The sea urchin slouching next to me said, “Nah. You’re not a horse, but that white streak is sexier than hell. I would like to bite it.”
“If you attempt to bite my hair, I will knock your teeth into your beer.”
I said this politely. My mother would have been proud of my restraint. (“If you feel your temper rising, Meredith Jean, make yourself some tea.”)
The sea urchin laughed, obviously not taking me seriously. “I love a tough woman, and you Montana gals, man, you rock in that department. You gals can take down a bear.”
He must think we “gals” are stupid. No woman I know would try to take down a bear unless she wanted to be eaten. “I need a beer and a sledgehammer Barry Lynn, please,” I told the owner of the bar.
“One beer and a sledgehammer coming right up,” she called. “How ’bout a staple gun, too? Sometimes those are handy.”
“Bring ’em. This one is going to need more than usual.”
“Now, Miss Mary Magdalene,” the drunken sea urchin said, oblivious to our conversation, “How ’bout if you join me and my buddies? Why I have never seen a woman wearing a red cowboy hat with rhinestones before. Never. And you got eyes like a cat. Lemme buy you a beer.”
“No. Leave. Your breath is enough to set fire to this building.”
“Come on, sugar…”
“I’m not interested and my name is not sugar.” I picked up my cowgirl hat and put it on my head. It was well worn, and fit perfectly, the way I liked them. “Last time I’m gonna warn you. Go back to your hole and your rich men friends with the snarky smiles who are pretending to be fly fishermen, with your bottle of whiskey, and drink yourself into a stupor. I have no interest in drunken men who are so weak they can’t approach a woman, sober, make intelligent conversation, and then invite her to a dinner in a fancy restaurant to show her respect.”
The door opened to the bar and a burst of cold, snowy Montana air swirled around. I idly glanced around wondering which neighbor was coming on in. My breath caught in my throat.
There he was.
I could almost hear the sleigh bells ringing and jingle bells jingling. Following that I heard an echoing gong, my own brain warning me that he was trouble.
Total trouble.
Logan Taylor. Born in Copper, Montana, about three hours from Telena, a self-made millionaire, various businesses in five states in highway development, electrical something ’er other, real estate, ranching, et cetera. Hard scrabble childhood. He was about eight years older than me, but even as a kid growing up on a farm outside of town, I’d heard about him because every athletic team he was on won some state championship or other. He’d had a tough reputation, too, a fight or two or three or more, all reported in the newspaper because of who he was.
The man was a Montanan through and through and had recently built a log cabin outside of Telena. He was huge at about six feet five inches tall, with blondish hair, shoulders a thousand Christmas angels could dance on, and sharp eyes that didn’t miss a whit.
Every time I’d seen him in town the last weeks, I’d ducked into a store, a church, one time a government building, and I steer clear of government buildings like I steer clear of the black plague.
My attention was re-caught by the drunken sea urchin.
“I’ll take you to a fancy restaurant,” he slurred. “I got enough money to buy every fancy restaurant here in this town and the yachts here, too. Let’s go right down; you turn me on…”
And that’s when the drunken sea urchin made a herculean mistake.
He reached out a hand and tried to stroke my white streak, knocking off my cowgirl hat. I caught his wrist, leaned in, and said, quite calmly, “Don’t touch me, you overgrown leech.”
He laughed in a slimy way. “But I wanna touch you, you look so soft and tender and I want to—” He said something disgusting in my ear, lifted up his other hand to stroke me again, and we were, at that very moment, finished. All done.
I heard Howard and Norm, brothers, generational ranchers, Ivy League educated, World War II vets, sitting next to me at the bar, suck in their breaths. Howard said, quite slowly, “Son, that was a poor choice.”
Norm said, “If I were you, I’d start running. That would be right now. Run. Run fast, run long, but run.”
The Three Wise Women cackled. Hannah yelled, “Okay, everybody, prepare for the show. It’s going to be almost better than my speech on mathematical derivates.”
I heard scattered applause as I seethed. My past has given me a lot of anger.
“Why do men think saying disgusting things is a turn on?” I asked him. “Why do men try to touch women without our permission? Why do men think they’re sexy when they’re drunk? Why do men continually tick me off?”
I didn’t contemplate these questions for very long as I squared my red cowboy boots and brought a fist up into the sea urchin’s jaw. He went flying off the stool and onto the floor, flat on his back.
I heard one of the Wise Women, Katie, a mother of four yell, “That was impressive, Merry Meredith. Even better than last month’s hit.”
Another Wise Woman, Vicki, who owns one of the largest ranches for miles around, said, “Hormones, hormones, don’t mess with the hormones. Why don’t men get that?”
After a second’s shocked hesitation, the sea urchin scrambled right back up to his feet. He said something else nasty to me, called me a bad word, then yelled, “What the hell was that for?”
“What was it for?” Barry Lynn drawled, slamming a sledgehammer and a staple gun on the bar, she’s so funny. “She told you to back off many times. She’s not interested. Did you need that in eight languages? Did you need a banner? You’re not that good-looking; why would a woman like her want to be with you?”
“Now that’s a little unkind, Barry Lynn,” Norm said. “He’s soft looking, pasty, a city folk with a snake for a spine but…”
“It’s not unkind, it’s accurate,” Barry Lynn snapped, thunking the sledgehammer. “He’s got a gut, a weak jaw, sloping shoulders….”
They began to argue about the man’s looks.
“By cannons and guns, Barry Lynn is correct,” Howard intervened. He likes to use expressions with weapons in them from his former military days. “The man is a numbskull, and a lady shouldn’t have to hit a man to get him to back off. Do you have no brains?” he asked the sea urchin, not insultingly.
“What…what the heck? I’ve got brains!” the sea urchin said, red and flustered.
“Show me,” I told him. “I’d like to see your brains.”
The drunken man’s friends had gotten up from their table, hopefully to restrain the sea urchin, and not to come after me, but that part was unclear. I would take them on, too, if I had to. I would enjoy it. I’d had a tough week with my bed and breakfast business, with Jacob who was playing piano obsessively, and with Sarah who had been brought home by the police again. A bar scuffle, skinned knuckles, and a broken hand from fighting might do me well. Let out some of my flaming hormones.
The drunken sea urchin then made mistake number two. He charged toward me, all heated up, and I had to swing my fist once again, right into that weak jaw of his, and there he went, flying onto his back, rattling his disputed brains.
The drunken sea urchin swore, and his friends came to a dead halt. Why they had simply wanted a roll in the sack, a little hee-haw! Some warmth in their beds! They’d spent a fortune coming up to fish, and they wanted dessert to go with their fish dinners! Why couldn’t these Montana women understand that!
“Norm, that rich boy does have a weak jaw and sloping shoulders…” Barry Lynn said.
“His jaw is slack because he’s scared; his shoulders slope because he’s drunk and frightened; his gut is large because of general laziness….” And there they went, arguing again.
That’s when I heard a voice right beside me. It was low and deep and gravelly and yummy. “Get out,” the voice said to the sea urchin and company.
Logan Taylor, huge and rathe
r menacing, grabbed the man’s shirt and yanked him straight up, up, up, I am not kidding, up until that man’s toes were off the ground. “Get out,” he said again, teeth clenched.
The drunken sea urchin struggled and wiggled like a worm dancing on a fish hook. “Put me down.” He stared into Logan’s eyes then swallowed hard and whispered, “Please. Please put me down. Please.”
“Uh, could you, uh, put him down?” one of the pasty-colored men friends said to Logan, nervous-like.
“Yeah, he’s uh…We’ll take him out,” another one said, also nervous.
“How come you don’t know how to treat a lady?” Logan asked him, jaw hard, giving him a shake. “Why is that?”
I suddenly envisioned Logan in the doorway of a humongous, iced, decorated gingerbread house, waving at me. I conjure up humorous images with food which, in this instance, made me super mad. “You know, I didn’t need help,” I snapped to Logan.
Logan turned to me, the sea urchin’s toes dangling, clearly confused. “I’m sorry?”
“What am I to you? A damsel in distress? Do I look weak? Do I look helpless?” I could feel my temper getting hotter. He was playing right into a very sore, sensitive spot for me. I could handle this myself, and I did not need help.
He eyed me, from the tip of my white streak down to my red cowboy boots. “No, you don’t look helpless, but I wasn’t going to stand by and let this jerk come at you.”
“Why not? I’d hit him twice. I was getting ready to do it again and then you had to jump on in and interfere.” I glared up at him.
“I jumped in,” he said, still holding the sea urchin, who had a stunned, petrified expression on his face, “because I can’t tolerate men treating ladies badly and that’s what I saw. I apologize for not getting here sooner.” He glared at the man. “You’re not a gentleman, are you?”
The sea urchin nodded. “I am,” he whispered.
Logan shook him. “You’re not a gentleman, are you? Be honest.”
The sea urchin squeaked out, in sure, sea urchin fashion, “No. I’m not.”
“I’m handling this situation,” I said. “I could have taken on him and his friends with the fancy schmancy fishing outfits and pale, fleshy faces by myself. I didn’t need you to take over here.”
“I was trying to help you.”
Man, up close Logan’s eyes were green with flecks of gold. His photo periodically in the newspaper had not picked up that goldenness. Black lashes, lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. He was hot.
“Help me? I don’t need help.” I was steamin’ mad.
“Ya gotta understand, Logan,” Barry Lynn called out, playing with the sledgehammer. “Men hit on Meredith all the time. She handles the situation, and we move on. It’s our entertainment. Second only to my annual toy drive. Reminder to everyone: Christmas is less than six weeks away. Start buying new toys. Bad economy, and we got a lotta kids who need a Christmas this year. I need bikes, especially. Now a bunch of you got a lotta money, and I want to see you carrying in armloads of toys and bikes. Put ’em right under the Christmas tree in the corner. Don’t forget, if you don’t give toys, you get suspended from my bar for one year.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw beer mugs being raised. That was our way of agreeing. No one wanted to get suspended from the bar; that’d be a tragedy.
Logan shook his head. “No, we don’t move on. First this guy”—he shook the sea urchin, who was now gray with fear, and Barry Lynn was right, the shoulders sloped—“is going to apologize, and then they’re all going to leave, then we’ll move on.”
One of the fleshy face nervous friends said, “Uh…look around. We’re sorry about this. We’re not from here—”
“Gee, now that’s a surprise!” Wise Woman Vicki said, exasperated. “You’re as out of place as a pink flamingo would be on my ranch.”
“Logan, the only thing Meredith needs help with is her cowgirl hats.” Wise Woman Katie called out. “She’s got a definite cowgirl hat shopping problem.”
I raised an impatient eyebrow at Logan’s expression. “All we ladies have a vice. I happen to like my cowgirl hats. Different colors, different styles…for different days, different moods.” I knew why I’d started my slight obsession with pretty cowgirl hats. It was to deflect attention away from something else about me that wasn’t pretty, not pretty at all. “Sometimes I’m in a bad mood so I wear black; better moods mean I pull on my pink hat with the brown ribbon. You know how it is.”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
“Can you,” the sea urchin squeaked, “can you let me go? Please?”
Logan dropped him. I stuck my cowboy boot out and caught him on the way down so he landed on his buttocks.
“Now that you’re on your buttocks, listen up,” I said, leaning over. “I didn’t want you to hit on me. I didn’t ask for it. I told you to back off and you didn’t and I had to smell your drunken whiskey breath. That grossed me out. You touched the streak of hair my daddy says I got as a blessing from my ancestors. That triggered my temper. You flicked my cowgirl hat off my head. That pissed me off. Don’t treat a lady like a tramp, you got that, fleshy face? We’re not your toys, we’re not your playthings. We’re not for your amusement. We are people, with brains far brighter than yours. And for the record, I’m not impressed with your money or that you could buy all the fancy restaurants in town. We have no yachts in Montana, by the way. Braggarts annoy me. Braggarts are insecure. I can’t stand insecure men. If you can’t present yourself to a woman without bragging, you ain’t a man. Got that?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, stricken.
“Leave now,” I said.
“No,” Logan said.
“What?” I straightened up.
“I said no.”
“No what?” I put my hands on my hips. I don’t like to hear the word “no.” I’d heard it way too much during a certain part of my life, and now I won’t tolerate it.
“No, he’s not leaving until he apologizes.”
“Good idea,” Barry Lynn said.
“Splendid,” Howard said. “He needs to say he’s quite sorry. He was ungentlemanly. Came off like a bomb.”
“I do believe that’s correct,” Norm said. “An apology is in order.”
“And you three.” Logan glared at the sea urchin’s friends. “You’re going to apologize for allowing your friend to harass a lady without interfering and hauling his butt out of here before she got offended.”
The three friends gaped at Logan. He did make an impressive figure. Towering. Strong. Not happy. Toughened face. Cowboy boots, of course, worn and scuffed. Jeans. My, he had a nice butt.
“I told you I can handle this situation,” I said, indignant, though I did admire the butt.
“I’m handling it now.”
“No, you’re not. You can’t waltz into this bar and take over. I’m going to finish this up myself.”
“You can finish this after me.”
What? No. “No, I’m finishing it my own way.”
“After me, lady with the cowgirl hat obsession. An apology is needed.”
The sea urchin and his friends tried to slink out. Not a good idea. The Three Wise Women formed a line, as did a bunch of other Montana men and women, arms crossed on their chests.
“Yeah, what do they think this is?” Wise Woman Katie said. “They come to Montana in their fishing costumes, guts spilling over, go to the local bar and hit up a woman without an apology? Sorry, I agree with Logan here.”
“But I don’t want their apology. I want them to leave so I can drink my beer and do the Gracious Journal Vicki brought for us.”
“It’s a Grateful Journal,” Vicki said, so helpful. “You write down what you’re grateful for.”
I glared at Logan.
He smiled down at me from his great height. “I’m grateful that I like your hat.”
“I don’t care what you like,” I said, sulkily. “Don’t expect me to fall all over y
ou with thanks, because I won’t.”
“I didn’t ask for your thanks.”
“You’re not going to get it.”
“Okay, okay,” one of the friends said. “We’re going to leave. If you all move out of the way, this will end peacefully.”
“Apologize,” Logan commanded.
“I don’t have to apologize,” one of them stuttered. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Mervin was assaulted, and if you people don’t move, I’m going to call the police.”
Laughter.
He blushed.
“Half the police force is right here, son,” Norm said. “Yun, would you care to get involved in this unfolding incident?”
Lieutenant Yun shook his head. “Nope.”
“And I’m going to call my lawyer!” another friend said.
More laughter.
“Call him! Tell him to bring his gun,” Katie the Wise Woman dared. “I’d like to see your lawyer’s tiny gun. I’d like to see your tiny guns, too. Your guns are teeny tiny, aren’t they?”
“I think his guns are about as big as the guns on a rat I saw in my barn the other day,” Vicki said, pushing back her brown and gray ponytail. “My cat ate the rat.”
“Statistically speaking you have no chance of winning this in court,” Hannah said, squinting her eyes behind her glasses. Hannah is a math professor at the college in town. She is obsessed with mathematics. On Friday night she goes online and does math problems with people around the country. “It was self-defense.”
Logan Taylor looked at all four of the men. “This is the last time I’m going to tell you that Meredith here needs an apology. I’m counting to three. One, two…”
“We’re sorry! We’re sorry! We’re really, really sorry. Oh, man!”
“Lady, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I hit on you—”
“Apology not accepted,” I said. “But can I show you my left hook?”
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