Chapter 11
The Iron Spur Bar nothing in her closet qualified.
Her only pair of jeans was for cleaning the garage, so she’d chosen a sleeveless sage-green dress instead.
Pretty and light, but maybe a little too floaty for a place with peanut shells on the floor.
She had dusted off her boots, her one concession to living in Texas, where not owning a pair bordered on a misdemeanor.
But her clothes weren’t the problem. It was everything else that kept her on the wrong side of the door. A bad case of nerves from being out of practice, the embarrassing wanting of a man she barely knew, and the fragile hope that maybe this time would be different.
She’d texted him she was running late and would meet him here. Now, as she entered alone, she almost wished she hadn’t. She wasn’t boots-and-beer; she was wildflowers in her hair and music-festival energy.
She felt the glances, the curiosity, and the quick dismissal, but let her attention move through the room, anyway.
The aroma of mesquite smoke, searing meat, and beer filled the air so thick, she could almost touch it.
The worn plank dance floor groaned under boots doing the two-step.
Bursts of laughter broke over the low, steady pull of a Waylon song from the jukebox.
Along the far wall, a pool table glowed amber beneath a vintage Miller Lite sign. That was where she found him.
A long-neck bottle hung from his hand as he leaned against the far end of the bar.
He wore his hat brim low, casting his face into shadow.
It concealed his Ranger awareness, along with the thorough inspection she was sure he’d already given the room.
Every exit noted, every shadowy corner assessed, each face cataloged and filed away before she arrived.
Slowly, with one finger, he tipped his hat back. Across the low-lit space, a genuine smile curved his lips.
She inhaled, steadying the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach, as he straightened and came toward her. No hurry in it. Only that same deliberate way he had.
“You made it,” he said.
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m relieved.”
That caught her off guard. He wasn’t the kind of man a woman didn’t show up for.
His eyes skimmed over her once, from hair to boots, unhurried. When they returned to her face, they were warm, and she felt it like a caress.
“You look—”
“Like I wandered into the wrong movie?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I was going to say right.”
Heat rose from her chest to her cheeks, slow and traitorous. He must have noticed because he didn’t look away. He also didn’t comment, which charmed her more.
“There’s one booth left. Let’s grab it.”
His palm settled briefly at the small of her back as he guided her to it. He sat across from her at first. Then a group of rowdy cowboys spilled into the aisle. Without asking, he moved, sliding onto the bench beside her. Their thighs brushed. He didn’t move away.
“Bachelor party,” he said. “If I’d known, I’d have chosen someplace quieter.”
“This is fine. I live alone and run an art gallery. I get plenty of quiet.”
The waitress came with menus. “Evening, Coop. What to drink?”
“Evening, Carol. We’ll take two Shiners.”
“Coming right up,” she said, already walking away.
Erica looked at him, a brow arched.
“You don’t drink light beer,” he said evenly.
“And you know that how?”
“You don’t strike me as someone who waters things down.”
She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but she smiled.
The waitress brought their beers, sliding the bottles in front of each of them.
“Ready to order?”
He deferred the choice to her this time. She picked up her beer, took a sip, then said, “You decide. You’re on a roll.”
He ordered two chicken-fried steak specials. “Gravy on the side. What’s the vegetable tonight?”
“Asparagus,” Carol replied.
She wrinkled her nose when he glanced her way.
“We’ll have green beans.”
When they were alone again, he asked, “You don’t like green vegetables?”
“You don’t trust gravy?” she countered.
He didn’t smile, but his eyes did before he answered, “I don’t trust anything I can’t look at first.”
“That explains a lot.”
He glanced at her hair again. She’d put it up in a twist but left a few strands loose around her face to soften the look.
“You wear it up a lot?”
“When it’s this hot.”
He nodded. “You have a lot of hair.” Then he added, “It looks nice down.”
She sat with that for a minute, a bit confused. Did that mean it didn’t look nice now?
The waitress arrived with a basket of rolls and whipped butter, and she decided to let it pass. Coop offered one to her first. When she declined, he tore one open, steam rising between them.
“So, you’re an artist?” he asked.
Glad to move on from hairstyles to a topic she could speak about for hours, she told him about her small gallery in Southtown, San Antonio’s art district.
“What kind of art?”
“I enjoy showcasing local artists, no matter the form, but I mostly focus on paintings. I also teach a class two nights a week.
Their food arrived, the steak taking up most of the plate. They ate as they talked. Not about dreams or warehouse raids. About her move to town and setting up her own business, and his years with the Rangers.
“Why Leon Valley and not closer to your work?”
“The noise, mostly. There’s too much of it and too many people wanting to get somewhere fast. It’s tolerable to work, since I set my own hours and commute time, but when I’m off, I need a place to breathe.”
“And you found it here, in Leon Valley?”
“For the most part.” She looked at him. “Here, the noise is manageable.”
She watched his smile fade and knew he understood. She wasn’t talking about traffic. San Antonio had 1.5 million people, all of them loud in ways most never noticed.
“Does it ever get quiet?” he asked, concerned, not probing.
“Sometimes. Mostly when I’m painting.”
“And with me?”
She held his gaze. “With you, it’s quiet in a way I’ve never felt before.”
He absorbed that. Didn’t make a joke. Didn’t deflect.
“What about you?” she asked. “Why San Antonio?”
A glass broke at the bar. The entire place went still, all heads turning. The hush ended when the raucous cowboys, their shouts and laughter growing with each round they downed, ordered another.
“Work brought me here,” Coop said, pushing his empty plate aside and wiping his mouth. “But I don’t live in the city. I’m only about a mile from you.”
That surprised her. “You don’t strike me as a small-town kind of guy.”
“After a while, you learn to look for places that aren’t already broken.”
“And Leon Valley isn’t?”
He paused with his beer almost to his lips. “It wasn’t.”
She understood immediately. Murder had come to their quiet little burg and her quieter little street. The case was still on his mind, which made her wonder if it wasn’t really closed. She didn’t press, however.
Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t. A chant had started among the cowboys.
“Shot. Shot. Shot.”
Coop stiffened, glaring at the group. “I can’t hear myself think.”
One man, in a tuxedo T-shirt, whom she assumed was the groom, downed his whiskey and slammed the shot glass upside down on the table. Applause and whistles followed.
She set her fork down and pushed her plate away, too.
“Are they bothering you?” Coop asked, looking at her half-eaten dinner.
“I can’t eat another bite. That steak was bigger than my head.”
“I didn’t mean your appetite.”
She considered the rowdy group and shook her head. “They’re loud. But it’s not… invasive.”
“Meaning?”
“Most of them are drunk, but happy. That’s easier to filter.”
His arm settled along the back of the booth, easy and intentional, like everything he did. When his thumb glided over her shoulder, she savored the warmth of his skin against hers, and the tingle a woman should feel for a man she was attracted to. No static, no noise, no emotional bleed-through.
When she turned toward him, he was watching her but again didn’t comment on her reaction.
“Want to stretch your legs and rest your ears?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“There’s a riverside park about two blocks from here.”
“Sounds perfect.”
He tossed bills onto the table, more than sufficient to cover the check and Carol’s generous tip, then he grabbed her hand and slid out of the booth. They left the music, laughter, and chanting behind but walked out into a downpour.
His frown deepened, clearly frustrated that things weren’t going as planned.
Smiling, she suggested, “If you don’t mind a twenty-minute drive, I know a place. No drunk grooms and bachelor cowboys, guaranteed.”
***
Coop followed in his truck. Between the storm, traffic, and two construction zones, they arrived nearly thirty minutes later.
They had to run through the steady rain, with minimal protection from the awning above her door, while she unlocked it.
They were both damp when it swung inward, and she reached for the wall switches.
The track lighting came on gradually, revealing neutral walls and dark hardwood floors. Paintings lined the open, flowing space. She loved her gallery and turned to see what he thought.
He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his damp hair, looking pale beneath his tan.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“From fright. After watching you blow through a stale yellow at Main and swerve to avoid that black SUV on Fifth.”
She frowned. The light had barely turned yellow, and she hadn’t noticed a black SUV. She replied more than a little defensively, “There was a glare on top of poor visibility.”
His voice was lower and more controlled as he continued. “You were pushing seventy in a forty-five.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I was behind you, Erica! When road conditions deteriorate, you slow down. Not speed up.”