The Trouble with Texas Cowboys

by Carolyn Brown

  He rounded a corner into the kitchen area, and there was Jill coming right at him, head down, with an empty coffee mug in her hand. He checked the cup out carefully. It wasn’t dark brown with writing on it, so she hadn’t stolen his cup as well as his coffee.

  She looked up a split second before stopping so quick that her boots made a high-pitched squeak on the tile floor. “Don’t sneak up on me like that,” she said breathlessly.

  “I didn’t, and who gave you permission to use my coffee?” he asked.

  “Hey, you woke up to a warm living room and coffee. Quit your bitchin’, and I might share. I woke up to a cold house because a tall, dark—” She stopped shy of saying handsome. She faked a cough and went on. “A cowboy didn’t bank the fire, and there’s not a single thing to eat. I’m grouchy when I’m hungry, and I bite before I have my morning coffee. So stand aside and let me pour a cup. And from this standpoint, Sawyer O’Donnell, you don’t look like you wake up in a good mood either, so pour a cup and let’s talk.”

  “It’s my coffee, so you don’t have any say-so about sharing it,” he said.

  “It’s my pot, so don’t argue with me. Didn’t you hear that part about biting? I haven’t had rabies shots, either,” she shot back over her shoulder, her green eyes dancing with mischievousness. “Much more of your whining, and you can brew a cup in your sissy pot and leave my real stuff alone.”

  Sawyer poured a cup, tasted it, and nodded. “Delicious, madam barista.”

  “Don’t give me a fancy name. I can’t even run that prissy pot you’ve got sitting on the cabinet. If it’s more complicated than putting coffee in one place and water in another, I’m lost,” she admitted.

  She bent over to set her blue granite cup on the stove, and the way she filled out the butt of those jeans made his mouth drier than the damn Mojave Desert. She straightened up and dragged the second wooden rocker across the floor to the other side of the stove, sat down, and reached for the metal cup.

  “Ouch!” she said, quickly wrapping the handle in her shirttail.

  “Got a little warm, did it?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Her smile was bright and honest. “Aunt Gladys left me a voice message. She’s got the feeding chores done, and we’re supposed to meet her at the bar. I vote that we go to the bar early and have breakfast there. There’s always bacon and eggs in the refrigerator and bread for toast on the shelf. Then we’ll stop by the store and get a week’s worth of supplies after we talk to the aunts,” she said.

  “Sounds like a plan to me, but I thought Polly only fired the grill up for dinner and supper,” Sawyer said.

  “You said you could cook, cowboy. If I’m stealing the food, surely to God you can make breakfast for both of us.” That sparkle was back in her eye that said she liked to banter.

  * * *

  The mug cooled enough that she could handle it, and the hot liquid warmed her insides while the old woodstove took care of the outside. She stole glances at Sawyer with his long legs stretched out, black hair falling down on his forehead, and sleep leaving his big brown eyes. It should be a sin for a man to have lashes that long and a smile so damn bright that it could put the summer sun to shame.

  Never before had she been attracted to the tall, dark, handsome man. She’d always gone for the blond-haired, blue-eyed guys. Being a cowboy had always been a plus, but it had never been a necessity. But it would be just downright wrong to start up anything with Sawyer. They had to live in the same house and work together. Friends might work…but that was as far as it could go.

  “Aunt Gladys will fire your lazy ass if you sleep until seven every morning,” she said.

  Sawyer drew down his eyebrows and tucked his chin to his chest. “For your information, come Monday morning I’ll be out there with the cows at five o’clock. That means I’ll be up at four to make my breakfast.”

  “I know ranchin’, Sawyer. I’ve been doin’ it my whole life. One set of my grandparents had a little spread down near Brownsville. That would be my mama’s folks, but Daddy’s lived close by on the outskirts of town. Mama remarried after Daddy died, and we moved to Kentucky, but I got to spend summers and holidays in the area until they passed on a couple of years ago.”

  “Your dad’s folks been gone long?”

  “They both died within a year of each other when I was in high school.”

  “And then?” he asked.

  “I completed a bachelor’s degree in business agriculture, and I went to work full-time on a ranch. Now I’m here.”

  “You ready to go raid the bar’s refrigerator?” Sawyer asked.

  “Oh, yeah, I am.”

  “Are we going to have to add breaking and entering to a felony conviction of stealing bacon and eggs?”

  She frowned. “Well, dammit! I hadn’t thought of getting inside. Aunt Polly has always been there. We may have to eat peanut butter sandwiches after all. The store should be open now, though, so we can get some food there, I guess.”

  “I don’t like peanut butter.”

  “Next thing you’ll be tellin’ me is you don’t like pinto beans and fried potatoes,” Jill said.

  Sawyer threw a hand over his heart and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “That would be sacrilege. I’m not sure you can get into heaven if you don’t like pinto beans and fried potatoes. Saint Peter would send you straight on down to the blazing fires of hell, so don’t even whisper such blasphemy.”

  “It would be almost as bad as not liking a good thick steak,” she agreed with a nod as she pulled her cell phone from her shirt pocket.

  “Callin’ the boyfriend?” he asked.

  “I’m calling Aunt Polly, and if you are askin’ if I have a boyfriend, I don’t, and I don’t want one, especially not a Brennan or a Gallagher. What time of morning do you call your girlfriend or your wife?”

  A grin showed perfect white teeth. No tobacco stain and no cigarettes in his shirt pocket. That was definitely a plus if she had to live with the man. She hated a spit can and smoke.

  “No wife or girlfriend. Both are too much trouble,” he said.

  “That applies to boyfriends too,” she told him. “I’ll set the pot on the cabinet so it doesn’t boil dry. We can reheat the coffee in the microwave this evening. Do we take one truck or two?”

  “Might as well take one. I’ll drive,” he said.

  She held up a finger. “Hello, Aunt Polly. We thought we’d make breakfast at the bar this morning, since there’s nothing in the bunkhouse until we do some shopping. You’re kiddin’ me! That’s not safe. Everyone knows that’s where people put spare keys.” She nodded. “Yes, we’re going to make bacon and eggs. Pancakes? Do you have the stuff for that at the bar?” Another pause. “That’s fine with me. I love pancakes. Right now I could eat cow patties, I’m so hungry.”

  Sawyer was staring at her when she ended the call.

  “The spare key is in the flowerpot outside the bar. Aunt Gladys is bringing a box of that mix where you only add water to make pancakes, and some maple syrup. I guess we’re having a party. I promised you’d cook and clean up the grill and wash the dishes.”

  When she looked up, Sawyer was standing above her. “I’ll cook because I’m hungry, but if I cook, I don’t wash dishes.”

  “Looks like we’re lucky that the bar always uses disposable plates. Aunt Polly doesn’t like to wash dishes either, and she’s too tight to hire a full-time dishwasher.”

  * * *

  Polly and Gladys were sitting on the bar stools. Gladys wore jeans, a red sweatshirt, and a big smile. Both of them had smiles that said they were up to no good. They weren’t any better than Sawyer at hiding what they were thinking, and Jill didn’t like it. But then again, maybe they’d only been talking about everything that had happened the afternoon before.

  They’d married brothers, so they weren’t blood kin, but folks tended to think the
y were, since their last names were Cleary. Polly was dressed in her usual bar garb, which was bibbed overalls, a long-sleeved knit shirt of some description, and tennis shoes. That day her shirt was the color of a summer sky, which matched her eyes perfectly. Her short gray hair was still wet with whatever mousse she’d run through it and reminded Jill of the spiked hairdos that rockers liked.

  Gladys was a tall, lanky, part–Native American woman with a touch of white in her chin-length hair, a gravelly voice that said she probably smoked on the sly, and brown eyes. Her skin wasn’t nearly as wrinkled as Polly’s, but then folks with her DNA usually leathered rather than wrinkled.

  They both cussed like sailors, even if Polly did play the piano for the church, and they couldn’t have been a bit closer if they’d been blood sisters.

  “We’re hungry. Bacon, eggs, and bread is over there beside the grill. Gladys already stirred up the pancake batter,” Polly said.

  “Who’s minding the store?” Jill asked.

  “Verdie came in and agreed to watch it for a couple of hours if I brought back a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, so cook the whole pound, Sawyer,” Gladys answered.

  “Give me a hug, girl,” Polly said.

  Jill hiked a hip on the bar stool next to her aunt and leaned in for a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I ain’t moved since you was here last.”

  “Or got any sweeter either,” Jill said.

  Polly laughed. “Ah, Gladys, she still loves us.”

  Sawyer fired up the grill. While it heated, he removed the white butcher paper from around the fresh-cut bacon. “Did you smoke this yourself?” he asked Gladys.

  “No, but the man I get my pork from down in Salt Holler did,” she said.

  “Is that legal? Buying meat from an individual?”

  She shrugged. “It’s don’t ask, don’t tell. I don’t ask the gover’ment if I can buy my bacon and pork from him. He don’t tell the gover’ment that I do.”

  “Well, it smells like what my grandpa used to make out in his smokehouse,” Sawyer said.

  “Don’t you dare burn it,” Polly said. “She don’t offer it up free very often.”

  “And the eggs came from the same man, as well as half my fresh produce in the summertime,” Gladys said.

  He opened two cartons to find big brown-speckled eggs. Sawyer pulled slice after slice of bacon from the thick stack and lined them up on the grill. The sizzle and the smell filled the bar, and Jill’s hungry stomach grumbled.

  Polly patted her on the shoulder. She and Gladys had been sisters-in-law for more than fifty years, and Jill loved both of them.

  She hugged Polly tightly. “I’m glad to be here. Did you hear about what happened at the bunkhouse?”

  “Get up here on this stool beside me.” Polly motioned to her. “Gladys already told me about it. You be careful, girl. I swear them Brennans and Gallaghers are sneaky.”

  “Yes, they are,” Sawyer agreed.

  A granddaddy long-legged spider jumped from the bucket of peanuts on the bar in front of Polly and landed right on her nose. She squealed, swatted at it, and leaned backward. Everything happened in slow motion and yet too fast for Jill to do a blessed thing to help. She reached out to grab Polly, but all she got was a fistful of air.

  “Well, Polly!” Gladys said.

  Then there was a crack, and Jill thought the leg of the stool had broken when it hit the hard floor. But when she saw Polly’s ankle, she knew it was far worse.

  “God, that hurts,” Polly said.

  “It’s broken. Aunt Gladys, call 911 and get an ambulance,” Jill said.

  “What can I do?” Sawyer was suddenly beside her, supporting Polly’s head with his big arms.

  “Just hold her right there while I make a call. Don’t move, Polly. The bone isn’t out of the skin just yet, but it looks bad.” Gladys fished in her purse for her cell phone.

  Sawyer jerked his out of his shirt pocket, hit 911, and handed it to Gladys. She talked to someone who assured her that an ambulance would be there in twenty minutes.

  “I’m supposed to keep you right here, and you ain’t supposed to move a muscle,” Gladys said.

  “Y’all could pick me up easy-like and load me in the backseat of my truck and take me to the hospital. Damned ambulance comin’ this far is going to cost a fortune.”

  Gladys narrowed her eyes and said, “And if we dropped you and you got a worse break and gangrene set in and rotted your foot off?”

  “Who’s going to take care of the bar?” Polly groaned.

  “We’ve got two kids right here who can do that until you can walk again,” Gladys said.

  “I can’t cook,” Jill said.

  “I can cook.” Sawyer patted Polly’s hand. “Don’t you worry. We’ll hold down the fort until you are all better. I’ve done a little bartending in my day. It wasn’t an operation like this, but I know how to fill beer pitchers and make a few fancy drinks.”

  “And I’ll take care of you. When you get released from the hospital, you can come to my house, and we’ll do just fine,” Gladys said.

  “The store?” Jill whispered.

  “I’ll take care of it in the morning while you do the ranch work, and then in the afternoons you can relieve me, just until Polly gets better. Can’t leave her all day by herself,” Gladys said.

  “That’s doable,” Jill said.

  They could hear the ambulance long before two big strapping men brought in a stretcher. They loaded her up, and Gladys glanced at Jill.

  “Go with her,” Jill said. “Call us when you need a ride home or want us to bring anything to you. Keep us posted and, Aunt Gladys, don’t worry. Sawyer’s got the bar, and I’ve got the store. The ranchin’ part we might not do just like you do, but we’ll get it done.”

  Gladys started out the door and turned around to say, “My cows are used to breakfast at eight. Don’t go spoiling them by giving it to them at six. You treat Fiddle Creek like it was your ranch and do whatever you see that needs done.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sawyer said.

  Chapter 3

  A cold north wind whipped down the rolling hills of North Texas, creating music in the bare tree limbs as it rattled through them. After living right next to the Gulf of Mexico the past two years, in the balmy salt air and year-round pleasant weather, Jill could scarcely believe she was in the same state.

  “It’s as different as the tropics and the North Pole,” she mumbled on her way from Gladys’s truck to the general store. According to the old wooden sign swinging between the two porch posts, the official name was The Burnt Boot General Store. But local folks referred to it as the store, just like they called The Burnt Boot Bar and Grill, the bar or else Polly’s place.

  Jill hung her coat on the rack behind the counter and wandered through the store. It was good to see that some things never changed. The shelves were full and free of dust. The meat counter looked like something out of an old black-and-white movie, but the glass was sparkling clean, showing a display of pork chops, bacon, hamburger, steaks, and big thick roasts.

  Her phone rang, and she grabbed for it. Gladys said they’d done preliminary work and decided that Polly would need surgery. They were taking her in right then, and with any luck, they would release her in a couple of days. Verdie, their other lifelong friend, had already come to the hospital and would bring Gladys home when the surgery was done, and Polly was settled into a private room.

  Gladys sighed. “I’m sorry to unload all this on you, kiddo. Did Sawyer stay with you?”

  “You just worry about making Aunt Polly happy,” she said. “And Sawyer isn’t here. It’s so boring, we sure don’t need two of us to take care of the place. He’s out making sure the fences are mended from yesterday and that things are quiet on the ranch. I’ll be fine. It’s just a little store, Aunt Gladys, but I promise
if there’s a problem, I’ll call you.”

  “Just ring up sales and take their money or put their charge tickets in the little box under the counter. They’re listed alphabetically. Best way to learn to swim is to jump headfirst in the water,” Gladys said.

  “I’m not so sure I know about the meat sales, though,” Jill said.

  “There’s a scale and a calculator back there. Prices are on the front of the glass as well as taped to the wall by the scale. I made up enough last evening to last all day, and the shelves are stocked and dusted. If you get hungry, make yourself a sandwich. There’s an open loaf of bread beside the scales, and you can get ham or bologna and cheese from the refrigerator. Help yourself. Quittin’ time is five o’clock.”

  “Don’t worry, Aunt Gladys. I can take care of this.”

  “I’m glad you arrived when you did,” Gladys said.

  Jill wasn’t used to being still. From before daylight to dark she’d had something to do, none of which required sitting in a chair behind a counter. She turned the chair so she could see out the window. A squirrel with a fluffy red tail scampered across the road, scaled the single gas pump like it was a tree, and perched on the top.

  “King of the mountain.” Jill smiled.

  A truck went by and spooked her entertainment. He made a flying leap and hit a drooping branch on the pecan tree at the corner of the store. In seconds he’d disappeared into the limbs, probably to scramble on to another tree and another, until he felt safe enough to come down to the ground again.

  Then there was nothing but a small store with three aisles, a refrigerated section on one side, and a freezer on the other. Meat counter at the back, checkout counter with an old cash register at the front, and a few newspapers left over from the week before.

  She read though one in less than ten minutes, then riffled through the magazines under the counter. The newest one was dated two years before and had nothing on the front to entice her to go further. On Monday she’d bring a big thick romance book with a bare-chested cowboy on the front.