Chapter Eleven
When the neon glow of The Soused Cow comes into view, it looks exactly opposite of how I imagined—I pictured these women drinking it up in a nice dance club, not a roadside honky-tonk. I’ve been in a lot of bars across the country, and this one looks to be just my speed.
I instantly feel at ease.
The parking lot is packed, trucks and ATVs lined up side by side under the hazy glow of floodlights. The steady beat of music spills into the night before the old cowboy checking IDs even opens the door.
The moment we step inside, it’s like walking into another world.
The place is packed wall to wall and vibrating with energy.
The air smells like beer, sweat, sawdust, cheap perfume, and stale cigarette smoke.
The noise hits like a wave—laughter, clinking bottles, and the twang of a guitar being tuned onstage.
The jukebox in the corner is still spinning old country hits while the crowd waits for the band to start.
Caison and Matty make their way through the crowd to a cluster of high-top tables to the right of the dance floor with Cabe following behind. He beckons me forward as I bring up the rear with Charli and the younger Storm girls in tow.
We push two of the tables together, and the girls settle onto stools.
Shelby waves over a server, and we order a round of drinks. The girls get a tray of shots, Cabe a beer, and Caison and I settle on a top-shelf whiskey. By the time the band starts playing, our tables are full of bottles and empty glasses, and the girls are getting giggly.
“Happy birthday, Matty Storm,” Harleigh bellows, holding one of the shot glasses in the air.
Matty laughs, grabbing one herself and clinking it against Harleigh’s.
Shelby picks up a glass and hands one to Charli. “To sisters. And badass women ranchers,” she adds with a grin.
“And to the poor bastards trying to keep up with them,” I throw in, my eyes going to Cabe and Caison. Who break into laughter.
Charli looks at me over her shot, the corner of her mouth curving up. “You talking about yourself, cowboy?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll have no problem keeping up,” I say.
“We’ll see.”
She tosses back the tequila and slams the glass back on the tray. Then her tongue darts out and slowly licks a drop from her bottom lip. My eyes follow the movement, then lift back to hers.
She smirks.
Heat blooms in my chest. The woman is sexy as hell, and she damn well knows what she’s doing.
“We need another round,” Harleigh cries.
“What you need is to pace yourself,” Cabe grumbles.
Harleigh scowls at him. “When did you turn into a grumpy old man?”
“The minute you ordered tequila, and I realized that I’ll be doing morning chores alone tomorrow.”
She waves the comment off. “I’ll help. I party all the time and still make it to morning classes.”
“What?” Matty asks.
Harleigh’s eyes go to her older sister, and she gives her a sheepish look. “I said I always make it to class.”
The band takes the stage soon after—a local group called Wildhaven Junction—and they seem to know exactly how to get the crowd riled.
The first chords of “Family Tradition” echo through the room, and they erupt.
Drinks in the air, singing along at the top of their lungs. The women at our table included.
Next, they transition to “Country Girl (Shake It for Me),” and Matty’s the first one up, tugging Charli by the hand.
“Come on,” she says to the other two.
The crowd opens just enough for them to join in, their bodies falling easily into rhythm under the string lights hanging from the rafters.
“They’re disgustingly cute,” Caison says, shaking his head.
“You mean they’re a hot mess,” Cabe says, but his voice is laced with amusement.
He has the hot part right. Every man in the bar is watching the four of them as they shake their asses, just as the song requests.
I lean back in my stool, watching them, and then Charli’s eyes lock with mine. She holds my gaze across the crowd as she moves to the music, and the way her hips shifts suddenly feels deliberate. Controlled. Like every sway is meant for me.
Heat crawls up my neck and settles heavy in my chest.
I take a slow sip from my glass, pretending I’m relaxed, but my pulse is pounding.
I can feel her, even from twenty feet away.
The tequila flowing through her veins has made her bold.
Her defenses lowering a little more with every shot.
But the teasing glint in her eyes tells me she still knows exactly what she’s doing—daring me to come closer.
“Be careful, man,” Cabe says over the music.
My eyes slide to him. “Of what?”
“Of that.” He gestures to her twirling under the lights. “You’re playing with fire.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Sure you don’t,” he quips. “Just remember you’re here until the first of August, and if that goes sideways, it’ll be a hell of a long summer.”
I stand, turn my glass up, and empty it in one swallow. “You guys want another?”
“I’ll take a water,” Caison says.
“Me too,” Cabe chimes.
I leave them and make my way through the tables, headed to the bar.
I find an open space at the end and slide up to the smooth barn-wood top. A redhead in a leather tube top takes my order, and I hand her my credit card, making sure that she transfers the tab for our entire group to it.
“I’ll take the whiskey and waters, but can you have our server bring a round of tequila shots to our table, please?”
While I wait, I lean against the bar and take in my surroundings.
The place is larger than it appears from the outside.
The stage isn’t fancy, but it’s a good size.
The dance floor takes up most of the room to the right of the bar.
Clusters of tables in various shapes, heights, and sizes stand between it and the entrance.
There are four pool tables to the left, and worn leather couches and dartboards are tucked in the back corner of the room, along with a dark hallway that I assume leads to the offices and perhaps the restrooms. A door behind the bar has wooden signage that says Patio.
The place looks filled to capacity, and everyone’s having a good time.
But I still clock the exits and map the shortest routes from our table to each—because if there’s one thing I’ve learned on the road, it’s that things can quickly go south in any situation where a large group of people and alcohol are involved.
A petite woman with shoulder-length black hair—wearing a pair of tiny denim shorts, a red tank top with a deep neckline, and black felt cowboy hat—sidles up beside me. “Hey, cowboy. I know you,” she says.
I quirk a brow. “Is that right?”
“Sure do. We met in Livingston last year.”
As she calls out to the bartender for a light beer, I dig back into my memory to last summer’s roundup. I recall scoring eighty-nine points and taking home the top prize, but I do not remember this particular female.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m drawing a blank.”
Her cherry-red lips curl into a sly smile. “I was with Dell Wright. We all went out drinking at The Whiskey Attic after the event.”
Dell Wright. A fellow bull rider. Good guy.
“That’s right,” I recall. “How is Dell?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” she says as she moves a fraction of a step closer to me. “I caught him with a trashy blonde bunny in Bozeman a couple of months ago and had to cut him loose.”
I shake my head. “That’s too bad.”
She brings a hand up and brushes a red-tipped finger against the cross hanging from the leather strap around my neck. “Oh, I don’t know. Doesn’t seem too bad at the moment.” Her finger slides down my chest. “What brings you to Wildhaven?”
I take her by the wrist to stop her descent before she causes a problem I can’t control. “Just visiting friends.”
“Me too. How lucky is that?”
The bartender sets a glass, two waters, and a bottle down between us. “Your shots will be there in a minute.”
I tip my hat and thank her, then look back down to the girl, who’s now plastered to my side.
“Excuse me, darlin’. I gotta get these over to those friends.”
“Okay. My girls and I are just over there.” She turns and points to two women who are standing at a pub table, watching a group of rowdy cowboys shooting pool. Then she twists back to me. “Come find me later?”
I give her a practiced smile. One I’ve given a hundred women in a hundred different bars. “I just might do that.”
Accepting that answer, she picks up the bottle of beer and walks away. The exaggerated rock of her hips sends a message that’s easy to read. She glances back over her shoulder to make sure I’m watching the show before rejoining her friends, who are now looking from her to me with interest.
I grab the waters with one hand and my whiskey with the other. When I make it to our table, the girls are coming off the dance floor, and the server is already there with their shots.
Charli rounds the table and takes one of the bottles of water from me before I can hand them off to the boys.
She wraps her hair with her other hand, lifts it, and then rolls the cool bottle against the damp skin at the back of her neck.
Her eyes drift shut, and she moans. “Oh my God, that feels good.”
“Want me to order you something cold?” I ask.
Her eyes flutter open. “Yes. An old-fashioned with extra ice, please.”
Something about the way her voice caresses the word please has me imagining taking a cube of ice from her cocktail and running it over her hot skin just to hear her moan again.
“Bryce?” she calls.
“Right,” I say, shaking the thought from my head. “Old-fashioned, extra ice. Another water for Cabe. Anything else?” I ask.
“I’ll come with,” Cabe says. “I need to piss, and I think everyone could use water.”
I lift my chin to him and tell Charli, “Be right back.”
I take off after Cabe when I feel a hard tug on my jeans that jerks me to a halt. I glance down, and her finger is wrapped around one of my belt loops. My eyes go to hers.
“I’m thirsty,” she states.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Don’t let any wannabe cowgirls hold you up this time.”
She releases me and turns her focus back to her sisters. I chuckle to myself as I go to fetch the thirsty girl her drink.