Queen of Hearts

A mountain town Saturday night.

If you’re coming, stick out your thumb. I’m 19 in this memory. And we’ll have to hitchhike up the mountain. I refuse to bike. It’s death.

I’m a wrangler and operations hand on a horse ranch in the mountains beside Boulder. And it’s Saturday night. I work six days a week, so it is officially the coveted “weekend.” I’ve saved my allotted one shower a week for tonight, with plans to make the hike into town for a drink and live music. Because of the remote location and altitude, ranchers and locals have water delivered weekly by truck from Boulder. As it’s in short supply, the staff and I ration what we can, saving most of it for guests and drinking.

There is just one bar and restaurant within walking distance of the ranch, tucked into a small mountain town. Population 118. The crew and I make the hike nearly every weekend—there in the daylight, home in the dark. The place feels suspended in time. A frontier hotel built from logs in 1859, with unexpectedly gourmet food, and, despite its obscure location, it draws real talent—bluegrass, folk, and Americana bands—on Friday and Saturday nights.

Most of the ranch staff are older than me, and I’m tall, so no one ever questioned my age. Especially the bartender, Pete. He was a local celebrity of sorts and would ask trivia questions to patrons with the promise of free beer for correct answers. I’m pretty decent at trivia, and Pete leaned hard into a few of my sweet spots: history, geography, and music. What’s more, the man self-admittedly did too many drugs in the seventies, leaving his memory a little blitzed when it came to recalling which questions he’d already asked that night, or even the week before. All this to say, I drank for free a lot, but always left all the cash I’d stuffed in my pockets on the bar for Pete at the end of the night.

On this particular Saturday, the entertainment was a solo act—a piano player and singer. A middle-aged gentleman with a weathered face, a hardy laugh, and a flat-brimmed hat. A real-life troubadour. He played a handful of well-worn folk favorites, along with some of his own poetic originals. His voice was strong and captivating. It filled the wood rafters and invited listeners to the dance floor.

Despite the bar being busy, most people have been served. I’m posted up at my favorite stool, the one from which I can see everything, lost in conversation with Pete.

The musician strikes a familiar tune and, for whatever reason, the room goes quiet.

Eagles’ Desperado.

As he begins to sing, I give him my undivided attention. Maybe I’ve had just the right amount of drinks. Maybe my body is exhausted from digging post holes all day. Maybe my mind is unusually quiet. Maybe it’s a bit of all the above. But the music possesses me. I’m lost to it.

Even Pete beside me is leaning against the bar, resting his elbows, his head in his hands, listening.

I wonder if you know this feeling—the way music can slip past your guard and open a door to something you’ve shut out.

And, of course, it’s this song, of all songs, that gets through. Desperado—a song about a certain kind of person. A lone wolf. The kind who keeps their cards close and mistakes solitude for strength. A ballad about the bets we make, the risks we take—or don’t—and what it costs to choose wrong.

I will never forget how that version of that song, in that moment, hit me in the soul—as if I’d never heard it the hundred times before.

I am teary-eyed. And at that point in my life, I rarely cried.

When the song ends, Pete swears.

“Well, shit. That was something.”

Then, as if planned, he pulls two short ball glasses from under the bar and pours an eight-count of whiskey into each. He looks at me thoughtfully, with both caution and intrigue.

“You know, kid, you’ve got some Desperado in you. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I know.” I exhale through a grimace, dragging myself back to reality.

He raises his glass to me. “To the Queen of Hearts.”

“To her,” I nod, clinking my glass to his.

Don’t you draw the queen of diamonds, boy
She’ll beat you if she’s able
You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet
-Eagles, Desperado