Always A Cowboy

“Not yet.” She shook her head. “I just don’t want that.”

“Hell, neither do I. You come up with something else and I’ll listen.”

“I’m thinking on it.” She wasn’t thinking about anything else. Well, except him.

Here, among the horses, the mountains, the blue sky, he looked like the real deal, a cowboy all the way. Of course, that was probably because he was the real deal—and his authenticity wasn’t compromised by the exasperated expression on his face. She liked how he habitually tipped back his hat and then drew it forward.

“As I told you, I’ll ponder it,” she couldn’t resist saying.

“Ponder? Really? Is that how you think we talk out here?”

“It’s a perfectly good word.” She stood her ground. “People from California say it all the time.”

“Yeah, maybe a hundred years ago.” He gestured at the horses. “Smoke—if that’s what we’re going to call him—would be fine after the trank. But the point is, he has to go. He’s wreaking havoc with the ranch’s working horses. Get it? Put that in your thesis.”

“What if I could coax him into coming close enough so you could just catch him?”

“What?” He looked incredulous. “You can’t. He’s a wild stallion.”

“I think I could.”

He let out a long, slow breath. “You can’t even saddle a horse.”

“That’s a skill I intend to learn. Can I give it a try? By the way, I’m well aware that we aren’t talking about a domesticated animal. If we were, I wouldn’t be here.”

Drake threw up his hands. “This is the most ridiculous conversation I’ve ever had. He isn’t going to do it.”

“Let me try before you shoot him.”

That riled him. “I’m not going to shoot that horse or any other horse, for heaven’s sake! I’ll sedate him and have him moved to federal land set aside for wild horses. Not the same thing.”

It wasn’t as if she didn’t know that, but still...it was fun to tease him. She couldn’t believe she was about to ask this, but she’d been pretty brazen already. “Can you wait two more weeks? I need that much time for my study, and you’ve had this herd around for a while, anyway. Then I promise I’ll get out of your hair. I was planning on staying a month.”

A bribe of sorts, and a shameless one.

His cooperation in exchange for getting rid of her. She figured he might go for it.

“A month!” He seemed properly horrified.

“You’d have one less week with me—if you’ll just hold off a bit.”

He took the deal. He smiled grimly and jerked off his glove, then thrust out his hand. “Let’s shake on it.”

Solid grip. He didn’t try to break her fingers or anything, which she appreciated, since she could tell he’d reached the end of his patience.

He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

Was there any chance he’d actually pose for a formal photograph? Maybe next to that giant horse of his... Uh-uh, she thought wisely. This would not be the right moment to ask more of Mr. Drake Carson.

Instead, she said simply, “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he muttered as he stalked away. “All I ask is that you be a man of your word.”

“I’m not a man,” she called out to his retreating back.

“I’ve noticed that,” he said.

He didn’t turn around.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_c27c2ead-4705-5db8-98c6-a27aa8e4335e)

THE WEEKLY POKER GAME was set up at Bad Billy’s Biker Bar and Burger Palace. Drake could use a cold one, so he approved of the choice. He spotted two of his friends already at the table, then sauntered up to the bar and nodded at Billy in greeting. “Who’s waiting tonight? Thelma?”

“Sure is. Full of piss and vinegar, too. Got into a fender bender on her way to work. You know how she loves that old car. You boys be on your best behavior.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Thelma was a crusty older lady who, like Harry, tolerated no nonsense. Billy didn’t need a bouncer; if anybody dared misbehave, Thelma effectively booted him out, although how she managed it when she was only about five feet high—and that was on a tall day—was a mystery. She never had a problem getting her point across, either. “Tell her I’ll have my usual, and be polite about it, okay? Especially if she’s in a no-bullshit mood.” The place seemed busier than ever that night.

Billy laughed, a low rumble in his wide chest. “You are a wise man, my friend. Our Thelma has a soft spot for you, but she’s about reached her cowboy quotient for the day, so I’ll go ahead and draw your beer myself.”

Tripp Galloway and Tate Calder were halfway through their first mugs of beer, elbows resting comfortably on the nicked wooden table. Tripp hooked a foot around a chair and tugged it out so Drake could sit. “You’re late, but Spence texted and said he was tied up, so you don’t get the slow prize this time. He figures maybe twenty minutes.”

Drake took the chair. In the background a jukebox was playing Willie Nelson and the place was loud, but never so loud that you couldn’t talk to the people at your table. One of the many reasons he disliked big cities was the noise—restaurants where you couldn’t hear yourself think, much less converse with the person next to you. Traffic snarls, horns honking, sirens blaring. The skyscrapers and office buildings made him feel hemmed in, and the smell of exhaust fumes followed you everywhere. Give him the sweet scent of long grass in a clean breeze.

Tate said, “I need to warn you that Thelma’s on the warpath and she’s headed this way.”

“Billy mentioned that she was in some kind of snit,” Drake muttered under his breath, just before she plonked down his beer.

“Carson, you’re always running late. And where’s that worthless Spence Hogan, anyway? I spent some quality time with him earlier.”

Spence was the chief of police, and whatever else she might be, Thelma was no criminal. Drake wondered what she meant, although he wasn’t stupid enough to ask.

Thelma had ringlets of gray hair, pale blue eyes, and wore her glasses on the end of her nose. As far as Drake could tell, she didn’t actually need them; they seemed to be mainly for effect, probably so she could glare at people over the top.

Then he abruptly remembered and said, “Oh, the accident. Yeah, I heard. Sorry about Frankie.”

She’d named her 1966 bright yellow Impala Frankie, and since this was Mustang Creek, he knew that car well. “That out-of-town asshole had no insurance. It’s going to cost me seven hundred bucks to fix the car. I can take that idiot to small claims court, and Spence is going to make sure his license is suspended, but that won’t do Frankie any good, will it?” She blew out a loud breath. “I’m really pissed off.”

Now, there was breaking news.

“As soon as Spence gets here, your food will be out.”

Tripp made the mistake of saying, “We haven’t ordered yet.”

Thelma sent him a look that would’ve scared the average grizzly bear. “All of you will have the special.”

Every one of them wanted to ask what the special might be, but none had the guts to do so.

“Get it?” she demanded, just in case they didn’t know what was good for them, which was whatever Thelma thought was good for them.