Cowboy at Midnight

“Wait! Your hat!” a velvet voice cried behind him.

He turned and saw the black girl in the red sheath waving his Stetson at him.

To hell with his hat! He’d buy another one.

Then the blonde snatched it out of her friend’s hand and slowly put it on. It was way too big for her, but she looked cuter than hell when she peeped at him from underneath the brim with her huge, lost eyes.

Her mouth curved in a sweet, sad smile that made him want to save her from whatever the hell was bothering her.

Run!

Two

A my felt flushed. Was it the Flirtita, a fruity variation of a Margarita, that she was drinking that was making her feel light-headed and bolder than usual? Or was it the wild drumbeat of the music pulsing inside her like a second heartbeat?

“Wait!” Rasa yelled.

Amy couldn’t believe Rasa. She was too much. When the tall, dark cowboy didn’t answer the impossible girl or turn around, Rasa strolled back to Amy’s table with his hat, her pretty mouth petulant.

“He’s leaving! I can’t believe your hot-to-trot cowboy is galloping for the hills! You’d better get up and take him his hat, baby.”

Amy jumped up and then forced herself to sit back down.

She wanted to run after him.

The evening was definitely out of control, and that scared Amy, who was into control—normally.

“I don’t know what got into me. Coming here…with you…tonight of all nights. And flirting with him. What am I doing here?”

Amy slapped her own cheek so hard it stung. She had to get a grip, if not on Rasa, on herself.

“It’s your birthday. You’re thirty. You’re having a Margarita.”

“A Flirtita,” Amy corrected. “Specialty of the house. And it’s strong. Too strong.”

Or maybe it just seemed strong because she hadn’t had any alcohol for eight years.

“Maybe I’ll try one.” When Rasa held up her hand to signal a waiter, Amy grabbed her wrist and lowered it.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

“So, what’s wrong with flirting a little when a guy’s that cute?”

I could tell you what’s wrong. If you had my memories, you’d understand.

“You might as well be dead if you don’t live a little,” Rasa said, waving his hat at him again.

Dead.

The charged word echoed in Amy’s bruised heart and soul as she shakily sipped her Flirtita and tried to pretend all she felt was a haughty nonchalance. She wasn’t about to tell Rasa, whom she barely knew, about her visit to the cemetery, which was partly why she felt so crazy and out of control tonight.

When Rasa waved the cowboy hat again, Amy jumped up and grabbed it. “Would you stop?” The room whirled. She had to quit sipping this delicious drink.

The hat was still warm and damp around the headband because he’d worn it and worked in it. She caught the sharp, masculine scent of his cologne. Hardly knowing what she did, Amy flipped the battered hat over and then glanced toward him again. Without even realizing her intention, she put it on her head. When it sank to midbrow, she spun it around on her head, feeling like a kid playing dress-up.

Oh, God, what was she doing? Making a pass at a…stranger? Wearing his hat? She should have known the last place she should have come to was a cowboy bar with posters of cowgirls riding horses on the walls, not to mention Flirtitas. The posters and the sweet fruit drink mixed with vodka had made her feel crazy. All of a sudden she was remembering how it felt to be young and to ride like the wind under a blazing sun. To be happy. To trust in the beauty of life itself. To feel immortal.

Amy’s hand tightened around the stem of her cold, wet glass. She had no right to flirt with anybody ever, even if he was dark and broad-shouldered and the hunkiest guy she’d seen in years.

Flirtita or no Flirtita, hunk or no hunk, she couldn’t lose control. She was damaged and dangerous and therefore determined never to hurt anybody else, not even herself, ever again.

“Look,” she began softly, removing his hat and placing it very firmly on the table. “Rasa, I don’t come to bars. I don’t pick up strange men. Especially not cowboys. I work. That’s all I do.”

“Why not cowboys? You prejudiced or something?”

“No. It’s because—” She looked up into Rasa’s dark, imploring eyes. “Just because.”

“Okay, so you met one bad cowboy.”

“No!” You don’t understand. Again, she felt too near some dangerous edge. Defiantly Amy swirled her Flirtita glass so vigorously the liquid flashed like angry fire.

“Are you going to punish yourself forever?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Betsy has told me a little.”

“Really? Well, she doesn’t know the half of it, okay?”

“Not okay. Baby, he’s still watching you while he talks to that bartender. It’s not too late. Maybe you should go over there and—”

“No.”

“You should definitely lighten up.”

“If I do that, anything could happen.”

“So let it.”

Amy set her glass down by the beige Stetson. He’d looked so handsome in that rumpled hat. So dark and virile and absolutely adorable. Intending to push the hat away, she pulled it toward her and stroked the brim with a trembling fingertip.

“You’re way too serious,” Rasa persisted.

Why should I listen to advice from someone I’ve known all of two hours? Someone who doesn’t have a clue what kind of person I really am?

“You should try to be friendly.” Rasa’s hand squeezed hers gently. “Maybe then you’d meet some interesting people and move on.” Her voice softened. “Betsy says you bury yourself alive.”

“Maybe I don’t want to move on.”