Page 3 of Rough Ride

“Maybe they live closer,” Liz suggested.

“They had Colorado plates on their trailers.”

Liz turned and stabbed a finger in my direction. “Ah hah! So youwerethinking about it!”

“I’m just observant. Stop reading into things.”

“Dating someone from another state might be good for you,” Liz went on. “You’re always talking about wanting to get out of Fort Worth, move to the countryside…”

“I don’t date rodeo guys!” I repeated.

We came to the next trailer, where a man wearing all black sat on a stool repairing a piece of leather with a pair of needle-nosed pliers. I felt my heart catch in my throat as he glanced up at us from beneath the brim of his wide black cowboy hat. He had dark, deep-set eyes that revealed both quiet strength and untold experience, and a crooked nose that suggested at least a dozen bar fights.

“Howdy!” Liz said cheerfully. “You look like a man who likes to drink. When you’re done repairing that saddle, you should come on down to Billy Bob’s. Tap beer’s half off!”

The man rose, removed his hat, and placed it on the stool. His dirty-blond hair was messy and tousled, long enough to frame his rugged face. He strode toward us like a panther, with a quiet air of danger. Not danger to us specifically, I thought, but to anyone who got in his way.

Even though Liz was the one who spoke, the man walked right up to me with intense eye contact. The scent of leather oil followed him like a cloud. He took one of my fliers without looking at it.

And in a voice like a Texas rockslide, he said, “All right.”

He returned to his work without another word. Liz and I hurried on.

“Nowhemight be worth breaking your rule about dating rodeo guys,” Liz said.

I couldn’t disagree with her.

2

Sophie

After passing out fliers to everyone at the rodeo camp, we drove the four miles north to Billy Bob’s. I was glad to be back there rather than the rodeo camp—Liz was right about the manure smell being annoying.

“Any takers?” asked Jessica, our manager.

I handed her the rest of the fliers. “A few dozen maybes. Most of them look tired. Where do you want me?”

“Bar number seven,” she said. “Liz, you’re at number twelve.”

At 100,000 square feet, Billy Bob’s was the largest honky tonk in the world. Walking from the entrance to my assigned bar took me across worn wooden floors, with neon lights glowing overhead and the constant hum of country music. It was full of rustic charm and lively energy, with chandeliers made from old wagon wheels above at least a dozen dance floors. There were thirty bars, multiple live music stages, and an activities area with billiards and ax throwing. And of course, there were several mechanical bulls for patrons to try their hand at being a real cowboy.

The best part about working at a place like this? It was so big that it was difficult for people to find me. Specifically all the guys I had handed out fliers to.

I clocked in at the register with my employee ID and relieved the previous bartender. Then I spent the first half hour of my shift tidying up the bar. I didn’t consider myself a neat freak, but I liked to keep my work space a lot cleaner than the rest of the bartenders. And the one I had just relieved was messier than most, leaving used glasses all over the place and liquor bottles scattered behind the bar.

I had been doing that without interruption when a sexy-smooth voice called out, “Hey there, Sky Eyes.”

I groaned internally, but put on a smile for the man from the rodeo camp. He looked exactly as he had earlier, including his tan leather cowboy hat. It was impossible not to appreciate just howattractivethis man was, like someone had asked an AI program to design the perfect friendly cowboy. But the last thing I wanted was to entertain someone at the bar while I worked. I attracted enough of those types of customers as it was.

“Why hello there…”

“Johnny,” he said, tipping his hat. “Johnny Armstrong.”

I snickered. “Is that your real name?” Lots of cowboys had a rodeo name, which they used only when they were performing. And Johnny Armstrong sounded like the most cliché one I had ever heard.

But Johnny frowned at me. “That’s the name I was given at birth. At least, as far as I know.” He leaned forward on the bar, arms flexing in the neon lights overhead. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Because I didn’t give it. How’d you find me anyway?”

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