At a little after three, in the middle of the week, there weren’t many customers. Jo Trellis, the owner of the bar, had moved to Fool’s Gold about four or five years ago. She’d redone the place, ignoring conventional wisdom that said bars should cater to men, and opened her doors to great success.

No one knew very much about Jo’s past. She was tall and muscular, pretty, in a quiet way. The only thing everyone knew for sure was that Jo kept a shotgun behind her bar and she knew how to use it.

Jo came out from the back room and spotted Nevada sliding into a booth.

“You’re here early,” the bartender said.

“I know. It’s been one of those days when getting drunk seemed like a sensible option.”

“You’ll pay for it in the morning.”

While the advice was sound, right now morning seemed a long time away. “Vodka tonic. A double.”

“Want anything to eat?” Jo asked, sounding more like a concerned parent than a woman who made her living serving liquor.

“No, thanks. I don’t want to slow the process.” If she drank enough, she would forget. Right now, forgetting seemed really smart.

Jo nodded and left, only to return seconds later with a large glass of water.

“Hydrate,” she growled. “You’ll thank me later.”

Nevada dutifully sipped the water until her drink arrived and then carefully gulped about half the contents. Now it was just a waiting game, she thought. Waiting for the vodka to cloud her brain and make her awful afternoon fade away.

As a rule, she was a big believer in facing her problems head-on. Figure out what was wrong, come up with several solutions, pick the best one and act. She’d always been a doer. She did her best to keep her complaining to a minimum and to be a team player. That meant exactly jack shit when it came to Tucker Janack.