by Vicki Tharp
The nearest man stopped working and tipped his hat to them. He wasn’t as big or as muscular as a lot of the cowboys, or nearly as good looking. One of the flag team girls described him as being two beers shy of being screw-able.
The girls weren’t wrong, but since her pregnancy scare, Cora didn’t care as much about those things. “Hey, Scottie,” Cora said, “You’re not letting them work you too hard, are you?”
He spit a shot of tobacco in the dirt at his feet. His teeth were stained, but the wattage meter on his smile hit sincere. “No, ma’am. We’re about done for the night.”
“I’m not even two years older than you. Drop the ma’am already.”
Scottie palmed his cowboy hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, ma’am.”
One of the other men whistled at Scottie, and he turned back to finish the offloading. After leaving the barn, Cora glanced over at Josephine. She had this funny look on her face.
“What’s wrong with you?” Cora asked. “You look amazed, like I walked on water or ran the barrel pattern buck naked. Which I would totally do on a bet if it weren’t so freaking cold out. The barrel pattern, not the walking on water bit.”
“Since when do you talk to Scottie Hines?”
“What’s wrong with talking to Scottie?”
“You never seemed to notice him before, even though he’d noticed you. You never told me you two were friends.” Cora couldn’t read Josephine’s expression, but the pinch of incredulity in her voice made Cora feel as if she’d come across as shallow and self-centered at times. Maybe she had. But she’d changed a lot since ‘the scare.’
Cora shrugged. Best friends or not, for some reason she’d never told Josephine about her little melt down, and by ‘little melt down’ Cora meant the big boo-hoos, the snotty sniffles, the puffy-eyed, drink-half-the-bottle-of-booze kind of breakdown she’d had when she found out she wasn’t pregnant. She hadn’t known how freaked out she had been until she’d gotten her period three weeks late.
What a relief.
She wouldn’t have had the words to tell her preacher father that his little girl had gone off to the circuit and gotten herself pregnant.
That’s when Scottie had found her sitting in the back of the horse trailer. Crying with relief and celebrating with Jack...Daniels.
“We talked one night in Oklahoma City. I think that was when Silas came up and the two of you disappeared for a couple hours. That’s when I’d found out—”
“Sorry about that, I hadn’t seen him in—”
“No. It’s fine. But since then, Scottie and I have been talking a bit. Or I guess I should say listening. He doesn’t say much, but he’s a great listener.”
Josephine gave her a nudge with her elbow. “He seems kinda taken with you. Maybe you should invite—”
“It’s not like that,” Cora was quick to add. “We’re friends. Or at least friendly. Nothing more.”
They were in the darkest part of the parking lot between the barn and the area where all the rodeo people had parked their rigs. There were a few lights on here and there, but overhead, the stars were big and bright—a brilliant blanket of twinkling lights on a cold, clear Texas night. People were right when they said everything was bigger in Texas.
They made their way back to their trailer. Josephine had parked near one of the light poles in the middle of the parking lot, so they would have some light if they had to run to the porta-potty in the back of the trailer in the middle of the night.
“What’s this?” Josephine said as she plucked a single red rose wedged in the door.
“Silas is sweet, but I didn’t figure your fiancé for the kind of guy who showers his girl with flowers.”
“He doesn’t. Plus, he isn’t here yet.” Josephine plucked a card from the jamb and read the front of the envelope. “It’s for you.”
No one ever sent her flowers. Cora took the rose from Josephine’s hand, pricked herself, and sucked the drop of blood from the end of her thumb. “Ouch.” She tore the little card from the envelope and held it up to the light. “It says ‘Better luck next time, beautiful.’”
Josephine got a devious glint in her eye. “‘Beautiful?’ Maybe this guy wants—”
Cora cut her a look. “Would you stop trying to get me laid?”
“Sorry.” Josephine managed to sound a bit contrite, but her smile didn’t make her look sorry at all. “Who’s it from?”
Josephine rechecked the card and the envelope, but whoever had sent it hadn’t left their name. “No clue.”
“Oooh,” Josephine said as she unlocked their door. “Someone has a secret admirer.”
2
The inside of The Wagon Wheel didn’t disappoint. Ian claimed a seat at the end of the bar, giving him a clear view of the rest of the joint. It had taken him three days, one flat tire, and one busted radiator to make it to El Paso, Texas. The last thing he should want to do is sit down, but exhaustion won out.
His wallet hadn’t fared well, the trip and the repairs turned out to be more expensive than he’d anticipated. Not only had he left Murphy’s Auto Repair in his rear-view window, he’d also cut off his main source of income.
Before he’d left New York, he’d packed his camper full of non-perishables, but now with his cash running short and freelance photography as his only means of making money, if he didn’t sell any photographs soon, he would starve.
A worry for another day. Tonight, he’d nurse a whiskey, have a hot meal at the bar, and spend a couple hours watching this group of people he’d have to infiltrate.
He’d need to find someone to befriend. Someone who could help him break into this tight knit community of cowboys. He recognized a few of the men from the parking lot of the rodeo arena where he’d dumped his camper for the night, but tonight was about observation, not implementation.
“Whiskey, and a menu,” Ian told the bartender as he dropped his camera bag on the floor at his feet. “Make it a double.”
Tall and lean, the bartender was probably the only one in the bar besides Ian who wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat. The man dried the ring of moisture off the bar in front of Ian and gave him a suspicious look. “Where ya from?”
Even with Ian trying to flatten his New York accent, even over the bump and base of the country music pouring out of the speakers, those eight words had been all he’d had to say, and the bartender knew Ian didn’t belong. Fitting in was going to be a lot harder than he’d thought. “Up north.”
Ian didn’t elaborate. The bartender didn’t press.
While Ian waited for his drink, he pulled his camera out of his bag and set it on the bar. He loaded up a roll of black and white film, which he’d come to prefer over colored film. In a place like this bar with the low lights, he’d need the faster speed film if he hoped for any of the shots to come out without having to use a flash. Hard to go unnoticed if he was blinding everybody.
The bartender returned with his whiskey and after a quick glance at the menu, Ian ordered a chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes. He took a sip as his eyes skimmed around the inside of the bar. The live music came from a stage the size of a photo negative. The singer was some up and coming guy by the name of Hank Williams Jr. from what the fliers out front advertised.
Most of the tables were occupied, the voices a loud steady drone beneath the music. On the dance floor, couples danced slow and close. The front door opened, and a guy walked in with a brunette on his arm, but it was the brunette behind him that dazzled Ian.
Backlit from the stage lights, Ian’s gaze traveled down her body from the sharp cut brim of her cowboy hat, to the fringe on the arms of her shirt, and down to the curve of her jeans-clad ass that made his heart kick and the crotch of his jeans get tight.
But it wasn’t the sparkles on her shirt that dazzled him, it was the arresting way she confidently carried herself, her body language saying, here-I-am-world.
The sparkly woman walked toward one of the few empty tables and laughed at something the o
ther woman said. Not a feminine little giggle. This was a head thrown back, all-out laugh that carried across the bar. He felt for his glass and brought it to his lips, unable to take his eyes off her.
She reached for a chair at one the empty tables as Ian reached for his camera, wanting to capture the perfection. He stopped himself.
As much as he wanted her on film, for once he didn’t want that filter between him and real life, that extra lens that would tear him out of this world and drop him into another. A world where he sat on the sidelines and watched people live their lives through his camera’s lens.
A world where he was on the outside looking in.
Someone dropped onto the stool beside him and ordered a beer. Ian didn’t pay the man any mind, too busy drinking the woman in. Ian had come to take behind the scene photos of life on the rodeo circuit, but in his mind, he’d pictured dust and dung, sweaty men and determined faces. The battle between man and beast.
He hadn’t expected her.
The man beside Ian said something. Ian refocused his gaze on his new drinking buddy. “What was that?”
The man was built like a tank with hard edges, massive biceps, and thick forearms. No, scratch that, not built like a tank, but he could probably bench press one.
The man pointed with his long-neck beer. “That’s Cora Hayes. The woman you’re staring at.” The man had that look in his eye. Proprietary. Protective.
“I wasn’t staring.”
The man gave him the side eye. “Right.”
Ian put his hands up, not knowing what this woman was to the stranger, but Ian was too road weary to fight. Besides, as good as Ian was in a brawl, the guy had to have fifty pounds on Ian. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“Didn’t say you did.” The man took a long drag of his beer, his eyes never leaving Ian’s, then set the beer down and stuck out his hand. “Levi. Levi Banks.”
Ian shook his hand. “Ian Murphy.”
“You’re not from around here.” Not a question.
“Let me guess, the bloody accent gave me away.” With the whiskey warming his veins, he let a little of the Irish brogue slip out. Normally he tried to hide it to fit in, but he was so far out of his element here, he might as well be himself.
Levi turned toward him and looked him up and down. “It wasn’t the accent. It was the clothes.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“You look like a city slicker poser from up north trying to fit in.”
The bartender dumped the chicken fried steak in front of Ian and he didn’t waste a moment digging in. He cut off a slab and stuffed it into his mouth and watched Cora Hayes’ table. The man and woman with her went off to dance leaving Cora alone at the table with a beer. She glanced at the front door the way a condemned man eyes the open jail cell.
Cora finished her beer and raised a hand to the waitress to bring her another.
“Again, what’s wrong with that?”
Levi pushed up the brim of his hat. He didn’t smile, but amusement lingered in his eyes. “Nothing, if you don’t want a chance with Cora. She only dates cowboys.”
Ian laughed and washed down a mouthful of mashed potatoes with a swallow of whiskey. He made a face. Mashed potatoes and whiskey, not a good combo. “I’m not here looking for sex.”
“Then you’d be the only one.”
Ian picked up his camera and gave it a waggle as if that explained everything. “I’m a freelance photographer.”
“You following the circuit?”
“That’s the idea.” Ian didn’t provide any details as he polished off the rest of his food, but Levi didn’t seem like the kind of guy who wanted any.
After two whiskeys, Ian switched to beer. His eyes got heavy, his ass was already numb, and his trailer and a good night’s sleep called to him.
Still, he didn’t leave. He stayed in his corner of the bar, watching the crowd dance and drink and have fun. There had already been a scuffle between a couple of cowboys, but things settled down after the bartender kicked them out.
Cora’s friends had left after the live band packed up, but the jukebox blared country music and the dance floor filled to capacity. After a few drinks, Cora had joined everyone on the dance floor. She danced off to one side with a few other women, having not danced with a single man all night.
“She have a boyfriend or something?” Ian asked Levi.
Levi didn’t need to ask who she was. “No.”
Short. To the point. Should have answered the question, but the way Levi said that one word made Ian think there was a whole other story behind it. “I don’t get it. She’s the most beautiful woman in the room and not a single guy has asked her to dance.”
“She’s a living, breathing, hip-swaying hazard. Men are afraid to go near her now.”
“Hazard?”
“Rumor has it she was poking holes in condoms trying to get pregnant.”
Ian took a sip and grimaced at his warm beer. “You believe them?”
The guy shrugged, not as if he didn’t know, but as if he didn’t want to believe. “Rumors have to come from somewhere, right?”
Like all those rumors growing up that he wasn’t Patrick Murphy’s kid. “Maybe,” Ian conceded.
The song ended and Cora and a couple of the girls she’d hooked up with headed back to her table, her arms raised and her hips swaying to the new song as she walked, stumbling her last few steps. Back at the table, she guzzled the last of her beer.
About the time another round of beer came, a new song started playing. A cheer went up from the women and everyone that had left the dance floor went back, this time lining up shoulder to shoulder under the stage lights.
Ian raised his camera and got off a couple shots. Another cheer went through the crowd, this time from the men. He lowered his camera as Cora stepped on a chair and climbed up on a row of tables that had been pushed together. Cora almost stumbled again, but someone caught her hand and helped her up.
“She’s blotto. She’s going to fall and break her neck.” Ian didn’t think ‘blotto’ needed translating. Anyone with eyes could see she was drunk. “You going to do something?”
Under the lights, the sparkles on her turquoise shirt flashed, and light bounced off her polished belt buckle like a beacon in a storm.
Beside him Levi grunted. “She’s made it perfectly clear she’s not my responsibility anymore.”
Ian had suspected that Levi and Cora might have a history. Ian gave him an incredulous look. “Say that again.”
Levi cussed under his breath and headed toward Cora.
Ian picked up his camera and started snapping full body pictures as Cora danced to the music. He zoomed in, taking a few shots of her face, her features shadowed and backlit.
He lowered his camera as Levi stepped up to the table, his hand outstretched trying to talk her into getting down. A man stood up beside Levi and gave him a shove.
As Ian lifted his camera and zoomed out, all hell broke loose.
* * *
Cora’s heart beat to the bass of the music, the rhythm in her ears, in her veins, in her soul. She closed her eyes and let the music take her far away. Someplace where the judgmental stares turned friendly and rumors weren’t taken as gospel. As much as it hurt, she refused to let it show.
“Cora.” Levi called her name, but she didn’t want to return to reality. She clapped her hands over her head, swung her hips, and stomped her boots to the beat. “Cora!”
She opened her eyes. Levi stood before her, his hand outstretched.
“Go away.” She had to shout to be heard over the music and the raucous calls of the men around the table.
“Get down, now.” Levi had his I’m-not-kidding face on, reminding her a lot of her father. If Levi thought that would work on her, he’d forgotten who he was dealing with.
One of the men at the table stood. “You heard the lady.”
Levi bowed up. Someone yanked the plug on the jukebox and the bar went silen
t as Levi growled low in his throat. “Sit down and shut up.”
Cora stopped dancing. The man was about Levi’s height, but nowhere near Levi’s bulk. Levi’s hands fisted at his sides as he bumped chests with the other man.
It had been months since she’d been with Levi. They’d both moved on, but right now he seemed a little too invested, a little too protective of her.
Someone in the crowd started chanting, fight, fight, fight. Others joined in. All she’d wanted to do was have a little fun, not cause a brawl. “Stop it. Both of you,” Cora said. “I’m getting down.”
Neither of the men heard her. The man challenged Levi. “You gonna make me shut up?”
“Guys, gu—”
The man shoved Levi into the table. The legs shook. Cora screamed, pinwheeling her arms. Trying to catch her balance, she stepped too close to the edge, tipping the table. As she started falling, two men grabbed Levi, pinning his arms behind his back.
In a bar fight, everyone wanted Levi on their side. But three against one were bad odds, even for a guy who wrestled six-hundred-pound steers for a living.
She landed with an oomph. Not from her, but from the soft-gutted guy who’d broken her fall. The bartender called out for them to break up the fight, but no one listened. Levi probably couldn’t hear over the cheers from the crowd as punch after powerful punch landed in Levi’s midsection.
How was Levi still standing?
She had to break the fight up before Levi got seriously hurt. Cora scrambled to her feet as Levi raged, fighting to free his arms, his face ferocious and red.
The bartender hurdled the bar with a wooden bat in his hand, and a burly man in a cook’s apron right behind him. Hurry. Cora’s breath came quick and her heart galloped in her chest.
She grabbed a chair by the legs, swinging it above her head. Someone shoved her down. She crashed onto her knee. Pain shot up her leg and she crumbled, the smell of spilled beer filled her nose and the peanut shells on the floor crunched under her weight.