”You what?”
The question came out flat as a Minnesota wheatfield. He hadn’t moved and didn’t blink.
”I want to be a time scout.” She held his gaze steadily.
”Uh-huh.” He held her gaze until she blinked His eyes narrowed to slits, while his lips thinned to the merest white line under the bristly mustache. Oh, God, don’t think about your father, you aren’t facing him so just hang onto your nerve ….
Abruptly he downed the rest of the bourbon in one gulp and bellowed, “Marcus! Bring me the whole damned bottle!”
Marcus arrived hastily. “You are all right, Kit?”
Kit, no less. The bartender was on first-name basis with the most famous time scout in the world and she was left feeling like a little girl begging her father for a candy bar.
Kit flashed the young man that world-famous smile and said, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just leave the bottle, would you? And get a glass of white wine for the lady. I think she damn near choked on that bourbon.”
Margo felt her cheeks grow hot. “I like bourbon.”
”Uh-huh.” It was remarkable, how much meaning Kit Carson could work into that two-syllable catchphrase.
”Well, I do! Look, I’m serious-”
He held up a hand. “No. Not until I’ve had another drink.”
Margo narrowed her eyes. He wasn’t an alcoholic; was he? She’d had enough of dealing with that for several lifetimes.
The bartender returned with the requested bottle and a surprisingly elegant glass of wine. Kit poured for himself and sipped judiciously, then leaned back against worn leather upholstery. Margo ignored the wine. She hadn’t ordered it and would neither drink it nor pay for it.