Still A Cowboy (Wild Rose Point #2)

Chapter One

Cal Bennett limped through the front door of the Seaglass Saloon just as the old clock behind the bar struck midnight.

The wind howled behind him and a fresh sheet of rain slapped him directly on the ass, as if the storm had personally targeted that particular part of his body and was now shoving him inside for good measure.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” he snarled, dragging the door shut before the weather could shove him the rest of the way.

One look around, and he could see the place was packed. People shoulder-to-shoulder, laughter buzzing over the clink of pint glasses and the hum of something half-magical in the air.

And then…silence.

A real honest-to-goodness hush went over the place, and every blasted head turned toward him. All except one head, that is.

A woman near the bar was too busy choking to notice him.

She hacked, gasped and beat a fist against her chest, then somehow powered through and downed the rest of the pint. A man who had to be pushing ninety was next to her, and even though he had his attention pinned to Cal, he was patting the woman’s back.

The woman waved him off, breathless now. “Thanks for the Mooncatcher, Gus. I’ll get you a fresh one before the legend kicks in and you end up stuck with me.”

She turned, blinking as she caught sight of Cal. She looked him up and down, then up and down again before she swore.

“Shit,” she spat out. “Please tell me you’re not my soulmate.”

As comments went, Cal was pretty sure that was one he’d never heard before. And he’d been proposed to on horseback, pepper-sprayed by a bride’s jealous ex, and once had a woman throw a lasso at him outside a casino bar.

But this? This was new.

A wave of whispers tore through the saloon like wildfire on dry West Texas grass. Cal caught bits and pieces, snatches of words, half-formed sentences, and from what he could tell, the crowd was split somewhere between delighted, stunned, and just plain weird.

Or maybe they were all just shit-faced since this was indeed a bar.

“That’s Mooncatcher lager, right?” asked a blonde in the corner booth, her voice pitched with excitement.

“Full moon tonight, though you can’t see if for the storm,” her burly companion added, and he nodded solemnly.

“That’s the legend. Midnight, full moon, lager, true love!” chimed in the perky barmaid as she pulled a fresh pint, clearly thrilled to witness the moment.

“Well, damn. Guess it works,” muttered the old guy who’d patted the coughing woman on the back. His tone was a cross between half amused, half resigned.

“Kiss him,” the blonde in the corner booth shouted, and that got a rather disturbing round of cheers and applause.

Yeah, they were all shit-faced.

Cal shifted his weight again to take some pressure off his throbbing, aching knee, and he adjusted his grip on the duffel still slung over his shoulder. The woman, who was now staring at him like he might be a hallucination, marched toward him.

She didn’t say a word.

Instead, she reached out and pinched his arm. Hard.

“You’re real,” she muttered. No delighted, high pitched excitement for her. Her tone fell more into the area of what fresh hell is this? “I thought I might be hallucinating from the lack of oxygen caused by the coughing. But you’re real. You’re actually really, really real.”

Cal raised an eyebrow. “Glad we cleared that up. Do I know you?” he tacked onto that.

But he was certain that he didn’t. No way would he have forgotten meeting her. Or ever catching a glimpse of her for that matter. Yep, she would have stuck in his mind all right. Still, he looked her over, to make sure they hadn’t crossed paths at one time or another.

Her long dark brown hair was twisted into a loose knot that probably started the night neat and gave up somewhere around the dinner rush.

She had the kind of face that didn’t need much makeup—freckles, sharp green eyes, and a mouth that looked as if it had more opinions than patience.

Her boots were scuffed, her jeans paint-splattered at the hem, and her t-shirt had the Seaglass Saloon logo over the left pocket along a smear of something suspiciously like ketchup on the right.

She wasn’t polished.

She was real.

And judging by the way she was now squinting at him as if she wanted to send him back to wherever he had come from, she also wasn’t thrilled about the timing of his arrival.

She stepped back, glanced around the room, then zeroed in on a fifty-something woman behind the bar who was delivering drinks with the efficiency of someone used to navigating chaos in heels.

“Oh, come on,” the pincher/cougher snarled. “Did you set this up? Seriously?”

The woman behind the bar didn’t miss a beat. She slid a cocktail napkin under a glass, smiled sweetly, and called out without even turning around.

“I set up nothing, sweetheart,” she promptly answered.

Then she made her way toward Cal with the kind of confidence that made him straighten up a little, busted knee or no knee.

“You must be the cowboy from Texas,” she said, offering a hand and a knowing smile. “I’m Delia Hartley, Willa’s mother.” She tipped her head to the pincher. “Welcome to Wild Rose Point and more specifically, to the Seaglass Saloon.”

Cal shook her hand, still trying to piece together exactly what he’d walked into. “Appreciate it,” he said. “Though I gotta say, not anywhere close to the quiet arrival I had in mind.”

Delia grinned. “Things tend to get louder when the legend kicks in.”

He glanced over at the woman—Willa, apparently—who looked as if she’d just realized the whole bar was still watching. And probably hoping for that kiss some of them were still clamoring on about.

Hell. He was too tired for this. Not specifically too tired for a kiss, but it was obvious that Willa wasn’t in a smooching kind of mood. It was also obvious that he’d just walked straight into a mess that he wasn’t limping out of anytime soon.

Delia turned to her daughter, clearly amused at…something. “Willa, this is Cal Bennett. He’s renting the upstairs apartment for the next three months.”

Willa blinked. “He’s what?”

Cal gave a half-shrug. “It was listed online. Said it was above the Seaglass. I saw pictures. Looked quiet. Cozy.”

Willa muttered, mostly to herself but loud enough for him to hear. “And you just happened to arrive at midnight. With a full moon. While I was choking.”

Delia added cheerfully, “While you were drinking a Mooncatcher lager.”

Willa shot her mother a glare. “I wasn’t drinking it by choice. I was trying not to choke on a rogue beer nut lodged in my throat. Someone handed me a pint. I didn’t even look at it. Didn’t know it was a Mooncatcher until I tasted it.”

Delia waved that off as if it didn’t matter. “Still counts. Legend doesn’t say anything about intentions. Just timing and the beer.”

Cal glanced between them, trying to decide if they were both serious or if he’d been dropped into a live-action episode of small-town oddity. And Wild Rose Point was definitely a small town, squeezed in between a whole bunch of other small towns on the scenic Oregon coast.

He looked between the two women, and the mental wheels started turning. “Should I ask what drinking a beer has to do with soulmates?”

A chorus of voices from the bar answered him in unison. “Everything!”

He blinked, then looked back at Willa. “Right. Of course.”

Willa rolled her eyes. “It’s a stupid legend. Something my great-grandmother made up to sell more beer. The story goes: if you drink a Mooncatcher lager at midnight on a full moon, the universe will deliver your soulmate.”

Cal raised an eyebrow. “That’s…oddly specific.” Which was a kinder way of saying utter bullshit.

“It’s coastal nonsense wrapped in alcohol and small-town boredom,” Willa muttered.

Delia clicked her tongue. “It’s not stupid. It’s how I met Willa’s father.” She crossed herself in dramatic fashion. “God bless his soul.”

Willa turned. “Mom, he’s not dead.”

“I know,” Delia said. “But that man still needs his soul blessed, trust me.”

Cal tried not to grin, but it slipped out anyway.

Willa glared at both of them, then pointed at Cal. “You. Upstairs. No more late-night beer, no more cosmic timing, and no more legends.”

Delia just smiled, clearly enjoying every second of this. “Too late, honey. The legend’s already started working.” She gave Willa a look that was pure maternal authority layered in amusement. “Be a good hostess, Willa. Show Cal, the cowboy, to his apartment.”

Half the bar was still chanting, voices overlapping like a tipsy chorus. “Kiss the cowboy! Kiss the cowboy! Kiss the cowboy!”

Someone shoved a pint into Cal’s hand with a wink. “For luck.”

Before he could take a sip, Willa snatched the glass from him with a sharp glare. “Don’t drink that.”

Cal blinked. “Why? Does the legend work after midnight?”

“No,” she said, gripping the pint as if it had personally offended her, “but if you drink a Mooncatcher, too, we’ll never hear the end of it. These people live for this kind of stuff.”

She handed the beer off to a passing server without looking and turned on her heel. “Come on. Stairs are this way,” she snarled.

Cal followed her toward the far end of the saloon, weaving between barstools and darting patrons.

The building was old, its charm worn but sturdy.

Weathered wood floors, mismatched nautical signs, and a mural of sea glass and stormy waves covering the wall near the back.

The staircase tucked into the corner was narrow and curved, the wood creaking under their steps with every movement.

A faded rope handrail lined the wall, and the smell of salt air crept in through the old window on the landing. Halfway up, Cal could still hear the bar crowd chanting in bursts and laughter spilling across the floor.

“Take the cowboy to bed, Willa,” someone yelled. “Seal that soulmate deal tonight.”

Willa didn’t look back. Didn’t respond. Cal figured that was for the best.