Page 6 of Cowboy's Way

“Walt,” I say, purposefully interrupting as I place my right hand over my heart. “I promise you; I willneverask for avocado toast.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Walt mutters after pinning me with his gaze for longer than is necessary. He’s turning away when he elaborately waves his hand around. “I’ve got witnesses.”

“Thank you, Hans,” I whisper when he comes to stand next to me.

“Well, lucky for you, I saw your Jeep when I was driving by and figured we could go over some of the punch list items,” he responds with an easy grin, motioning to the seat next to me for permission before sitting.

“Of course.”

He waits until Walt comes back out with a coffee for him until he opens the folder he has with him and we start discussing final items.

“One other thing,” I hesitantly bring up the topic that has me in town so early this morning. “Could someone redo the fence around the garden? Something got into it last night, so we’re going to need a stronger fence than the old planks from the original porch.”

“Something?”

“Wild hogs, according to my neighbor.”

“Damn, you’re lucky you didn’t try to scare them off,” he tells me, shaking his head and letting out a low whistle.

“He’s right, young lady,” Walt interjects, giving up his pretense of not listening to our conversation. “I’ve seen men’s legs torn to hell by just one of those beasts.”

“I didn’t actually see them,” I tell them, and they exchange a look.

“Didn’t the security light cover that area?” Hans asks me, looking back down at his list as if to make sure that item was checked off.

“Maybe? I didn’t hear them, and it wasn’t until this morning that I saw the damage they had done,” I confess, and the men’s eyes meet again before Walt walks away whistling.

“Are you sure the garden is worth the expense?” Hans asks me and I can’t fault his question. I’ve never done any gardening before, so it’s just as likely that I’ll be bored with it in a month or so.

“Not entirely, no,” I breathe out the words in resignation.

His face doesn’t give anything away and I’m not sure what his nod means, but he stays silent as Walt delivers my food.

Separating out a piece of the French toast, I top it with a little syrup before filling it with eggs, bacon, and hash browns. Next I add salt, hot sauce, and ketchup before I gently fold it into a breakfast taco and take a bite out of it.

I’ve closed my eyes in appreciation of all the flavors dancing over my tongue, but they pop open at the sound of retching as someone else lets out a whistle.

Hans and Walt are staring at me with identical expressions of distaste and past them, at the end of the counter is a large man in a motorcycle cut with a shit-eating grin that he turns toward a fourth man who’s got his hand over his mouth as he runs for the door.

“Damn,” the large guy says, letting out a bark of laughter. “I can’t tell if you’re more hungover than we are or if you’ve got an iron stomach.”

“Walt, I really don’t think Faith is an avocado toast type-of-gal,” Hans contributes, letting out a soft chuckle as Walt turns his head to follow the departure of the retching man.

I continue chewing as I wonder what’s wrong with these guys. It’s all going to the same place anyway.

“Faith?” the biker at the end of the counter looks at me again, his smirk widening. “You Cowboy’s new neighbor?”

“If you mean Logan? Then, yes,” I ask in return before taking another bite. It’s been a while since I treated myself to a big breakfast and I’m not going to let it get cold.

“He mentioned your hog situation,” he responds, no longer concerned with the man vomiting just past the curb outside.

“Oh, you the lady that called about the garden situation this morning?” another voice calls out, and I turn to see a man in uniform. “Yeah, should have figured it was hogs. They’re rutting this time of year.”

“They’re always rutting,” Walt bites back, casting his annoyed expression over my shoulder. “You could have warned her. What if she had come across them?”

“You don’t call 911 to complain that your garden’s tore up,” a woman seated against the back wall snickers.

“Welcome to Small Town USA,” Hans says to me, keeping his voice low. “Where all your problems are aired out and debated at the local diner, then mocked over beers at the bar later that day.”

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