Page 10 of For Fillies and Monsters

Dale’s hand grips my forearm, and my eyes snap back to her. “I’ll take two please!”

“I’ve yet to find one, so good luck,” I state trying to reorient myself and brush off the unwanted crawl atop my skin. My voice has a tinge of annoyance lacing the words and I inwardly cringe hoping she doesn’t notice—I hate that right when I’m relaxing and having fun for the first time in years, the sensation of being watched pierces me like a bullet, leaving me uneasy once more. Changing the subject, I focus on Dale, who is now wiping droplets of water from her lower lashes, a wicked grin still plastered to her face. She clearly hasn’t noticed my shift in mood, and I’m grateful. “What’s your type?”

“I’d like a rich Papi, personally. Someone who can take care of me.” She raises her hands to eye level and starts spreading them apart to about twelve inches. “Big hands.” She starts howling again, slamming her small hand on the bar, making our glasses rattle.

I tip my head back, a true throaty laugh escaping my lips. It feels good to laugh with her, like no time has passed at all between us. Until this moment, I didn’t realize how much I truly missed having her sunshine in my life; how much I need her light to shine through my darkness.

“God, I missed you,” I say, meaning every word.

Dale reaches over, squeezing my hand in her own.“I’ve thought about you every day. I am so grateful you are home.”

Home, would this place ever be home?

“Miss Mendes, who’s your friend?” Hearing Dale referred to as Miss Mendes, almost makes me start cackling again. But I stop when I see we are quickly being surrounded by a group of older men—rough cowboy-looking types.

“Mr. Rightson.” Dale straightens.We must not like Mr. Rightson.“This is my wonderful friend, Stetson. She just moved back.”

The man, a burly fella in his sixties if I have to guess, with wispy gray hair under a black dusty cowboy hat, eyes me skeptically. “You took over the Spurrin’ L Ranch.” It isn’t a question, so I only nod in response. “Not doing a great job, I’d say. Fredrick, the rancher to your East, said your fence is falling over. Said your cows keep getting out because they’re hungry and looking for water. Don’t you know anything about cattle, Miss Stetson?”

I sit, frozen. This is not the first unpleasant conversation I have had since returning. People here seem to feel entitled to an opinion about everything—especially when it comes to the land and what’s on it. I’ve seen the type; know it well—old cowboys afraid of the new generation “ruining” what they worked hard to create.

But I’m not ruining anything. I’m learning as I go because I was thrown in without a guide book or a helping hand. Thecattle, the land, it couldn’t wait for me to get my bearings before I started.

I don’t say any of this, not that they would listen anyway, because I don’t want to break the fragile bond that is quickly developing again with Dale.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to let your cattle destroy others property?” he chastised, taking a small step closer, his agitation growing.

Yes, you prick.

My heart flutters erratically in my chest, a familiar roar begins filling my ears. If I was by myself, I would have decked him by now, for thinking he could talk down to me like this. Or at least spat at his feet and walked away.

But I am trapped by the need to please others.Well, not others—Dale.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to corner a woman, at a bar, with a group of other men, and say things you can’t possibly know anything about? Mr. Rightson.” Dale grinds out his name with a hiss, and air of authority that has even me sitting up straighter. I must have missed her standing up, her hands rooted to her hips as she now stands between me and the gathering group of men.

The old man looks stricken, his eyes blowing wide at the local Ag teacher’s obvious support of an outsider. He dips his head.

“Sorry, Miss Mendes. Didn’t mean no rudeness to ya,” he stammers, and she huffs irritatedly.

“No, but you did mean rudeness to her. And I won’t stand for it. You might be liked here in town, but so am I. This girl was my best friend ten years ago, and based on the little time I’ve gotten to spend with her today before you interrupted, I can tell she’s just as wonderful now as she was back then. So you better,” she waves her hand toward the door, “bug off before you saysomething really stupid.”

He looks at her again, his jaw going slack at the scolding, and dips his head.

Without another word, they all turn around and scatter like ants. Dale slumps back onto the stool with a huff.

“Old, fucking, men,” she mumbles before slamming back her glass and draining the contents.

“I’ll drink to that,” I say with a clink, and drain mine as well. What can I possibly say to my friend, my fiercely loyal andtoo-goodfriend, that will even compare to what she just did for me?

I don’t know how to get the words“thank you”past my lips. And I hate myself for it.

The early afternoon quickly bleeds into late evening. My growling stomach is a testament to that, but I continue to ignore it. I’m too enthralled in catching up with Dale, not wanting to ruin this seemingly perfect moment, to interrupt. I never want today to end—it has been years since I had a friend. Probably ten years, if I am being honest with myself, since I had someone seem so interested in me, and so sunny and bubbly with their tales.

I want it to last forever.

I gingerly set down another empty glass, the ice cubes barely melted before I sucked it dry, a hiccup erupting from my lips. My vision is starting to blur, the too-small stool no longer biting painfully into my ass.I am officially drunk.

“Girl, I’m starving,” Dale whines, her head falling dramatically into her hands. Her black hair has loosened from its braid over the hours we have been here, and it now curls in wispyringlets around her tan face. Her chocolate brown eyes are nearly black, her pupils blown wide with the copious amounts of alcohol pumping through her system.

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