The Trouble with Texas Cowboys (Burnt Boot, Texas #2)(13)

Chapter 4


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?”