Page 48 of A Cowboy's Twinkling Lights Lasso
I laugh. “Evenin’ cowboy.”
His heartthrob chuckle sends a heat to my core. So do the jeans hugging his lean frame, and his canvas jacket flared open, revealing a snug T-shirt layered beneath a grey flannel. The Stetson perched on his head casts a shadow over his striking features.
“One of their petty arguments escalated to creating this space for a direct view of each other’s awkward glares.” As he says it, I catch Bucky over his shoulder glaring at our side—undoubtedly at Kiwi behind me.
“Why haven’t they patched it up? And why is it so big?”
A slight shrug lifts his muscular shoulders. “Will we ever know?”
I laugh.
“I’ll grab a couple of cold beers from Bucky. Surprise me with something we can add to our milkshakes from Kiwi’s.”
“I can do that.” I turn to the bar I had often snuck into looking for my mama when she disappeared longer than usual.
The walls are still painted bottle green, and bamboo dividers create privacy booths along one wall. As an adult, I appreciate the exposed bronze pipes twisted artistically overhead, adding an industrial touch to the earthy decor.
As I walk to the long counter, the old wooden floors creak underneath my boots. I slip onto a stool.
Kiwi moves behind the counter, preparing drinks with surprising energy and agility—considering she’s gotta be in her eighties. But she looks remarkable for her age and hasn’t changed much. She’s still a tiny little thing with her cherry-red hair tied back in a bandana, wearing leather and studded biker attire, and showing off the heart tattoo on her shoulder.
When she spins and spots me, she stops in her tracks. It takes her a second before she makes her way toward me.
“Aren’t you the spitting image of your mama?” She bows her head slightly. “God rest her soul.”
“Thank you.”
“The rumor mill has been workin’ overtime with news of your visit.”
“I can imagine.” The comment sounds sarcastic, but I’m surprised to find I’m not all that upset about the gossip of my return.
She smiles, wearing her laugh lines with pride—growl lines if you’re her enemy like Bucky. “The chatter has been as sweet as holiday pecan pie.”
I believe her.
“Can I get a single whiskey to go—”
“Don’t you dare!” Kiwi’s growl lines come out when she points at a man passing through the hole in the wall from Bucky’s side. “Pool balls that roll into my bar, stay in my bar!”
“Listen here, old woman!” Bucky walks to the hole with a noticeable limp, leaning heavily on his cane. He balances somewhere between a retired cowboy and a seventies pot smoker. “That’s my goddam ball!”
Kiwi practically bounces around the counter to stop the ball with her heeled boot. “This ball?” She picks it up, tosses it, and catches it.
“Don’t you dare?” Bucky’s warning goes unheeded.
Kiwi strolls over to a slender, clear vase matching the height of the counter. She drops the pool ball into the half-full tube of pool balls. I suspect they all belong to Bucky.
“I’ll be taking that back.”
Kiwis curls her hand, gesturing for him. “Come on over and get it.”
Bucky doesn’t dare cross the invisible line.
“Here’s your whiskey to go.” A bartender sets a bag on the counter with a fun-spirited smile. “Who knows how long those two will argue.”
“Thanks.” I dig in my pocket for my card.
She lightly knocks her fisted fingers, banded in silver rings, on the counter. “Thorn has it covered.”
