Free Line Dancing Can Be Murder by Stacey Coverstone Page A

I’ve heard of the cowboy bar. Can we go to it tonight?”
    “You can do whatever you want while we’re in Jackson,” Keith said. “There’s nothing planned as a group except dinner at a local restaurant.”
    “I’ve heard Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart own a home here,” Donna said.
    Keith’s muscles bulged as he lifted suitcases and travel bags from the coach and carried them to a spot under a protected awning. “They do, but don’t hold your breath hoping to see them. They’re private people.”
    I was searching through the sea of luggage for my bags when I saw Keith subtly motion to Donna with his finger. She stepped to him and he whispered something in her ear. Nonchalantly trying to eavesdrop was of no use. Their voices were low. The only words I caught were “finalize tonight” from him and “after dinner” from her.
    When she and I unloaded our stuff into our room and freshened up, I wanted so bad to ask her what that conversation had been about. But she’d already warned me in that sweet way of hers to butt out. Instead, I commented on how clean the room was and how I liked the headboards that were made of twisted tree branches.
    Luckily, all six of us had packed umbrellas, because it was still raining when we gathered to trek to the town square to check out the quaint shops. We hit almost every shop. Everything was too expensive for my wallet, but I splurged and bought a sweatshirt with Jackson Hole, Wyoming printed on the front since I hadn’t packed anything warm and I was freezing. The other girls bought at least one souvenir, with the exception of Jackie who juggled six bags of new clothes in her hands three hours later.
    “Look at those arches formed out of elk antlers.” Donna pointed to the gigantic arches on the corners of the town square. The rain had finally stopped, and we were able to enjoy the authentic western town and its outdoor attractions.
    “Anyone want to take a ride on the stagecoach?” I asked, noting a stage stop and an authentic red U.S. mail coach being driven by horses.
    “I’d rather go see the cowboy bar,” Annette said.
    “Whatever you want,” Kim replied. “It’s your birthday.”
    Inside the nondescript wooden façade with the neon sign was a saloon that displayed the true atmosphere of the Wild West. Red carpet, cowboy memorabilia and murals, knobbled pine architecture, and barstools made of genuine leather saddles greeted us when we stepped into the dim interior. A stage for bands or dancing was at the far end of the building. Four guys in cowboy hats and baseball caps played at one of the pool tables. Only a few other customers lined the bar at that time of day.
    “What’ll you have, ladies?” the bartender asked us. We all ordered a beer, except for Annette, who was a strict teetotaler.
    “I’ll have a Coke,” she said, running her palm across the long polished bar.
    “This bar is embellished with five hundred and ninety-two silver dollars,” the bartender said. He pointed to the coins embedded in the wood.
    “Do you have live music?” Kim asked.
    “Do we ever. Some of the best country musicians have played here. Waylon Jennings, Glen Campbell, Tanya Tucker, Hoyt Axton, Willie Nelson… You name them, they’ve played here.” He set glasses of beer and Coke in front of us. “You ladies ought to come back tonight. There’s no live band on Sunday nights, but we’ll have jukebox music and you can dance to your heart’s desire.”
    He’d mentioned the magic word. “We’re line dancers,” Jackie told him. “Maybe we’ll perform for your customers tonight, if you promise to pour us a free round of drinks.”
    The bartender grinned, displaying a gap between his front teeth. “My customers would enjoy a live performance by such a comely group of ladies. It’s a promise.”
    “I like this place,” Annette said, gazing around.
    “It’s her birthday today,” Crystal told the bartender.
    “Happy birthday, ma’am. That Coke is on