Page 4 of Claimed By the Cowboys

“What are you drinking?”

“Something heavy on the liquor,” I say, swirling my drink and the ice around the glass. “It’s making my gums numb.”

“Sounds like my kind of drink.”

“Annie’s choice. She ordered it with a little more punch than I’m used to.’”

His mouth curves like he understands women who come to a bar carrying more than a purse. “Sounds like your friend knows you well.”

“She knows too much. There’s a difference.”

“That why she left you unsupervised?”

I laugh before I can stop myself. “Annie believes supervision is the ruination of a good time.”

Bo’s smile emerges, and it changes his whole face. It makes him look less like the bad kind of trouble and more like the kind of trouble a woman might willingly walk toward. A woman who’s not me.

“She sounds wise.”

“She’s bossy.”

“Usually the same thing.”

I shake my head, still smiling, and trace a finger through the salt on the rim of my glass. “What about you? Anybody bossing you around tonight?”

“Not tonight.” He turns his whiskey once on the bar top. “Most days, it’s cattle, weather, and a ranch owner who thinks the need for sleep is a character flaw.”

“That sounds familiar. At the care home, sleep is reserved for the residents. The employees are expected to run on stale coffee and good will.”

His eyes warm. “You take care of people.”

“I try to.” The answer comes out softer than I intend. “Some days I think I do all right. Other days, I mostly keep everybody alive and hope that counts.”

“It counts.”

The noise of the bar fills the small pause between us, but it’s not awkward. We’re just two tired people recognizing the same kind of weariness in each other and choosing, for a moment, not to step away.

When I finally set my empty glass down, he looks over. “You in a hurry to leave, or you want another punchy cocktail?”

A tired laugh slips out of me. “I’m always in a hurry to leave.”

His gaze stays on my face. “That so?”

“I’ve got two kids at home. They’re my sister’s, but…” I pause, then shrug because explaining my life is never simple. “They’re mine now, in all the ways that matter. Naomi has a science project due, my five-year-old nephew thinks bedtime is a lie started by adults, and my mama is probably wondering why I’m not home being respectable.”

Bo’s expression doesn’t shift into pity like I expected, and I like that more than I should.

“Sounds like you keep a lot of plates spinning.”

“Plates, knives, flaming torches. Depends on the day.” I turn my straw through the melted ice. “What about you?”

He glances at his glass, then back at me. “Came in for a drink. Saw you sitting here and figured I’d rather talk to you than drink alone.”

I lift an eyebrow anyway because flirting is safer when it’s wrapped in humor. “Smooth, cowboy. You use that one often?”

“First time.”

He says it so seriously, I believe him.