Take the Reins (A Cowboy's Promise #2) - Megan Squires Page 0,30

to ten. He wasn’t in any real hurry to get to the bar. He knew he had two left feet. Didn’t need a night of tangling them up on the dance floor to prove that.

Maybe he could’ve held his own back in the day, back before he was tossed from his dad’s horse like a smooth rock leaving a slingshot. He’d ridden out a spook before. It was the spin he wasn’t prepared for, followed by the wild buck. The granite boulder that broke his fall didn’t do him any favors, either. The words pelvis and shattered didn’t belong in the same sentence but that had been his diagnosis, along with a collarbone snapped clean like a brittle twig. Of course, this all had to happen the summer before his senior year of high school, the year that manhood was finally within reach. And borrowing his grandmother’s walker to hobble around campus certainly didn’t place Seth on the fast track to popularity or score any dates for prom.

He assumed his dancing days died with that fall. Funny that now, over a decade later, he had his first real opportunity to see just how clumsy those feet really were.

The bar was quiet, but once the sun fully tucked itself away for the night, forcing tractors and plows do the same, Seth figured the crowds would start to appear. People in these parts didn’t squander daylight. There was ranching and farming to be done. But they also didn’t waste a perfectly good Friday night. Before long, the joint would be packed tighter than a sardine can, bodies sandwiched up against one another, a heavy pulse beating throughout the crowd and in the honky-tonk music like its own source of energy.

But it would be awhile until it got to that point, and Seth knew it would take a couple drinks before he’d loosen up enough to enjoy any of it.

“What can I get you two this fine Friday evening?” The handlebar-mustached bartender swiped his towel over the counter and tossed out a couple cardboard coasters that skidded to a stop right in front of Seth. “It’s two-for-one pints until eight. And half-off appetizers for five more minutes. If you order soon, I can ring it up and make sure you get the discount.”

“Two pints of the Rusty Red Ale.” Seth looked to Josie who nodded. Ordering for a woman felt a little presumptuous, but he’d shared enough beers with her at this point that he felt confident he knew her drink preferences. “And a basket of curly fries when you get a chance.”

The bartender slapped the bar and then saluted with the flick of his finger to his forehead. He jammed his rag into his apron and whirled around to pour their drinks from among the taps lining the wall like soldiers at attention.

“I’ve always liked this place.” Josie’s elbows planted onto the sticky bar top. Her hands cupped her cheeks and she tapped her cheekbones with the pads of her fingers as if playing the piano. “Would you believe I worked here for a hot minute? My first night bartending I spilled drinks on three customers, got into words with one drunk who wouldn’t leave a girl who clearly wasn’t interested alone, and backed into the owner’s truck right after my shift. Needless to say, they asked me not to come back as an employee. Luckily, they’ve yet to turn me away as a customer.”

“I just can’t see you working with anything but horses.”

The bartender returned and deftly settled their drinks in front of them, careful to keep the caps from frothing up and over the rims of their glasses.

“As in, you think I don’t work well with people?” Josie lifted the beer and took a sip. She licked the foam from her lips and focused a challenging gaze upon Seth who had locked up like day-old road kill with rigor mortis.

“I don’t mean that—”

“It’s okay, Seth. I agree. People are hard for me. I’ve been told I’m sometimes too much.”

“What does that mean? Too much. Is there some sort of personality measuring stick I’m unaware of?”

“Yes, Seth, there is.” Josie swiveled her barstool to face him, knee to knee. “Women are expected to look pretty, keep their mouths shut, and play nice. I have a hard time doing all three of those things. I don’t fit the mold.”

“I’m not sure that’s a mold you should even try to fit into.”

Just then, country music clicked on over the speakers, the first obvious