blinking involuntary tears and blessing the darkness.