The Trouble with Texas Cowboys(8)

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.