Always A Cowboy. Linda Miller Lael
exchange for getting rid of her. She figured he might go for it.
“A month!” He seemed properly horrified.
“You’d have one less week with me—if you’ll just hold off a bit.”
He took the deal. He smiled grimly and jerked off his glove, then thrust out his hand. “Let’s shake on it.”
Solid grip. He didn’t try to break her fingers or anything, which she appreciated, since she could tell he’d reached the end of his patience.
He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
Was there any chance he’d actually pose for a formal photograph? Maybe next to that giant horse of his... Uh-uh, she thought wisely. This would not be the right moment to ask more of Mr. Drake Carson.
Instead, she said simply, “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” he muttered as he stalked away. “All I ask is that you be a man of your word.”
“I’m not a man,” she called out to his retreating back.
“I’ve noticed that,” he said.
He didn’t turn around.
THE WEEKLY POKER GAME was set up at Bad Billy’s Biker Bar and Burger Palace. Drake could use a cold one, so he approved of the choice. He spotted two of his friends already at the table, then sauntered up to the bar and nodded at Billy in greeting. “Who’s waiting tonight? Thelma?”
“Sure is. Full of piss and vinegar, too. Got into a fender bender on her way to work. You know how she loves that old car. You boys be on your best behavior.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Thelma was a crusty older lady who, like Harry, tolerated no nonsense. Billy didn’t need a bouncer; if anybody dared misbehave, Thelma effectively booted him out, although how she managed it when she was only about five feet high—and that was on a tall day—was a mystery. She never had a problem getting her point across, either. “Tell her I’ll have my usual, and be polite about it, okay? Especially if she’s in a no-bullshit mood.” The place seemed busier than ever that night.
Billy laughed, a low rumble in his wide chest. “You are a wise man, my friend. Our Thelma has a soft spot for you, but she’s about reached her cowboy quotient for the day, so I’ll go ahead and draw your beer myself.”
Tripp Galloway and Tate Calder were halfway through their first mugs of beer, elbows resting comfortably on the nicked wooden table. Tripp hooked a foot around a chair and tugged it out so Drake could sit. “You’re late, but Spence texted and said he was tied up, so you don’t get the slow prize this time. He figures maybe twenty minutes.”
Drake took the chair. In the background a jukebox was playing Willie Nelson and the place was loud, but never so loud that you couldn’t talk to the people at your table. One of the many reasons he disliked big cities was the noise—restaurants where you couldn’t hear yourself think, much less converse with the person next to you. Traffic snarls, horns honking, sirens blaring. The skyscrapers and office buildings made him feel hemmed in, and the smell of exhaust fumes followed you everywhere. Give him the sweet scent of long grass in a clean breeze.
Tate said, “I need to warn you that Thelma’s on the warpath and she’s headed this way.”
“Billy mentioned that she was in some kind of snit,” Drake muttered under his breath, just before she plonked down his beer.
“Carson, you’re always running late. And where’s that worthless Spence Hogan, anyway? I spent some quality time with him earlier.”
Spence was the chief of police, and whatever else she might be, Thelma was no criminal. Drake wondered what she meant, although he wasn’t stupid enough to ask.
Thelma had ringlets of gray hair, pale blue eyes, and wore her glasses on the end of her nose. As far as Drake could tell, she didn’t actually need them; they seemed to be mainly for effect, probably so she could glare at people over the top.
Then he abruptly remembered and said, “Oh, the accident. Yeah, I heard. Sorry about Frankie.”
She’d named her 1966 bright yellow Impala Frankie, and since this was Mustang Creek, he knew that car well. “That out-of-town asshole had no insurance. It’s going to cost me seven hundred bucks to fix the car. I can take that idiot to small claims court, and Spence is going to make sure his license is suspended, but that won’t do Frankie any good, will it?” She blew out a loud breath. “I’m really pissed off.”
Now, there was breaking news.
“As soon as Spence gets here, your food will be out.”
Tripp made the mistake of saying, “We haven’t ordered yet.”
Thelma sent him a look that would’ve scared the average grizzly bear. “All of you will have the special.”
Every one of them wanted to ask what the special might be, but none had the guts to do so.
“Get it?” she demanded, just in case they didn’t know what was good for them, which was whatever Thelma thought was good for them.
They sure did. Not one of them said a thing as Thelma walked away, ignoring a table full of customers madly waving to get her attention.
“I was kind of hoping for the bacon cheeseburger, but I’ll take whatever she sets in front of me,” Tate said. “Whew. I wouldn’t want to be the guy who made that grave error in judgment and hit her car. That had to be one hell of a conversation.”
“If I was Spence, I’d throw him in jail for his own protection.” Tripp drained what was left of his beer.
Drake didn’t disagree. “Now, back to the menu... I’m praying for chicken-fried steak, but I’ll roll with whatever happens to come my way. Did Red have a chance to talk to your dad?”
“About the bull, Sherman? Yeah, Jim will handle it—does him good to get involved. He misses that sort of thing.”
Jim, Tripp’s stepfather, had run the ranch for a long time before Tripp took over. Drake nodded. “I feel regretful about it. Sherman was great in his prime, but he’s not doing real well right now. Slowing down, you might say.”
Tripp got that faint grin on his face. “So, tell us about the student. The one who’s cuter than a pup in a little red wagon. That’s Red talking as you might’ve guessed, via Jim.”
“I already figured that out.” Drake took a long cool drink. It tasted great. “She’s fine. She’s trying—in more ways than one.” Tripp rolled his eyes at the pun, but Drake ignored him. “She’s a pretty graduate student who has no idea what she’s doing.”
“How pretty?” That was Tate, also grinning.
“Very,” he admitted, remembering the gold highlights in her hair.
“That’s what we heard.” Tripp was clearly teasing, but before Drake could respond, he lifted a hand. “I actually think that what she’s doing is important. I’ll bet most of America isn’t even aware we have wild horses, much less that they can be a problem. My two cents’ worth.”
Spence’s arrival stopped the discussion. He slid into the fourth chair at their table. Tall, with a natural air of command that wasn’t overstated, he was both confident and good at his job. “Thelma’s still mad, I take it.”
“She’s steaming,” Drake informed him. “Don’t try to order off the menu, my friend. She’s decided we’re all having the special, whatever that might be.”
“Gotcha.” Spence grimaced. “You should’ve been there when Junie got the call. She’s a seasoned dispatcher and even she was shaking her head. When Thelma asked that I personally respond, Junie threw me under the bus and said I would.