Page 2 of Swift and Saddled

Teddy: EXCELLENT.

Teddy: This is going to be so fun.

Teddy: I’ll stop by this week.

Teddy: Can’t wait for you to shine!

I saw that I also had a text from my business partner, Evan—he was the contractor—and my mom, who was no doubt telling me that I was wasting my time in Wyoming.

Maybe I was, but for some reason, I really didn’t think so.

I slid my phone back onto the table and flipped it facedown. I needed to focus. Over the past four months, I’d exchanged hundreds of emails with Weston. We’d discussed his vision, we’d decided on timelines, crews, and costs. People always thought that tearing down walls was step one, but it was actually like step three hundred. I was going over steps one through two hundred and ninety-nine when a giant ball of white fluff appeared at my feet.

“Waylon! Goddammit,” I heard the bartender yell. I assumed Waylon was the dog sitting at my feet and staring up at me with his tongue hanging out and a crazed look in his eyes.

What an angel.

I leaned down and gave him a scratch on his very soft and furry head. Huh, less than a few hours in Meadowlark and this place was pulling smiles out of me at a record-setting rate.

“Seriously?” I heard the bartender whine. “Who the hell brings his dog to a bar?” I looked up just as a man walked in the door.

Damn.What the hell were they putting in the water in Meadowlark, Wyoming?

From here I could see that he wasn’t as tall as the bartender,but close. His open flannel shirt covered a white T-shirt that clung to his chest. My eyes glided over him until they hit his worn-out cowboy boots.

Maybe it was because I’d been surrounded by tech bros in Patagonia vests for too long, but this man was doing something for me.

I bet he had rough hands. Working hands. For a split second, I imagined what they would feel like if he dragged them across my body.

Nope. No. Definitely not.

Donotgo there.

We were not about to have fantasies about the mystery cowboy in the dusky dive bar—no matter how good-looking he was.

I was here towork.

I got snapped back to reality by my new furry friend licking my hands—probably tasting the elderly Dorito dust.

I couldn’t help but listen to the exchange between the bartender and the cowboy. Eavesdropping was one of my favorite hobbies. “What kind of bar runs out of ice?” the cowboy shot at the bartender. The group of old men whooped in agreement.

“Where’s your brother?” the bartender asked.

“Busy.” The cowboy shrugged his shoulders.

“Where’s my ice?”

“Truck.”

“You couldn’t bring it in?”

“I figured you could do that part.” The bartender shook his head but came out from behind the bar and walked out the door. It was obvious that there was some sort of bond between these two. I didn’t think they were brothers—they didn’t look alike—but there was something.

Not brothers, but definitely bros.

“Get your dog,” the bartender said on his way out. “Please.”

The cowboy’s eyes started scanning the bar—probably looking for his dog—but landed right on me. Me, whose hand was currently getting a thorough licking, and who was unashamedly and unabashedly staring at the cowboy.

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