A Cowboy's Heart

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

After dinner, the cowboys lined up inside Sharpley’s foyer, a ragtag bunch of fellows, their hands and faces scrubbed clean, their hair slicked back with water or grease. Tommy wasn’t the youngest, by far, but he was the newest hire and thus placed at the end of the line. It shuffled forward slowly as, one by one, each man stopped in front of the ornate desk behind which Hal sat once a week to distribute payroll. Tommy waited, head down, trying to think of a way to get out of the damn trip into town. No, he wanted to go. A few drinks and a round or two of cards would be a nice end to a hard week on the ranch. But if the guys were serious about buying him a saloon girl for the evening, he’d rather brush down all the horses and muck out the stables instead.

When he reached the desk, he didn’t need to look up to see the envelope Hal held out for him. But when he tried to take it, the foreman held on, forcing him to raise his gaze to meet Hal’s. There was the hint of a smile on those thin lips and, as Tommy watched, Hal gave him a quick wink that sizzled like lightning down Tommy’s body to stiffen his d**k. “Good work,” Hal told him, releasing the envelope.

Tommy stumbled back. “Thanks.” In a daze, he turned and headed for the front door, his thoughts awhirl with that faint grin and the warmth he had seen in those steely eyes. No trip tonight—in his mind, he was already beneath the covers of his bunk, hands curved between his thighs, fingers strumming hidden flesh…

Someone bumped into his arm, interrupting that daydream. Tommy glanced over at Slim and glared at the goofy grin on his friend’s face. “Good work,” Slim mocked. On Tommy’s other side, Jim Joe and Jose laughed in unison. “He wouldn’t be thinking that if he knew you fancied his woman.”

Tommy shook his head. “I don’t—”

“Bullshit,” Slim drawled. “You’re always staring whenever she’s around. Let’s get you laid.”

With a firm grip on Tommy’s elbow, Slim steered him out onto the porch, then down the steps, heading for the stables. Tommy threw a longing look at the bunkhouse, cast in red and orange shadows by the setting sun, but his friends stayed close around him, as if they knew he’d run for it if he could.

By the time they were saddled up and heading out, his libido had waned and a drink or two sounded nice. Slim lost interest in teasing Tommy soon enough—when Jim Joe started to brag about the girls he’d known, Slim chimed, “The only girl you’ve ever known in the biblical sense is your momma,” which set the four of them laughing like drunks.

The Wildhorse Saloon was a rowdy bar just outside Sadie’s Ridge, the closest huddle of stores and houses to the Triple S Ranch that could be classified as a town. It took an hour’s ride to reach the sign marking the town’s outer limit, and another half hour to trot along the sprawling street to reach the Wildhorse at the far end. The road continued on after that, a dusty trail alongside a well-worn cattle run Hal used to lead Sharpley’s steer to the nearest rail stop. When they had a roundup like that, Tommy and his friends rode right around Sadie’s Ridge without pause, keeping the cattle on the move for the three or four days it took to reach the railroad station at Bluff Creek. It felt good for Tommy to draw up at the post outside the Wildhorse, and know the rest of the evening belonged to no one but himself.

Once through the saloon’s swinging doors, the cowboys stopped to assess the place. The piano in the corner played a lively tune, and one of the bar’s painted ladies sat perched on the piano bench, alternately singing a few lines and kicking her legs up in time with the music. Her blue-black skirts glistened wetly in the lamplight, and whenever the hint of a white petticoat was seen, the men nearby whooped with delight.

More women hovered around the card tables, draping over the backs of chairs as they watched the dealers, or sitting in patrons’ laps, or even playing a hand or two themselves. Everywhere Tommy looked, there were women—older than he or much, much younger, wearing as little as possible, flamboyant in their lace and crinoline. The garish colors of their saloon hall dresses matched the feathers in their hair, the fans in their hands, the scarves draped over bare shoulders or across mountainous bosoms. Each looked like a portrait come to life, with their carefully coifed hair, their perfect lipstick and heavy kohl-lined eyes, the rouge rubbed roughly into their cheeks.

He couldn’t do this. He didn’t want to do it. All those curves and that white, powdery skin. All that make-up and teased hair. Cheap perfume wafted through the air, mingled with heavy smoke from pipes and cigars. Suddenly Tommy wanted to duck back out into the clear evening, breathe in deep the fresh air. This wasn’t where he wanted to be.

But when he turned to leave, Slim caught his arm. “Not so fast, Tommy. You haven’t even wet your whistle yet.”

“I don’t really want to do this,” Tommy admitted.

Beside him, Jose laughed. “Don’t worry, amigo. We won’t tell Miss Sarah you cheated on her.”

Tommy started, “I don’t…”

But his friends were already weaving through the crowded room, heading for the bar, and Tommy found himself dragged along behind them. One drink, he promised himself. Maybe a round of poker, but that was it. No getting drunk, no gambling away his pay, and sure as hell no girls.

Under his breath, he muttered to himself, “No girls.”

There. He’d said it out loud. It felt good to admit it, even if no one had heard him.