“Should be good for unlimited sympathy all around.”
“They started burger night after they had to quit Ladies’ Night.” Larry was keeping pace with Trace, who wasn’t in the mood for much conversation, which meant he wasn’t in the mood for Larry.
But Larry was a talker.
“Some tourist said it wasn’t right to charge men more than women. Discrimination, he called it. Maybe they’ve got a big supply of women where he comes from, but out here the good ones are scarce, and no shortage of demand. No shortage of bars or beer, either, so which law should we go by? Supply and demand, or whatever it is that outlaws discrimination?”
Trace chuckled. “My guess, it’s that ol’ killjoy, the U.S. Constitution.”
“The only woman willing to go to Bob’s for a free burger would have to be another tourist.”
“With an iron gut. Hell, Bob’s not hurtin’ for business and we ain’t hurtin’ for women.”
Larry snorted. “Speak for yourself.”
He was.
Another twenty yards and Trace would be speaking to the rodeo medic about whether he needed stitches, and he wouldn’t be expressing any more interest than he was feeling when he asked, “Angie kicked you out again? “
“Hell, no. She’s letting me sleep on the sofa.” Larry gave an unconvincing chuckle. “Hell, when I first met her, she was all about being with a cowboy. Now she wants me to quit riding.”
“Gotta quit sometime.” While you’re ahead. While your head is ahead.
“Not me, boy. Not till I’m damn good and ready.” They’d reached the “Cowboy Clinic” van and Larry was dragging his heels like a pouty kid. “Hell, I don’t know what else I’d do.”
“This is where I get off, Larry. Maybe I’ll catch up with you at Bob’s.”
Larry nodded, but he wasn’t moving.
“Where are you staying?” The question was out before Trace could stop himself. He knew the answer. Larry hadn’t scored in the money, and he was nobody’s favorite road warrior, so he had to be sleeping single in his pickup.
“Put it this way, there’s no running water,” Larry said.
“Come on over to the Sheridan Inn. I got myself a room this time out.”
“I wouldn’t wanna put you out, Trace. That’s a fancy place.”
“I know. All I’m offering is soap and water.” Trace tapped the big man’s chest with the back of his hand. “You don’t wanna out-reek Bob’s burgers.”
Trace topped off his steak by washing down a few aspirin and left the hotel dining room hoping Larry hadn’t left the bathroom in a mess. Trace didn’t mind sharing—he’d been raised to share—but he’d also been taught to clean up after himself, especially when he was sharing a room or a bed. Growing up he’d shared a low-end range of small quarters and smaller beds with his younger brother, Ethan, who’d never done well with rules. Cleaning up after Ethan had taught Trace a corollary to the clean-up rule. People should do it for themselves. Otherwise, each mess was a little harder to deal with than the last. Leaving a mess in the bathroom had become a deal breaker for sharing a room with Trace. But he’d still make an exception for his brother. All Ethan had to do was show up.
Or the camera lady. She could drop her towel on Trace’s bathroom floor anytime. He hadn’t expected her to use the ticket, but he knew damn well she’d given it some thought. No matter what her circumstances, he knew he’d caught more than her eye. And she’d sure stimulated his imagination. If a woman like her went out on the town, where would he find her? Provided he felt like looking for a woman who smelled like an orange tree standing in the middle of a horse barn. Pretty risky for a horse-barn kind of a guy.
He was on his way to the hotel bar and a shot of pain reliever when he ran into calf roper Mike Quinn, who said he was buying. He could have sworn Mike wasn’t old enough to get served, but his driver’s license said he was legal. Barely. Trace had just finished turning up Mike’s roping horse, a sideline that was becoming increasingly profitable.
“I owe you one,” Mike said as he smacked his cash down on the bar as though he had a point to make. “Eleven-two, man, that’s the fastest run I’ve made all summer. You put a hell of a handle on that horse.”
“That’s what you paid me for.”
Trace stepped aside for a lady looking for a barstool.
He wouldn’t be riding one of those tonight. With a rodeo in town, one drink in a fancy hotel bar was all he was good for. If he could get past his headache, he’d find the party down at the low end of Main Street on the other side of the tracks.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mike said quietly. He’d suddenly gone shy. “The horse did his part, but the roper’s a little slow on the ground.”
Trace lifted one shoulder. “You drew a big calf.”
“Caught him, too, but damn them doggies’re getting heavy. Now that you’ve got my horse lined out, I’m gonna have to get myself a personal trainer. I don’t suppose you’d …”
“I only work with horses. Cowboys can be temperamental.” But they didn’t call calves doggies anymore. Mike needed to put some new tunes on his iPod.
“Not this cowboy. Win or lose, I celebrate.” Mike was pushing it, laying his novice hand on Trace’s proven shoulder. The kid had a lot to learn before he could rightly call himself a cowboy. “Whatever you’re drinking tonight, it’s on me. Frank Taggert’s here and Earl Kessler. You know Earl?”
“I don’t.”
“Earl has a big spread over on the Powder River. I belong to a team-penning club that meets at his place. You should check us out. We’ve got guys coming from as far away as Casper.”
“I haven’t played team sports since high school.” And he damn sure wasn’t interested in driving a hundred miles or more to play cowboy. Not that he had anything against the popularity of team penning. He’d trained a couple of cutting horses for penning club members.
“Earl’s place is kinda central, easy to get to, he doesn’t charge us to use his stock, and he always fires up the grill and ices down the beer. I fixed him up for dinner tonight.” Mike laughed. “With my mother. You believe that?”
Trace glanced up from his drink, ready for some weird punch line. Mike had a weird sense of humor.
The kid shrugged. “My dad’s been dead a year now and it’s time she moved on. So to speak.”
Trace remembered a time when he’d hoped for a new dad. Not that he’d missed the old one, whoever he was, but at the age of ten he’d imagined his mother doing a better job of mothering if she hooked up with a man who’d stick around. He couldn’t have asked for better than Logan Wolf Track, who’d stuck by Trace and his brother even after their mother had walked out on all of them. So Mike had just earned a few points in Trace’s book for looking
