The Trouble with Texas Cowboys (4 page)

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.

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.”

She shrugged. “Thank you, but it's not my idea. I saw Aunt Gladys do that with a pitcher of water one time when two dogs were hung up.”

Sawyer threw back his head and roared.

“Why is that so funny?”

“Tonight it was two bitches all right, and they were stuck together.”

She smiled. “Probably so, but you're going to have to deal with both of them tomorrow. I'd rather deal with struttin' roosters as those two. Sawyer, we are going to have to rethink the bar and store business.”

One of his dark eyebrows shot up. “Oh, yeah?”

“I think we'd best stay together in the store and in the bar. It'll take both of us in both places,” she said.

“That means very little sleep, except on Sunday.”

“It won't be forever. Just until Aunt Polly is on her feet again. And we could take catnaps at the store when it's slow.”

“Got a bed in the back room with that stove you mentioned?”

“No, but I know where there's a cot we could set up and take turns taking hour-long naps.” She smiled.

“Starting right now?”

She grabbed a bar rag and threw it over her shoulder. “You take care of the grill, and I'll fill beer pitchers and take money.”

Tyrell slid onto a stool and crooked his finger at Jill. “A double shot of whiskey, darlin'. You are a feisty one. You really don't want Betsy for an enemy.”

“Frankly, I don't give a damn if she's my friend or my enemy. She's not tearing up the bar. It's neutral, just like the store,” Jill said.

Sawyer poured up a shot of whiskey and set it on a paper coaster in front of Tyrell.

“Thank you,” Tyrell said, but his dark eyes were on Jill, not Sawyer or the whiskey. “Jill, darlin', did I tell you that I'm named after the best-lookin' Sackett brother that Louis L'Amour wrote about? Only my mama put two
L
's in my name so I'd be twice the lover, but I ain't nothing but a rough old cowboy. I do like my whiskey neat and my women beautiful, and you, darlin', are the prettiest thing I've laid eyes on in years. Please don't be mad at me for fighting in the store or at my cousin for fighting in the bar tonight. I'm sure they'll have to call the undertaker to come haul me out of this bar feetfirst if you break our date.”

“I'd hate to see someone as full of shit as you die in Aunt Polly's bar, so I will go to supper with you tomorrow night.”

“I will knock on your door promptly at five with roses in my hand.”

“And now, Mr. Tyrell Gallagher, named after the famous Tyrel Sackett, only with two
L
's in his name, I must get back to work. I'll see you tomorrow.”

She looked back at Sawyer. Both dark-haired. Both with brown eyes. Both cowboys. What made the difference in the way they affected her? Could it be that one was full of bullshit and the other was honest?

Tyrell picked up the whiskey and downed it in one gulp. “I believe I'll live to dance another day with that shot and the promise of spending time with the gorgeous Jill Cleary tomorrow night.”

“Be sure to get her home before midnight. She turns into a rabid coyote when the clock strikes twelve.” Sawyer moved on down the bar to fill a pitcher with beer.

“That true, darlin'?” Tyrell asked.

“Got to take the bad with the good,” Jill answered.

* * *

The jukebox played its last song a few minutes before eleven. The grill was cooling. Beer and margarita pitchers were in the dishwasher.

“I'll sweep if you'll wipe down the tables, and then we'll be done,” Sawyer said.

Jill picked up the spray bottle filled with cleaner, and a couple of bar rags, and went to work. Sawyer grabbed a broom.

He'd known her for twenty-four hours. They'd started off arguing, but had quickly worked things out until they were like old friends now. He leaned on the broom handle and stared at her, careful to go back to his job when she straightened up to go on to the next table.

She turned the chairs upside down on the table after she'd wiped them all down, so he could have easy access for sweeping. “Better hurry up and stop taking breaks if you want to get me home by midnight, so I don't turn into a rabid coyote.”

“I was trying to help you out there, woman.”

“I know that. I wish we could both go back to yesterday and undo tomorrow. I dread it.”

“Then be a rabid coyote so neither one of them will like you,” he said.

“Might be an idea. If you work faster, you'll get home to that apple pie quicker. It's cool by now, and there's ice cream in the freezer to go with it.” She straightened up and rolled her neck to get the kinks out.

He made a big show of sweeping faster. “Work, good woman. Work fast and hard. I'd forgotten that pie and chocolate cake await us at home. You might have to bake something more on Monday morning.”

She flipped two of the three chairs upside down on the last table and sank into one of the remaining ones with a long sigh. “I can't wait until Monday gets here, because then all this Sunday shit will be done with. Hell, I can't even remember their names most of the time. What if I call a Brennan by a Gallagher's name, or vice versa?”

“Say the name three times and picture an animal to go with the name, so you don't call him by the wrong feuding family name. Quaid looks like big old Angus steer to me, so picture a bull. Now the other one, Tyrell, is a wolf for sure, so picture him as that, and you'll never forget his name.” Sawyer leaned the broom against the jukebox, sat down in the remaining chair, and propped his feet on the table.

“Quaid the bullshit cowboy. Tyrell the hungry wolf cowboy. You're getting my table all dirty,” she said.

“I'll wash it. My feet are tired. At least you are getting red roses. I'm not taking roses or any other kind of flower to Betsy or to Kinsey. Maybe they'll take that as a slight and leave me alone.”

She tucked a few strands of flaming red hair behind her ear. “I don't even like roses. I said that so he wouldn't know my favorite flower and bring them. I have a problem relating flowers to people or events, and I damn sure don't want my favorite ones ruined by a one-date cowboy.”

“And the favorite ones are?” Sawyer asked.

“Daisies. They outlast roses, and they're tough little flowers. If you tell him…”

Sawyer held up a palm defensively. “I understand. Say no more. Want my advice?”

“Hell, no! But I expect you are going to give it to me anyway.”

“Maybe you've gotten off on the wrong foot with them, like I did,” he said. “It could be that one or both of them are really decent cowboys. Go with an open mind. Don't think about their last name or where they live or how much money they have or how big their ranch is or even the damned feud. Just spend a little time getting to know them as the men they are, and then make up your mind which one or both or neither that you might like to see again.”

She pinched her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “It's going to be a long Sunday.”

“Be nice if it was only one day.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Darlin', you are the princess of the Fiddle Creek kingdom. Both of the kingdoms beside yours would benefit greatly from the water rights on your land, so they're going to do their damnedest to get one of their knights in shining armor, or maybe its knight in shining pickup truck, to win your favor.”

“Aunt Gladys has always said that neither one of those families will ever get Fiddle Creek. Maybe that's all I need to put out on the rumor vine, and they'll leave me alone.”

Sawyer chuckled.

She sat up with a start and frowned at him. “What's so funny?”

“You looked in the mirror lately?”

“Of course.”

“Enough said, then.”

“You best start explaining, or I'm throwing that pie out in the yard,” she said.

“I'm repeating myself, and I won't do it again, so listen to me, Jill Cleary. Fiddle Creek would be a nice trophy. Whoever wins gets a woman with ranching experience that looks like a trophy wife. Quaid is going to try to woo you with his good deeds. Tyrell is going to smother you with fun and flowers. The feud is officially blown wide open right now, so everything is fair. Each side wants to win, and you are the prize. It won't be so bad, darlin'. You'll have a big ranch, a cowboy, and a hell of a big diamond engagement ring whichever way you go.”

“I'll say no after tomorrow. And what about you? You've also got two after you,” she said.

“Quaid and Tyrell are the knights, but the whole castle on both sides, including women, kids, and even the grandmothers are probably already plotting. I've got a feeling I'm part of that plot. If they can put me out of the picture, that's one less cowboy in your world. I think I already said that, didn't I?” Sawyer said.

“How do you know so much about it?”

“You can't be in Burnt Boot two hours without hearing feud stories.”

“Dammit!” She slapped the table hard enough that it reverberated right though his boots.

“Now you are beginning to understand. You ready to go home now?”

“I'm ready to go back to Brownsville and get a job making tacos in a fast food joint,” she said.

“Ain't neither one of us the kind to run from problems.” He stood up, wiped the table one more time, and set his chair on it. “Polly didn't mention mopping, did she?”

“Just a quick damp mop if there's spills, but I don't see any tonight. She's got a cleaning lady that does that on Sunday when the place is closed. She takes care of the deep cleaning. All we have to do is sweep up every night.”