Page 5 of Cowboy's Way

“We?” he scoffs.

“The river’s that way, isn't it?” I confirm, tilting in my head in the direction of my destroyed garden. “That means that the hogs crossed my land and continued toward yours or went for a swim. Now, which scenario is more likely? I'm guessing that you know the terrain between our properties better than me.”

“Fuck.”

“Do you want a cup of coffee, or do you need to run back home?” I ask, turning to him with a deceptively innocent look in my eyes.

“Do you have any animals here?” He questions me in return. “Or a shotgun? I don't suppose you have a shotgun?”

“I do not.” I use the same reply for both questions.

“It looks like you're doing construction around here. What time do you expect the workers?” Taking mercy on him, I pour him a cup, deciding that he looks like the kind of man who drinks black coffee. “Thank you. Once they get here and start making noise, you won't have to worry about the hogs, but before then, it's best you stay inside.”

“And how about after the men leave?”

He's taking a long, deep sip of his coffee when I ask that question. Handing the mug back to me, he smirks, “Well, my earlier offer still stands if you wanna come on over.”

With that, he turns and saunters back to his bike.

Cocky asshole.

“Hey!” he yells out, looking back to catch me studying him. “How’d you know my name?”

“I keep getting your mail,” I answer, shrugging my shoulders and trying not to look guilty. It’s all flyers, so I’ve just been tossing it.

Looking at my phone, I see there's over an hour before I can expect anyone out here, so I decide to go get changed and grab some breakfast at the local diner that always seems busy when I pass by.

After throwing on some clothes, I get back in my Jeep for the drive into town. From where I live it's a good twenty minutes, which can be a bit frustrating since the realtor had told me that if I owned a boat, it'd be about a five-minute ride.

That's an expense for another day. Sometime after I get my house fixed up, I tell myself.

Seeing the police station, I almost consider going in and explaining to them about the wild hogs, but considering the three people that I had talked to earlier and Logan’s reaction, I can just imagine that I would just be adding on to their hilarity.

I park across from the diner and wait for the sole car on the street to pass before crossing and nervously smile when seemingly every patron looks up at me. Seeing a free stool at the counter, I hurriedly slide into it—safe from the curious gazes behind me.

“You look like you're in need of a coffee, young lady,” The man who places the cup in front of me is as grizzled as his voice, but his warm brown eyes are filled with humor. “I hope you don't mind me guessing that you're the outsider who bought the old Drapper place.”

“As long as you don't mind me guessing that you're Walt,” I reply, recalling the name on the outside of this nondescript diner.

“See now, assumptions don't always make asses out of people.” His grin widens at his own joke as he slides the menu in front of me, winks, and walks away.

Not seeing any sweetener, I reach over for the sugar and add a little to my coffee before looking at the laminated sheet in front of me. My best guess is that Walt has a grandchild who convinced him to let them create a logo and put together the most useless menu in the history of diners.

There are six choices for breakfast and another six choices for both lunch and dinner. I subtly peek at the backside to make sure I’m not missing anything.

“Have you made up your mind?” Walt asks me when he returns.

“Yes, I'd like two pieces of French toast, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and hash browns,” I tell him, ignoring the carefully laid out options on the menu in front of me.

“French toast is item number three, and it comes with four pieces. Eggs, breakfast meat, and hash browns is item number one, and it comes with regular toast or pancakes,” he replies, the glint in his eyes daring me to continue.

“Walt, I’ve hadamorning. Can you please just substitute two pieces of French toast for the toast or pancakes? Throw in a little upcharge if you think that’s fair,” I ask him, setting my shoulders so he knows I'm serious.

As if in slow motion, he stretches out his arm and his slightly crooked index finger indicates two words at the bottom of the menu that he kindly reads out loud for me, “No substitutions.”

“Walt,” a man's voice rings out from behind me, and I turned to see my contractor, Hans, standing just inside the door. “Why don't you cut the nonsense and get Ms. Murphy what she asked for?”

“City folk, Hans,” Walt replies, his frown deepening. “If you let them change one thing, they’ll want to make more changes. Next thing you know, she’ll be asking for avocado toast.”

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