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My gaze springs to his, and he pretends he’s doing nothing wrong as he takes a sip of beer and keeps his mischievous eyes on me. It makes me want to drag him out back again and have my way with him.
“Speaking of sweet-talkin’,” Wade says, likely trying to change the subject, “what happened to that lady you were seeing, Bulldog?”
That leads to him telling us his women woes and others joining in to talk about one dating expedition after another, and suddenly I’m seeing these men in a new light. They’ve always busted each other’s balls about that kind of stuff, but this conversation is a deeper, more sobering one. Turns out dating a cattle hand that works long hours and lives with other men in a bunkhouse is not ideal. Here I am, feeling sorry for myself, when their love lives are nothing to write home about either.
“Okay, this is depressing.” Bulldog raps his knuckles against the table. “Who’s ready to make a wager on bull riding?”
Bull riding? I throw Porter a glance, and he tilts his chin toward the other side of the room, where the bull-riding machine sits. It remains mostly unoccupied during the week, likely because most of us around here have seen our share of rodeos and riding. But it’s popular with tourists, and as I spy the group of men heading toward it, I understand why Bulldog is already up and leading the other men from the table: to watch the newcomers make fools of themselves.
Porter and I remain seated to finish our beers but follow suit in another minute.
“I got five bucks on the guy with the bolo tie,” Bulldog says. The man is also wearing a shiny new straw hat he likely bought in a souvenir shop.
“That old man? He’ll likely throw out his back.”
“Hey, watch it,” Wade warns, then digs out a few bucks. “I’m with you, Bulldog. Bet he’s got more experience than the others.”
“From seeing the most Westerns?” Otis says, and everyone chuckles.
We grow silent as another man from the group climbs on the bull and is thrown onto the mat in two seconds flat.
“Damn it.” Jeb hands over his money to Otis.
When the bolo-tie dude gets up there, Bulldog and Wade cheer him on, and he seems surprised he has an audience. The hardest part for all the riders is using only one hand, but those are the rules. This man is impressive because he hangs on for a good six seconds to whoops and hollers from our group.
As money exchanges hands again, I hear a ruckus near the entrance.
I wheel around to see Randy arguing with a man wearing ill-fitting cowboy boots. The guy is wiping the front of his shirt, so I’m guessing Randy knocked into him.
Randy does seem like he’s a couple of drinks in, and my gut immediately churns. Here I’d hoped he was home with Pixie, but it looks like he had other ideas.
Randy’s lip curls as he approaches our group. “What the hell is this?”
“What do you mean?” Porter says. “We all said we were going out.”
He folds his arms in a huff. “Oh, I see, and you decided not to let me know.”
My gaze swings to Bulldog, who looks sheepish. “I tried to invite ya, but you’d already taken off in your truck. I figured you had somewhere to be.”
“Yeah, right,” Randy spits out, then jabs a finger toward Porter. “I bet he didn’t want me around.”
“Now, come on,” Wade says. “You’re talking nonsense. Maybe you need?—”
“He just wants to get in good with the boss.” Randy pumps his eyebrows. “If you know what I mean.”
Porter makes a fist but keeps his arm firmly at his side. I take a step forward just in case.
“What exactly are you implying?” Porter’s voice is tight with barely restrained anger.
I try to meet his eyes, but Porter won’t look at me. Dread looms in my stomach.
“My old man told me stories about the Dixons,” Randy lobs at him. “Said your daddy was making rounds at the bars, even tried to hit on my momma. And that’s after he was drunk at work one day and ended up causing an accident that nearly got my daddy killed.”
Hell, I didn’t even know they’d worked together, but then, we were young when Porter’s dad was alive, and it’s not as if we were friends before his dad passed. Randy’s daddy spent some time working in one of the local factories. Maybe that’s what he’s talking about.
“That’s a damn lie and you know it.” Porter takes a step into Randy’s space. “And it’s not like you?—”
“Porter, don’t!” I warn. “He doesn’t need any more ammunition.”
