One Stubborn Texan

He didn’t blame her for being cautious. His actions this afternoon could be interpreted as merely friendly. He’d done nothing to indicate he was romantically interested in her. But now he was veering into boy-girl territory. He’d asked her out on a date.

As pretty as she was, she probably got hit on constantly.

“You don’t have to be a good dancer to have fun, especially country-dancing,” he said. “There’s a club over on Highway 350 that has a pretty good band on Thursday nights.”

He could see she was tempted.

“We could have some Mexican food beforehand,” he added. “I’ll take you to a place where they have the best tamales in the whole state. Bet that’s one thing you can’t get in New York.”

Finally she smiled. “Okay, you got me. How can I resist the best tamales in Texas? But, Russ, if you have any plans for us…You know the kind of plans I mean?”

Oh, yeah. “A guy always has plans. Do you have a boyfriend back home?” Or even a husband. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, but these days that was no guarantee.

“No, but…I just want to keep things light.”

“No problem, Sydney. I’m pleased just to have your company for the evening, no expectations.”

“Okay, then. Pick me up in an hour. What should I wear?”

“Jeans. Comfortable shoes.”

“I didn’t bring either.”

He shrugged. “Improvise. This club doesn’t exactly have a dress code.”

RUSS KLEIN was a gentleman, Sydney would give him that. He arrived exactly on time, and though he eyed her skirt and blouse dubiously, he said nothing. At least she’d worn her lowest pair of heels, in case she actually got up the nerve to dance.

She was almost disappointed Russ didn’t drive a pickup. She thought every good Texas boy drove a truck. Instead, his vehicle of choice was a Bronco. It was shiny and clean and smelled nice. Even better, though, was the music: he was playing Stevie Ray Vaughan on the stereo.

“You like Stevie?” she asked.

“I’m surprised you even know who Stevie is.”

“My father is from Texas. He made sure to teach me all about the Texas blues.”

“You might actually like this band tonight, then. It’s not the usual twangy country stuff, though that’s good, too.”

Tia Juana’s Tamale Factory was a hole-in-the-wall in a strip shopping mall. But the parking lot was packed and when Russ opened the door the smell that greeted Sydney made her mouth water. They found a table and Russ went up to the counter to order for both of them.

The other patrons who crowded into the place were a real cross section. Sydney saw working men in their overalls, young couples all dressed up for a night on the town and senior citizens. As in New York, multiple cultures and languages mingled easily, sharing a common love for good food. She was used to thinking of Texas as almost another world and was surprised at the reminder that people were the same everywhere.

“Popular place,” Sydney observed when Russ returned.

“You’ll know why when you taste the food. It’s also cheap. Uh, which is not to say I wouldn’t have spent more on you.”

“Oh, so you’re a smooth talker.” She suspected he was putting on a bit of an act for her, but she responded to it anyway.

When they called Russ’s name and he went to collect their food, he returned with a tray loaded with a mountain of Tex-Mex.

“Oh, my gosh. Where do you start?” she asked.

“Anywhere you want. Just dig in. I got lots of everything, so there’s bound to be something you like.”

After sampling the guacamole, the crunchy beef tacos and the shredded chicken tamales, Sydney declared that she liked it all. “I’m not going to fit into my clothes if I keep eating like this.”

“We’ll work it off dancing,” he said.

If the restaurant wasn’t exactly classy, the club was downright questionable. Russ pulled up to a barn-sized corrugated tin building with a flickering neon sign that read Kick ’em Up Club. The dirt parking lot was filled with beat-up trucks and motorcycles. If the handful of kids smoking near their bikes was any example, Russ in clean jeans and shirt was on the elegant end of the dress scale.

A three-dollar cover charge got them inside. Sydney almost laughed: if you wanted to hear live music in New York, you had to pay at least ten.

The inside of the club was like a big cave. Tables and chairs were arranged haphazardly around the dance floor and a bar lined one long wall. Onstage, the band was just getting set up, but a jukebox pumped country twang into the beer-rich air.

“We better grab a table fast,” Russ said. “This place gets packed when the Jimmy LaBarba Band plays.”

“Hey, Russ, over here!” A couple of guys were waving to Russ from a table already crowded with beer bottles.

“Do you mind sitting with some friends?” Russ asked. “We can get our own table if you want.”

“No, let’s sit with a group.” That way, it would seem less like a date.

The group consisted of two couples who were kayaking buddies. It seemed whatever the outdoor activity, Russ was involved. Cycling, hiking, swimming, windsurfing—he did it all. The other couples were friendly to Sydney and she made herself relax and go with the flow. It had been so long since she’d socialized with people her own age and it felt really good just to kick back and enjoy herself.

Russ hadn’t exaggerated—the band was good. Sydney was familiar with most of the songs, covers of her dad’s favorite artists like Lyle Lovett, Delbert McClinton and Omar and the Howlers. But they also played a few original songs and Sydney was impressed enough that she bought their CD as a present for her dad.

After a couple of beers, the band had launched into a set of more traditional country fare. The music was a little more dance-friendly.

“What do you say?” Russ asked. “Want to give it a try?”

“Okay.” What the heck. If she made a fool of herself, it didn’t matter. She’d never see these people again.

She soon knew she’d made a mistake. Russ was a good dancer and before the end of the first song he had her two-stepping like a pro. But the feel of his hands on her—he held one of her hands and put his other on her waist—left her flushed and breathless.

When the band started a slow song, she knew she should insist they take a break. But she didn’t. She let herself go into his arms, let herself rest her head against his shoulder.

It felt so good, better than anything she could remember in a long time, and she knew she would think about this night a lot in the days to come and the longing to be with him again would consume her.

The party broke up relatively early, it being a weeknight and all of them having to work the next day. The band was still going strong, though, as they left the club.

Russ held her hand as they walked across the parking lot to his car, ostensibly to guide her around the many potholes. But she liked the feel of it.

“That was really a lot of fun,” she said as he drove her back to the B and B. She half hoped he would ask her to go home with him. As vulnerable as she felt, she might have succumbed to the temptation. But he honored her request that they keep things light. He walked her up to the front door of the B and B.

“You have a key?”

“Oh, yes. Miss Gail and Miss Gretchen made a point of informing me that they went to bed promptly at nine o’clock and after that I was on my own till morning.”

“They’re nice ladies. And they cook a mean breakfast.”