A Cowboy of Her Own

“What kind of trouble did you get into during your teens?” Porter asked.

Wendy was embarrassed to admit she’d been a Goody Two-shoes. “I broke curfew once.” She’d been an hour late returning home from choir rehearsal. When she’d gone out to the school parking lot, she’d discovered a flat tire on her car. A teacher had offered to help, but she’d been determined to change the tire herself. The teacher had remained with her in the lot, cheering her on until she’d succeeded. And before he let her leave, he made her drive around until he was satisfied the tire wouldn’t fall off.

“Did your parents ground you?”

“No.” After she’d explained the emergency they’d understood. But they’d still given her that look because she hadn’t phoned them to say she’d be late.

“You felt guilty for weeks afterward.”

She laughed. “Yes.”

“I admit I was a goof-off in my younger years,” he said. “But I’ve changed.”

Wendy didn’t comment.

“Go ahead. Say it.”

“Say what?”

“You think I’m still a slacker.”

“I don’t know you well enough to make that judgment.”

“I’m sure Dixie shared enough stories about my exploits for you to form an opinion.”

“Dixie loves you, Porter. She believes all her brothers walk on water.”

“It would be nice if she let us know that instead of complaining about everything we do.” He grew quiet for a minute, then said, “One day I’m going to buy a ranch.”

“Where?”

“I’ve got my eye on a place in the Fortuna Foothills.”

“That’s a nice area.” Buying property in the foothills would require a large chunk of money, and she doubted Porter’s employment history of hit-or-miss seasonal jobs would convince a bank to give him a loan.

What if Porter was rustling bulls under Buddy’s nose and selling them on the black market in order to finance his dream? As soon as the thought entered her mind, she pushed it away.

“So what do you say?” he said.

“What do I say about what?”

“Having a little fun before we pack it in for the night?”

“It’s late. I’m not—”

“Ten o’clock isn’t late.” When she didn’t comment, he said, “C’mon. Let your hair down.” He nodded to the clip that pinned her hair to her head. “I’ve never seen you with your hair loose.”

“I wear it up because it’s cooler and it doesn’t get in my way at work.”

“If it’s a pain then cut it.”

Her long, silky hair was her best feature—according to her mother. “I’ve thought about it, but don’t men prefer long hair?” She winced. Porter would assume she was fishing for compliments.

“I can’t speak for every guy, but there’s more to a girl than her hair and makeup.”

That all sounded good but... “If you feel that way, why does Dixie believe you need to raise your standards and date women with brains, not—”

“Boobs?” He laughed. “I have nothing against serious girls, except that most of them don’t know how to have fun. All work and no play stinks.”

“Are you insinuating that I’m no fun?” she teased, knowing that it was the truth. The last time she’d goofed off with a guy had been in college, when Tyler had taken her to a miniature golf course.

“I’m not insinuating. I’m flat-out saying it’s so,” he said.

She’d show him she knew how to party. “Go ahead and stop somewhere.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Two miles later Porter pulled into the parking lot of a bar.

“The place doesn’t look busy,” Wendy said.

“It’s a Monday night. Only the regulars will be here.” He got out, then helped Wendy from the cab.

“What’s the name of the bar?” she asked.

“The Red Rooster.” He pointed to the rooster weather vane on the roof of the building. And the black door sported the silhouette of a red rooster on it.

When they entered the establishment, a wailing soprano voice threatened to wash them back outside. Karaoke night was in full swing and a redhead in pink spandex and a rhinestone tank top belted out Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight” while a handful of men leered at her through beer-goggle eyes.

Porter grasped Wendy’s hand and led her to the bar.

A short man with a grizzled face and a potbelly stepped through a pair of swinging doors behind the bar. He wobbled over and asked, “Where are you folks from?”

“Yuma,” Porter said.

“I need to buy me a house down there. Can’t take the cold winters up here no more.” He slapped drink napkins on the bar. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a draft—” Wendy poked him in the side. “Make that a Dr Pepper,” Porter said.

“Scotch, neat, please.” She smiled at Porter’s wide-eyed stare. “You expected me to order wine?”

“Or beer. Where’d you learn to drink Scotch?”

“Most of my clients are men.”

“I guess there aren’t a lot of women running livestock ranches these days,” he said.