The Trouble with Texas Cowboys

by Carolyn Brown

  An hour passed before a truck pulled up to the front of the store. She glanced at the clock: it was well past noon, so he was late. Sawyer got out, shook the legs of his jeans down over the top of his boots, tucked his gloved hands into the pockets of his mustard-colored work coat, and jogged to the porch. She jumped up so fast, the chair fell over backward. By the time she’d righted it, he was in the store.

  “Hey, it’s damn cold out there,” he said.

  “I’d rather be out there than sitting in here bored to death,” she told him.

  “You’d change your mind pretty quick. I drove all around the ranch. Got out and walked a few times so I could get a feel for the land. Fences look good for now. There’s a couple of old wood posts that need to be replaced with metal ones, but that can wait until spring.”

  He paused and looked around the store. “Looks slow in here.”

  “Boring.” She drug out the word into half a dozen syllables.

  He removed his coat and hung it on the rack beside hers. “Let’s do our shopping then. Gladys said I could put whatever I buy here on a ticket, and she’d take it out of my monthly paycheck.”

  She motioned toward the line of five carts. “Help yourself. How many head of cattle is Aunt Gladys running now?”

  “Looks to be about a hundred and fifty, but the ranch has good fertile ground. It would support twice that many, especially if we cleared the mesquite off the west side and put it into hay this spring. Figured I’d get out the chain saw and go to work on it next week. The wood will keep us warm, and we can stack up what we don’t use for next winter.”

  She pulled the next cart out and followed him. “You can take my food back to the bunkhouse with you.”

  He stopped and turned around to face her, the empty cart between them. “Is that an order or a request?”

  She batted her eyelashes at him. “Please, kind sir, would you take my groceries home for me? I’ll keep the perishables in one bag, and you can set the whole thing in the refrigerator, and I’ll put everything away when I get there.”

  “You aren’t very good at that,” he said.

  “What? Asking or flirting?”

  He cocked his head off to the side in that sexy little gesture that tightened up her gut. “Fake flirting. But yes, ma’am, I’ll…hey, how are you going to get home anyway? You don’t have a vehicle here.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll walk. Believe me, after all afternoon in this boredom, I’ll be ready to walk all the way to the river, not just to the bunkhouse.”

  He put two cans of green beans into his cart and added a couple of cans of corn. “I need both. I’m making a pot of soup and one of chili this afternoon. That will last several days and taste good in cold weather.”

  She picked up a container of cocoa, a bag of flour, and one of sugar, and put them into her cart.

  “I thought you didn’t cook,” he said.

  “Cooking is one thing. Baking is another. I have a terrible sweet tooth, and I don’t like store-bought cakes, pies, or cookies.”

  Sawyer looked over his shoulder at her. “How are you at apple pie?”

  “One of my specialties. Granny Cleary taught me to make the crust when I was a little girl.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” he said. “I’ll keep the real food on the table if you keep sweet stuff in the bunkhouse, and we’ll share. I’ll buy staples. You buy baking goods each week.”

  “Sounds fair enough to me. Move aside so I can pick out six good cooking apples. I’ll start this afternoon with an apple pie and a chocolate cake.”

  “But you have to work here until five o’clock.”

  “There’s an old cookstove with a perfectly good oven in the storeroom. Aunt Gladys often heats up soup for her lunch on it,” she said. “And truth is, I’ll be thankful for something to do.”

  “Then I’ll be here at five to take you home,” he said. “Even if the pie is mediocre, I don’t want to have to eat it off the ground with a spoon because you stumbled and fell with it on the way home.”

  “Cowboy”—she smiled brightly—“my pies are not mediocre.”

  “I’ll save my opinion until I’ve tasted it,” he declared. “But believe me, darlin’, I will be here at five to protect that pie.”

  Neither of them heard the truck park outside. Not until the bell above the door jingled did they turn away from the meat counter where they were discussing whether he should buy two or three pounds of hamburger for his chili and soup.

  “Hello. Where is Gladys?” Quaid Brennan said.

  Jill left her cart sitting beside Sawyer’s and started forward. “Aunt Polly broke her ankle this morning, and Aunt Gladys is at the hospital with her. I’ll be taking care of the store for her for a while.”

  “Hello, Quaid.” Sawyer waved.

  He gave a brief nod toward Sawyer. “Gladys is lucky she’d already hired him before I knew he was lookin’ for a job. I’d have given him a job in a second.”

  His big beautiful blue eyes never left hers. His shoulders were broad. His jeans fit right. His boots were scuffed and worn, showing that he was a real cowboy. His blue-and-black-plaid flannel shirt peeked out from under a work coat and hugged his body like a glove. With his blond hair and blue eyes, light skin and square face, Quaid was the exact opposite of Sawyer, but he was a damn fine-looking specimen all the same. He picked up her hand, brought it up to his lips, and kissed the palm. “I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

  She pulled her hand back and tucked her thumbs in her hip pockets.

  “So did we decide on two or three pounds?” Sawyer asked.

  Quaid raised an eyebrow.

  Jill spoke up before Sawyer could catch his breath. “He’s going to do the cooking, and I’ll do the baking. You know that we are sharing the bunkhouse, don’t you?”

  “Of course I did know that.” Quaid smiled.

  “What can I help you with today?” Jill asked.

  “I need”—Quaid looked around the store—“ten apples.”

  “Making a pie?” Sawyer asked.

  “No, eating them,” Quaid said.

  Jill picked up a paper bag and set it on the produce scale. “You must love apples.”

  “Not for me. I’m taking them to my Sunday school class in the morning, so pick out good eating apples, not cooking ones.”

  “You’ll want these pretty red ones. They’re firm but still sweet. I wouldn’t buy them for a pie, but they are wonderful for eating,” she said as she loaded up the bag.

  “So you know how to make a decent apple pie?” Quaid asked. “Since you like to bake, maybe when you get settled in I’ll talk you into bringing cookies to the class some Sunday?”

  “We’ll see.” She smiled.

  Sawyer cleared his throat to get her attention and pointed at the hamburger.

  “Be there in a minute,” she said.

  She handed the bag to Quaid and followed him to the front of the store.

  Quaid settled his black felt hat back on his blond hair. “Put it on the River Bend Ranch bill.”

  Truck tires crunched on the gravel outside, a door slammed, and Tyrell Gallagher pushed the door open, bringing a blast of cold air with him. “Hello, Miz… What are you doing here?” He glared at Quaid.

  “Buying apples and talking to Jill,” Quaid said.

  “Where is Gladys?”

  Jill stepped out around the counter. “Aunt Polly broke her ankle this morning. Aunt Gladys is with her, and I’ll be takin’ care of the store for a few days.”

  “You are still coming to Wild Horse tomorrow, aren’t you?” Tyrell asked.

  “For supper, yes, I am,” she answered.

  Quaid picked up his bag of apples and started out the door, stumbled over the cart he hadn’t put back in the corner, and blamed it on Tyrell. “You tripped me, you son
of a bitch.”

  He threw the apples across the store and swung at Tyrell, who wasn’t about to back down or talk sense to a Brennan. The first punch landed on Tyrell’s cheek. He spit blood and hit Quaid right between the eyes with a heavy fist. Then they were on the floor, rolling around like a couple of schoolboys. One long leg kicked over a display of corn, and cans fell like snow, landing and rolling everywhere. Tyrell tried to get away from the cans and fists peppering down on him, but he stepped on a can rolling across the floor and landed smack in the middle of Quaid’s back. He got a couple of punches in before Quaid picked up a can of corn and hurled it over his shoulder, hitting Tyrell in the left ear.

  It was like Polly’s fall, happening in slow motion as Jill picked her way through the cans to grab Tyrell by the hair and give it a yank. He drew back his fist, thinking it was Quaid, and she would have felt the brunt of it if Sawyer hadn’t clamped his big hand over it in midair.

  “You lay a hand on her, cowboy, and you won’t live to see the light of day.” Sawyer pulled them apart and shoved Quaid toward the door. “Get out of here. This is neutral territory, and you know it. If either of you ever start anything in here again, you won’t get a warning, you’ll get a royal ass whuppin’.”

  “Why aren’t you runnin’ him off?” Quaid growled.

  “I am, soon as you clear the parking lot. I don’t give a shit if you two drive out in the middle of the road and kill each other. At least that way Jill wouldn’t have to go out with either of you tomorrow, so have at it. But you’re not fighting in this store.”

  Tyrell bowed up to Sawyer. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  Quaid spun out of the driveway, throwing gravel everywhere at the same time that Betsy parked her truck in front of the store. She hurried in out of the cold and looked around wide-eyed at the mess.

  “Was that… Holy shit, Tyrell, what happened in here?”

  “He can tell you later. He’s leaving,” Sawyer said.

  “This store will fold up without Wild Horse’s business, so you’d better watch your smart-ass mouth,” Tyrell said.

  Betsy reached out to touch his shoulder. “Come on. Let me help you to your truck. Hell, you look like you got slammed by a semi.”

  He shook off her hand. “I don’t need your help. This isn’t over, Sawyer. I’ll see you tomorrow evening, Jill.” He marched out to his truck and drove away.

  “One of y’all want to tell me what happened? Who are you and where is Gladys?” Betsy asked.

  “Jill, meet Betsy Gallagher. Betsy, this is Jill Cleary, Gladys’s niece who’s come to live on Fiddle Creek and learn the business.”

  Jill wiped her hands and came out from the back of the meat counter. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” Betsy nodded. “I heard you were coming to our place tomorrow and that you were here to help Gladys with Fiddle Creek. And I heard Polly broke her ankle. That mean you’ll be takin’ care of the bar, instead of the ranch?” She turned to look at Sawyer as if she could start a make-out session right there in the store. “I bet a big strong cowboy like Sawyer can take care of this little bitty spread all by himself.”

  Sawyer picked up an armload of cans and put them in a cart. “I’ll be taking care of the bar. Jill is going to run the store so Gladys can help with Polly. And you can tell your kinfolk that there better not be any more altercations around here. Gladys didn’t abide it, and we won’t either.”

  “Boys will be boys.” She laughed, and with a wave over her shoulder, she was gone.

  “Good grief, Sawyer. What have we gotten ourselves into? I thought I was going to be helping run a ranch, not having to deal with these people on an everyday basis. I’m glad you were here. I would have never gotten those two apart without you, and I have no doubt they would have torn the place apart. Thanks for helping to get this corn all gathered up.”

  Sawyer continued picking up the cans that had rolled every which way. “We have to deal with them, but we’ll keep it professional. Just put all the corn into a basket, and we’ll push it into the back room. We’ll restock the shelves as we need it, and we’ll forget about a pyramid display.”

  “Sounds good to me, but tomorrow won’t be professional. Dinner and supper with families, that’s personal.”

  Sawyer put four more cans into the cart. “We’ll get through it, and we won’t ever let them corner us again. We need two pounds of bacon and honey. If I’m cooking breakfast, then you are making some kind of muffins for breakfast dessert. I’m real partial to blueberry, but I won’t fuss about banana nut.”

  “I like western omelets with peppers, onions, and tomatoes,” she said.

  “For blueberry muffins, I can make an omelet that will melt in your mouth.”

  “They’ll have to be from frozen berries. There’s no fresh at this time of year.”

  “I’m not that particular. It can even be out of one of those boxed mixes.” Sawyer picked up a piece of paper and wrote a number on it. “This is my cell phone. It’s in my pocket all the time. If you need me, call and I’ll be here in less than five minutes.”

  “Thanks, Sawyer. Seems like I’ve said that more in the past twenty-four hours than I have my whole life.”

  Sawyer left with the groceries, and not another soul came into the store. Gladys called twice to give Jill updates on Polly. They had to put pins in the ankle, and it would be at least two months before she could put weight on it.

  Jill sighed and looked at the clock. It was only two hours until she could leave, and she had a pie and a cake to make, but her heart wasn’t it in. Not even to prove to Sawyer that she could make a damn fine apple pie. Just thinking about sitting in that store, day in and day out for two whole months, maybe even longer, put her in a Jesus mood…that’s the worst kind of mood, one where even Jesus couldn’t live with her.

  Chapter 4

  Not many folks were interested in food that Saturday night. They wanted cold beers, either by the pitchers or red plastic cups, and dollar bills or quarters to plug into the jukebox so they could dance. Other than a couple of burger baskets, Sawyer was pulling beer or else pouring whiskey all evening. Jill called early in the evening to tell him that the surgery was over and they expected Polly to be fine, but to heal slowly at her age.

  It was after nine when Betsy Gallagher claimed the only empty bar stool in the place, right beside her cousin, Tyrell.

  “Hey, good-lookin’,” Betsy yelled over the top of the loud jukebox.

  “You talkin’ to me?” Sawyer asked.

  “Ain’t nobody else back there, is there?” Betsy said. “Take a break and dance with me.”

  “Rule Number One, according to Aunt Polly, is that work and pleasure do not mix. What can I get you to drink, Betsy?”

  “You aren’t a nice cowboy. Are you going to break my heart so bad that I have to write a country song about it?”

  Sawyer smiled. “Sounds like a plan to me. Call me when it hits the charts, and I’ll have Polly put it on the jukebox. Beer?”

  “Double shot of whiskey. I’m a whiskey girl, and when I have had about three shots, I get very, very horny,” Betsy said.

  “Then I’d advise you to stay away from Quaid Brennan. That could cause a whole new phase to the war.”

  “Quaid is a pansy. He wouldn’t know what to do with a real woman.”

  One second she was grinning at Sawyer. The next, Kinsey Brennan had jerked her off the stool and was screaming something about not calling her cousin names. Fists were flying, right along with hunks of hair, by the time Sawyer made his way around the end of the bar. His first thought was that women fought dirtier than men, because they were going at each other’s eyeballs, scratching at whatever skin was bare and landing wild punches everywhere. It put a whole new meaning to catfight, and not a single soul was doing a thing to stop it.

  He tried to get ahold of either one of
them, but it was like holding onto a greased hog. One minute he had an arm or his hands around a waist, the next it was gone, and there was more screaming and hair pulling. Then out of the blue, Jill Cleary was there beside him.

  For a full thirty seconds she watched the fight, and then she went behind the bar, drew up a pitcher of beer, and carried it back around to the floor where a circle of people had gathered. Dollars exchanged hands as to who would come out the winner. The Brennans cheered for Kinsey; the Gallaghers for Betsy. The neutral folks cheered for whoever was on top.

  Jill pushed through the people until she was right above the rolling mass of red and blond hair and dumped an entire pitcher of beer right on their heads. They came up spitting and sputtering, and the fight ended. People headed back to their tables or claimed a bar stool. Betsy’s red hair hung in limp strands around her face. Her lacy shirt hung like a dishrag on her body, and pure old unadulterated anger flashed from her eyes.

  Kinsey started toward Jill, but Sawyer stepped between them. “It’s over. You two get on out of here for tonight. I’ll tell you the same thing I told your two cousins. Take it out in the road and kill each other. That way I don’t have to go to dinner or supper with either of you tomorrow.”

  “Well, that’s real sweet”—Betsy pointed at Kinsey—“but believe me, darlin’, you won’t want to touch that once you’ve seen what I’ve got to offer.”

  “You bitch,” Kinsey said.

  Jill pointed. “Outside, or I’ll fill up another pitcher of beer. Sawyer, if you’ll go on back to the bar business, I’ll take care of the mess.”

  She took a mop from a closet, filled it with water from the bathroom, and cleaned up the beer, then joined Sawyer behind the bar.

  “This is horrible. I can’t imagine grown people acting like this for anything or anyone,” Jill said.

  “I told you earlier. First and foremost it’s Fiddle Creek,” Sawyer said. “You will inherit, and they both want it, plus you are a prize even without Fiddle Creek. Either one would crow that they’d won you away from the other side. And right now, the feud is in full-blast hot fire. Take your choice. Either one can make your wildest dreams come true. But I’ve got to tell you, Jill, that pitcher of beer was sheer genius.”