been married five times?” Unease rolled through her.
“Six, actually, but we don’t count the first one on account of it was old man Talley who officiated and he ain’t an actual clergyman. Just tells folks that so’s he can get the clergyman’s discount special at the diner. It’s an olive-loaf sandwich with fresh pickle chips. Anyhow, Martin is always looking for his next wife. He’d probably be tickled to sign up for your service.”
Okay, he wasn’t prime grade A marriage material. At the same time, they weren’t promoting an actual marriage service. She and her roommates had invested a lot of time in their mission statement, which outlined their venture—namely, an interactive website where women could go to meet, not marry, cowboys. Which meant the only criteria she had to establish was that any prospective candidate was a Wrangler-wearing, cowboy-hat-tipping, boot-stomping country boy.
“What does Martin actually do for a living?”
“Owns a pecan farm outside town. Actually, he owns a sixth of the pecan farm on account of he had to split it with each of his exes, but he’s still got a good hundred acres of his own.”
Okay, he wasn’t a pro bull rider, but he was country. Check.
“Does he wear boots?”
“You’re in Lost Gun, sugar. Who doesn’t wear boots?”
Check.
“How about a cowboy hat?”
“I reckon when he’s out tending pecans and it’s hot.”
Check.
Sabrina smiled. “Where can I find him?”
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