Marin Thomas - A Cowboy of Her Own

Hoping to divert the conversation away from her childhood, she asked, “What are your hobbies?”

“Just rodeo. There’s nothing like the rush of competing against a bull or bronc.”

“Dixie said you and your brothers used to sneak onto your neighbor’s property and ride his cows.”

“Fred Pendleton and his wife, Millie, never had kids of their own and they ratted on me and my brothers every chance they got.”

“What did your grandparents do?”

“Not much until Conway and Buck got caught letting Pendleton’s prized heifer out of the pasture. The old man called social services and told them that our grandparents were too old to raise a bunch of hooligans and we should be taken away from them.”

“That was mean.”

“A lady from child welfare services stopped by the farm and threatened to put us all in different foster homes and it scared us kids bad enough that we quit playing pranks on the neighbors.”

Wendy couldn’t imagine the Cash siblings being split up. They were a tight-knit family who looked out for one another.

“What kind of trouble did you get into during your teens?” Porter asked.

Wendy was embarrassed to admit she’d been a Goody Two-shoes. “I broke curfew once.” She’d been an hour late returning home from choir rehearsal. When she’d gone out to the school parking lot, she’d discovered a flat tire on her car. A teacher had offered to help, but she’d been determined to change the tire herself. The teacher had remained with her in the lot, cheering her on until she’d succeeded. And before he let her leave, he made her drive around until he was satisfied the tire wouldn’t fall off.

“Did your parents ground you?”

“No.” After she’d explained the emergency they’d understood. But they’d still given her that look because she hadn’t phoned them to say she’d be late.

“You felt guilty for weeks afterward.”

She laughed. “Yes.”

“I admit I was a goof-off in my younger years,” he said. “But I’ve changed.”

Wendy didn’t comment.

“Go ahead. Say it.”

“Say what?”

“You think I’m still a slacker.”

“I don’t know you well enough to make that judgment.”

“I’m sure Dixie shared enough stories about my exploits for you to form an opinion.”

“Dixie loves you, Porter. She believes all her brothers walk on water.”

“It would be nice if she let us know that instead of complaining about everything we do.” He grew quiet for a minute, then said, “One day I’m going to buy a ranch.”

“Where?”

“I’ve got my eye on a place in the Fortuna Foothills.”

“That’s a nice area.” Buying property in the foothills would require a large chunk of money, and she doubted Porter’s employment history of hit-or-miss seasonal jobs would convince a bank to give him a loan.

What if Porter was rustling bulls under Buddy’s nose and selling them on the black market in order to finance his dream? As soon as the thought entered her mind, she pushed it away.

“So what do you say?” he said.

“What do I say about what?”

“Having a little fun before we pack it in for the night?”

“It’s late. I’m not—”

“Ten o’clock isn’t late.” When she didn’t comment, he said, “C’mon. Let your hair down.” He nodded to the clip that pinned her hair to her head. “I’ve never seen you with your hair loose.”

“I wear it up because it’s cooler and it doesn’t get in my way at work.”

“If it’s a pain then cut it.”

Her long, silky hair was her best feature—according to her mother. “I’ve thought about it, but don’t men prefer long hair?” She winced. Porter would assume she was fishing for compliments.

“I can’t speak for every guy, but there’s more to a girl than her hair and makeup.”

That all sounded good but... “If you feel that way, why does Dixie believe you need to raise your standards and date women with brains, not—”

“Boobs?” He laughed. “I have nothing against serious girls, except that most of them don’t know how to have fun. All work and no play stinks.”

“Are you insinuating that I’m no fun?” she teased, knowing that it was the truth. The last time she’d goofed off with a guy had been in college, when Tyler had taken her to a miniature golf course.

“I’m not insinuating. I’m flat-out saying it’s so,” he said.

She’d show him she knew how to party. “Go ahead and stop somewhere.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Two miles later Porter pulled into the parking lot of a bar.

“The place doesn’t look busy,” Wendy said.

“It’s a Monday night. Only the regulars will be here.” He got out, then helped Wendy from the cab.

“What’s the name of the bar?” she asked.

“The Red Rooster.” He pointed to the rooster weather vane on the roof of the building. And the black door sported the silhouette of a red rooster on it.

When they entered the establishment, a wailing soprano voice threatened to wash them back outside. Karaoke night was in full swing and a redhead in pink spandex and a rhinestone tank top belted out Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight” while a handful of men leered at her through beer-goggle eyes.

Porter grasped Wendy’s hand and led her to the bar.

A short man with a grizzled face and a potbelly stepped through a pair of swinging doors behind the bar. He wobbled over and asked, “Where are you folks from?”

“Yuma,” Porter said.

“I need to buy me a house down there. Can’t take the cold winters up here no more.” He slapped drink napkins on the bar. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a draft—” Wendy poked him in the side. “Make that a Dr Pepper,” Porter said.

“Scotch, neat, please.” She smiled at Porter’s wide-eyed stare. “You expected me to order wine?”

“Or beer. Where’d you learn to drink Scotch?”

“Most of my clients are men.”

“I guess there aren’t a lot of women running livestock ranches these days,” he said.

“There are some, but corporations are taking over the beef industry and family-owned ranches are disappearing.”

The barkeep delivered Wendy’s Scotch and she nodded to Porter. “He’s buying.” She tossed down the drink, then set the glass on the bar. “I’ll take another.” Two drinks would relax her. When the barkeep delivered her refill, her stomach had warmed from the alcohol and her ears no longer winced at the crazy lady singing another oldie but goody. After the second song the rhinestone beauty abandoned the microphone and a quarter found its way into the jukebox.

“Let’s dance.” Porter held out his hand.

Wendy finished her drink, then stood and swayed toward Porter. She braced her hands against his chest and closed her eyes. “Whoever built this place did a horrible job with the floors. They’re sloped downward.”

Porter’s chuckle drifted into her ear. Wendy could get used to having his hands on her. Standing this close to him, she noticed the bump on the bridge of his nose—he’d probably broken it roughhousing with his brothers. She shifted her gaze to his mouth. How would those masculine lips feel...? He lowered his head, closing the distance between their faces.

No. She pushed away from him and walked over to the stage. She picked up the microphone and tapped her finger against it, then jumped at the loud thump that echoed from the speakers on the floor.

“How does this work?”

Right then the song “Nine to Five” by Dolly Parton began playing and the screen hanging from the ceiling displayed the lyrics. Wendy made an attempt to sing along, but couldn’t keep up with the bouncing ball and sounded like an idiot. When the song ended, the group of men whistled. “Would you like me to sing another?” she asked.