Page 8 of Forbidden Cowboy

The long, drawn-out howl of Gus, our local stray basset hound, pierces the quiet Main Street. He’s nowhere to be seen but has a local route for scraps and attention.

A bell hanging above the bar’s door jangles my arrival.

“Evening, Bucky.” I nod at old man Bucky.

The lines on his face are as weathered as the long maple counter he’s wiping down. Hundreds of bottles reflect off the mirror covering the wall.

He glances over the rims of his round glasses. His suede vest, long greying ponytail, and facial hair give him a free spirit vibe. “Lo and behold, if my eyes don’t deceive me, it’s Levi Wilde in my bar.”

“Better your bar than mine.” I recognize Kiwi Ward’s voice before I glance to my right.

“That’s new.” I admire the ten-foot-wide unfinished hole dividing the rivalry bars.

The two widowed fools were known for banging on the connecting wall during minor disputes. Clearly, their dust-up had erupted.

I nod my hat at the older lady. “Evening Mrs. Ward.”

Besides a few laugh lines—or growl lines if you’re her enemy—she hasn’t changed much—same cherry red hair tied back with a bandana. Short, stick thin, and all bones. Even in her eighties, she still dresses like a biker babe in leather, studs, and cowboy boots and makes sure the heart tattooed to her arm is on display.

“Don’t youevening, Mrs. Wardme.” The Wards favor the Fox family, while the Buckleys favor the Wilde family.

“Why the hell not?” Bucky slams a closed fist on the counter. “It’s a helluva gorgeous evening out there.”

Kiwi waves her hands at both of us before spinning on her heel and stomping away. “Worthless as gum on a boot heel.”

“Levi!” The sloppy slur comes from the town drunk, Earl. He’s partially slumped over the end of the counter. He raises his empty glass a couple of inches off the wood before it clunks back down. His head lands in the crook of the arm resting on the countertop. Sleep steals him.

Some things never change.

“Old fool.” Bucky pries the empty beer mug out of his fingers. “Comes in skunk-drunk and thinks I’m going to serve him more. Help me move him to a booth, will ya?” He slaps the terry cloth over one shoulder before making his way from behind the bar.

“I got it.”

But the old man clambers around, pushing his bad leg to grab one of Earl’s arms. We drop him in the closest booth with a torn leather seat. He mumbles incoherently before curling over.

Bucky ambles back to the bar, now coddling his limp. “What can I get you?”

“Whatever’s on tap.” I find an empty booth in the corner—the furthest corner in the joint.

It’s only drunken Earl and me, but I’d prefer inconspicuous if anyone else pops in. I hang my hat on the coat hook nailed to the side of the booth before I slide in.

I run my fingers through my hair and rake my hands over my face. A frustrated groan rumbles in my chest.

Hope Fox.

Kissing booth.

Working side-by-side.

Hell no. There’s no debate. It ain’t happening.

The door jangles. I feel irritation lace my insides. I don’t want to talk, chat, gossip, or anything. I expect the place to fill up once the meeting adjourns, but I thought maybe I’d get a minute to drink my beer alone.

I steal a hooded glance. And instantly regret it.

A white lace wrap drapes down Hope’s bare shoulders. I imagine my lips trailing a path over her soft skin.

I should look away.