The Trouble with Texas Cowboys (Burnt Boot, Texas #2)(24)

“Have we met?” Jill asked.

“When you were a little girl, Gladys brought you over here to Tyrell’s birthday party. Don’t you remember it? I believe you were about seven, and folks thought you and Betsy were sisters.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t. I remember visiting Aunt Gladys a few times before my dad died, but I don’t remember being here.”

“Oh, it wasn’t here. We had the party in the barn, and we had pony rides.”

“I remember that,” Betsy said. “You and Tyrell had an argument about the spotted pony.”

Jill gasped. “That was Tyrell?”

“Yes, it was. We’ll have to tell him that story later, but now you must sit down here. Bartender, darlin’, bring us two whiskeys. Jameson. Double shots and neat. Good Irish lasses don’t water down their whiskey,” Naomi said.

Jill hopped up on a bar stool. It had been a long time since she’d had a shot of Jameson, and she intended to savor every single drop of it.

“How’s Gladys? I don’t get over to the store much anymore. I only see her in church, and she’s lookin’ good. She’s not sick, is she?” Naomi asked. “That’s not why you came back to learn the business, I hope.”

“Aunt Gladys is fine, but I suppose you heard about Aunt Polly breaking her ankle.”

“I did. I’ll send over some flowers when she comes home,” Naomi said. “You girls excuse me. One of my grandsons is over there, motioning for me. I’ll have to see what he needs.”

“How’s the new calf?” Betsy asked.

It was on the tip of Jill’s tongue to ask what calf she was talking about, but then she remembered how Sawyer had gotten free from her clutches.

“I haven’t seen it yet, but I bet it’s a beauty. Don’t you just love them when they’re little guys and they like to romp and play?” Jill said.

The bartender set a whiskey in front of her, and a frosted mug of beer before Betsy. Jill raised one eyebrow, and Betsy shrugged. “I like Jack Daniel’s, but today is a beer day.”

Jill took the first sip, and Tyrell propped a hip on the stool right beside her. He pointed at the Coors handle, and the bartender nodded. His arm went around Jill’s shoulders, and he leaned in to whisper, “Thank you for drinking that. Granny’s going to love you for it. The rest of us hate Irish whiskey.”

“It’s the best,” she said softly.

“I heard that you were out at the gate when the fracas went down this afternoon,” Betsy whispered. “I don’t expect, after a first date like that with Quaid, you’ll be going back for more, will you?”

Jill raised one shoulder. “Never say never.”

Betsy smiled. “Mavis is really bad, isn’t she? My cousin, Eli, said she tied into him like a banshee over those hogs, blaming us for their disappearance.”

Jill changed the subject. “How long has this feud been goin’ on?”

“You’d have to ask someone older than me,” Betsy said.

“Well, if y’all are done with the girl talk, supper is about ready. I promise, darlin’, that we’ll act more civilized than your dinner date turned out,” Tyrell said.

People were everywhere. Names blending one with the other, but not matching the faces. When it was time to leave, she could remember Tyrell, Betsy, and Naomi.

She was supposed to be giving points to each family, but mostly she wished she was home on her sofa in the bunkhouse with Sawyer on the other end. A foot massage would be nice, but leaning her head on his shoulder would be better. Maybe with an ounce of luck, she could hurry into the house without a kiss when the evening ended.

There was no luck.

Tyrell walked her to the door and caged her against the house by putting a hand on either side of her shoulders. He’d left his hat in the truck, so it didn’t even get in the way when he closed the space, fluttered his eyes shut, and kissed her hard right there in the moonlight with the north wind howling through the trees. He was every bit as good as Quaid, showing he’d had some very fine experience in the kissing business.

But again, there were no bells and whistles, no weak knees or even a desire to snake her arms up around his neck and press her body close to his. It was a good kiss, but it did nothing for Jill.

“I’ll see you at the bar tomorrow night, darlin’,” he said softly. “I’ll be the one on the bar stool, drooling on my shirt at your beauty.”

“Good night, Tyrell. Thank you for the evening and the rose.” She ducked under his arm and opened the door.

“Invite me in for a cup of coffee,” he said.

“Not tonight. I have to get up early to run the store.” She waved and eased the door shut before he could say another word.

Sawyer looked up over the back of the sofa the same way he’d done earlier. “So was this one any better?” he asked.

She removed her coat and hung it on one of the huge nails on the wall inside the entryway. “The whiskey was better. I had a double shot of Jameson.”

“Don’t go teasing me about good Irish whiskey. That happens to be my favorite.” He sat up and motioned her to the sofa.

“Where’s my rose? Did you put it in water?”

He pointed to the kitchen table. “Yes, ma’am. I aim to please.”