Meeting each set of eyes, Wesley dismissed one after another. Too young. Too old. This one's an Indian. That one's blond. None of them resemble me in any way. That only left the man sitting at the bar with his back to the room. He wore a substantial black hat, which concealed his features from questing eyes.
At the sound of the door swinging shut, the man turned. Wesley found himself staring into a face rugged with exposure to the sun. Grizzled stubble coated the cheeks, but the features beneath the surface could have been seen in his mirror. He gulped, a maelstrom of contradictory emotions swirling inside him. Slowly he crossed the dimly lit space to sit on an empty barstool beside the stranger he should have known.
“What can I getcha?” the barkeep demanded in a harried voice.
Oh pleas
