Hank chugs a big swallow of beer. He prefers an ale, but this isn’t bad. “So when’re you gonna tell me who I’m working for?”
Patrick adjusts his cowboy hat. “You don’t want me to do that.”
“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t.”
“Just a man.” Patrick rolls his bottle between his palms. “One who sees disrespect way too easy and doesn’t take kindly to it. But he pays good enough.”
Hank lets it drop. A young “gaucho” from Brazil named Cristiano Valdez won tonight and looks good for finals. He feels pretty certain that whoever is backing Cristiano is greasing the skids.
The band kicks off their set. The lead singer is a woman, and her voice draws his eyes over his shoulder. When she opens her mouth, the most incredible sound he’s ever heard comes out. How can someone sound that sweet and rough at the same time? It’s like sugar cane against a rasp, honey in a blender, maple syrup in a bucket of bolts. The music isn’t country, either. It’s folksy, but with a rocker edge. He reverses his chair to watch her past a couple of dancers. For some reason, her voice, her movement, her style lights him up like a match to a pile of aspen-bark kindling. That’s when he realizes he’s seen her before. The looker who shot him down after his ride. Hank grins. The one who presented Cristiano with a big smooch as part of his take for winning. Damn, losing is more expensive than I thought it would be.
Patrick taps the table behind him, thunk, thunk, thunk, with his knuckles.
Hank turns to hear him.
“So, do we have a deal?”
Hank shouts to be heard. “And if we don’t?”
“My boss won’t be happy, but what he cares about most is you not winning Sunday.”
“How’s the money for that?”
“Same as for Saturday. But I wouldn’t risk it.”
“Sure, sure. I understand. I’m looking for the money, not the buckle.”
“That’s best for everyone.” Patrick drains his beer and stands. “I’ll see you here tomorrow night, with a bigger stack of bills.”
The song ends. Hank doesn’t see Patrick leave. His eyes are back on the singer. Cristiano Valdez struts to the stage and makes a show of putting a bill in the tip bucket. He’s lighter—hair, skin, eyes—than Hank would have expected of someone from South America. He’s also never seen without a matching set of muscle heads that make steer wrestlers look small, much less Cristiano, who can’t be a whisker taller than five foot five. Their looks are more in line with Hank’s mental image. Their jackets with roomy lower backs scream “I’m packing,” but then again, everyone does in Wyoming. Hank leaves his piece in his bag when he rides, and he pats his midriff where he normally carries his 9mm Glock in an inner vest pocket.
The singer is playing a guitar that swings out from its strap when she leans down from the low stage to say something to Cristiano. He hands her a drink with one hand and puts the other around her lower back. He slides it down until it cups her tush. Before Hank has time to second-guess himself, he’s on his feet and shoving through the crowd. When he gets to the stage, he sees her pushing Cristiano’s hand away.
“Don’t be that way, Maggie.” Cristiano’s Brazilian accent is a croon.
Hank’s blood boils.
Maggie steps back from Cristiano. “A tip and a drink doesn’t buy a chance to cop a feel. Not cool.”
Cristiano inclines his head. “My apologies. My hand slipped.”
“Mine’s about to.”
Hank smiles.
“Let me make it up to you.”
She gives an emphatic headshake. “No second chances.”
Cristiano pouts and walks back to his table.
The band launches into another number. Maggie steps back, and her nimble fingers pick the strings of her guitar. She looks up from the guitar’s neck, and her eyes sear into Hank’s. He tips his hat to her, but her onyx eyes have already swept away as she steps over to the mic and begins to sing.
Her voice vibrates in his chest. Maybe in his soul. His breath hitches. He stands in the way of the dancers, mesmerized.
Maggie
* * *
Maggie has perfected the art of watching people without looking like she’s doing it. She keeps the cowboy in her sights as he jumps out of the way of a two-stepping couple. He moves to the side of the tent and leans against one of the tent support beams, his black felt hat low, one booted leg cocked. She remembers him from earlier at the arena. Hank. The one who made losing look good. She likes the way he rushed the stage when the ridiculous Cristiano got handsy. It shot heat into every cell in her body. Especially the ones that aren’t supposed to like cowboys. She’ll have to watch herself around him. She can’t afford to get mixed up with a broke-ass bull rider, even a cute one.
A bleach blonde in jeans with bling on the butt and a tight-cut shirt unbuttoned nearly to her navel sidles up to Hank. The girl slips under his arm like a pushy dog. She wiggles against him. Maggie muffs a line of the song. She tears her attention away from Hank, scanning the room for a distraction. It’s the same old thing. People trying to score, using alcohol to get their courage up, talking too loud, looking around to see if anyone is checking them out. She finds her place in the song again. “Can’t Let Go.” She doesn’t pretend she can deliver it like Lucinda Williams live, but she knows she does it well. It’s her version of a cover. Not Top Forty. Real music.
Cristiano waves to her from a table in the back. He’s with an older man in a distinctive white fedora, the silhouette unmistakable even in the low lights and distance. Maggie gets the impression of big people around them, like she’d noticed with Cristiano earlier, but more of them. She doesn’t wave back. She throws a little more heat into her voice, singing as a woman who can’t get over a man. When she finishes, the crowd applauds, and she bows.
When she straightens, the blonde who’d been rubbing up on Hank is in front of her, holding up a five-dollar bill.
“Um, can you play, like, um, some Martina McBride?”
The bubblegum voice irritates Maggie almost as much as the request. She shakes her head no.
The girl cocks her head at Hank, over-enunciating and shouting, “She said no.”
Hank shrugs.
“Should I tip her?”
Maggie’s jaw clenches.
“Whatever you want, Fawn.”
Fawn. Only a tiny smidge better than Bambi.
Fawn bites her lip, then walks back to Hank with the five.
She’s replaced by the older man who’d been sitting with Cristiano. He looks like him, with light blue eyes and thinning blond hair, his skin the color of caramel. He’s in a blue seersucker suit with a white shirt and yellow bow tie, and he bends at the waist as he lifts her hand to his lips. “My son is right. Your music is superb.” His English is perfect in a more dramatic version of Cristiano’s accent. He drops a hundred-dollar bill in the bucket.
“Wow, thank you. Do you have a request?”
“That you continue to sing like an angel for us tonight.”
Maggie blows him a kiss. Hank’s lips move like he’s muttering, his face a dark cloud, which makes her warm inside. Fawn looks confused, which Maggie suspects isn’t unusual. She doesn’t have time to ruminate on the state of affairs, because at that moment she sees Kaylee Storm walk in.
She looks at Brent. “Son of a bitch.”
Brent follows her gaze and plucks the Jaws theme.
Maggie met Kaylee earlier in the summer, at a different event, and she’s not a fan. Kaylee’s just had a song break into the country charts this month. People cheer for her as she parades around the saloon. Grimacing, Maggie cues the band to play her original, “Plastic Cowgirl.”
Into the mic, she introduces it. “Something makes me want to play this one. Hope you appreciate ‘Plastic Cowgirl.’”
Kaylee’s hugging and high-fiving and doesn’t seem to notice Maggie’s cutting song choice.
When the song ends, Maggie announces a break. It was a short set, but she figures no
one is sober enough to notice.
She turns to Brent. “Did you see that earlier? Another ass-pincher.”
George Strait’s “Fireman” blares too loud from the jukebox.
He pats her arm. “You took one for the team.”
Maggie ignores him and snarls at Davo. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”
“Not good for merchandise sales.”
Maggie can’t wait to tell him they’re so over.
“Yeah, and you need some sales so you can pay me back.” Brent is first to hop off the elevated platform, and he disappears into the crowd of frenetic two-steppers. Maggie assumes it’s to call his wife, which he does every chance he gets. The two have a baby, and it’s no secret his wife is having a tough time without him home.
Celinda, the fiddler, keyboardist, and background vocalist, huddles with the drummer, Chris. They give Maggie a wide berth as they head to the bar, lost in their own world.
Davo waits for her. “Are you coming?”
“Later.”
“Suit yourself.” He takes off after Celinda and Chris.
Maggie busies herself checking the playlist and prepping her equipment for the second set. She’s crouched, adjusting the legs to her mic, when she feels him before she sees him, right in her core—and her nipples, dammit.
“Maggie?”
She even likes his voice. None of the drawl she can’t get away from back home. He’s a problem. She raises her head slowly. “Where’s your girlfriend? Did she go to find the missing buttons from her top?”
Hank studies her, which worsens her nipple situation. Luckily she’s wearing the fringed vest over her skimpy T-shirt.
“Fawn’s not my girlfriend.”
“You must have forgotten to tell her that.”
“She got the wrong idea once.”
“Oh, so that’s how you roll—one time, next please?”
“A mistake.” He puts the five in her tip jar. “Sorry about earlier.”
“Whoa, big spender, be careful how you throw that money around.” She stands, hands on hips.
“I could throw some toward a drink for you.”
She points at the tip bucket.
He smiles, showing off a dimple, and Maggie fights to resist it. “Turn that up, I can’t hear your answer.”
She cocks a hip.
“You let Cristiano buy you a drink earlier.”
“Ah, but Cristiano is a winner.”
“So, winners score with you?”
“I’m not some buckle bunny, cowboy. Go find your Bambi for that.”
She flounces off the stage.
Hank
* * *
Hank waits for Maggie outside the ladies’ room. He straightens up when she comes out.
She stops short. “Stalker much? I said no to the drink.”
He’s so close to her he can smell her. Girly smells of hair spray and a spicy perfume—cloves, maybe?—perspiration, and something he knows is unique to her that he can’t put a finger on, but that makes him shift his feet and try to think about baseball. “I sense you have regrets about that, so I’m upping my offer. Let me feed you after you’re done tonight.”
“I’d think you need to rest up. You’ve got a big ride tomorrow, don’t you? Last chance to qualify for finals?” She presses her lips together in a mocking smile. “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”
“All I need is chicken and waffles, the Ferris wheel, and you.” Hank glances away for a moment and sees Fawn watching from the corner of an eye, hair pushed back from an ear pointed in their direction. She looks pissed.
A bleach blonde brushes past Fawn and sees Maggie. “Maggie Killian, oh my GAWD, so good to see you.” She throws her arms around Maggie and hugs her.
Hank sees Maggie stiffen. History between her and the urban cowgirl?
“Hello, Kaylee.” Maggie’s voice is a scoop of cold oatmeal.
“You sounded tight earlier. Thanks for warming up the crowd. I can’t believe I have to follow you. Hell-oh, little old me going on after the Maggie Killian.”
Hank winces. That’s a dig if he’s ever heard one. He can’t bear to look at Maggie, so he checks Fawn, who’s still eavesdropping and peeping.
“I’m sure you’ll give the crowd just what it wants.” Maggie’s tone has a sarcastic edge.
Her cheeks are pink. Hank wants to throw her against the wall and kiss her.
“Introduce me to your cuh-yute friend?”
Maggie’s scowl gives him hope. Maybe she’s feeling territorial about him. A man can dream, anyway.
“Hank, Kaylee. Kaylee, Hank.”
Hank tips his hat and smiles.
“Whoa, dimples.” Kaylee giggles. “Nice to meet you. Sort of. I was hoping for a leetle bit more, Maggie?”
He shakes her hand. “Hank Sibley of Sheridan, Wyoming. Bull rider. Rancher.” Because in between rodeos he does ranch for his father, which technically makes him a ranch hand, but he doesn’t owe them the full explanation.
“I’m Kaylee Storm, singer, from Nashville, Tennessee. Where’s Sheridan?”
“Just up the interstate.”
Maggie says, “There’s nothing up there but the North Pole, is there?”
Kaylee lays a hand on Hank’s forearm. “He’s nice, Maggie. Don’t be mean.”
Maggie rolls her eyes, and Hank’s heart flips.
“Well, Hank Sibley of Sheridan, Wyoming, good luck with the bulls, and I hope you stick around for my show.”
He nods, noncommittal, and Kaylee wobbles on stiletto faux cowboy boots to the ladies’ room. Hank opens his mouth to wow Maggie with his wit and intelligence, just as the jukebox cuts out.
A male voice calls out over the microphone. “Maggie Killian to the stage, please. Maggie Killian, get your hot ass back pronto.”
Maggie smirks. “Brent. My bassist. Duty calls.”
He feels her gathering to leave. “Hold up. How long are you in town?”
“Through Sunday morning. Hadn’t you better get back to your little forest friend?”
They both look at Fawn, who’s staring at the entrance to the saloon, pretending she’s unaware of their existence. While Hank is growling inside at Fawn’s persistence, Maggie takes off.
Hank calls after her. “So, is it a date later?”
She walks backward, grinning. “Let me give it to you straight, cowboy. You’re cute, but losers can’t afford me.”
Maggie
* * *
After their second set is done, Maggie takes to the bar and Kaylee takes to the stage. Maggie hoists a shot of tequila toward the blonde singer. “I hate that bitch.”
“You’ve mentioned that.” Brent lifts his and drops his voice. “Seven thousand times.”
They clink, then lick salt from the sides of their hands and drink. Kaylee breaks into her new hit, “Big Guns.” The crowd cheers. Women jump up and down and scream. Maggie groans and waves her hand for another shot.
The bartender puts a napkin on the bar.
“Two more. And keep the bottle handy.”
He refills the glasses and sets the cheap tequila in front of them.
Fifteen minutes, two shots, and one margarita later, Maggie weaves to the merchandise table to relieve Davo. “How are we doing?”
He faces the crowd, nothing but smiles. Maggie dreads the table, but he’s a natural. “Your butt-pinching bull rider bought one of everything, but other than that, it’s been slow.” He pulls out the tip bucket. “Best haul we’ve had in tips in a while, though.”
“That’s thanks to butt-pincher, too. His father dropped in a hundred.”
“See? PR gigs pay off.”
At the expense of her soul. “If you say so.”
“Want me to stay here with you?”
Maggie hands him an empty margarita cup. “Maybe just a refill. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Be nice to the customers, Maggie.”
She grumbles. “I’m always nice.”
His laugh as he wa
lks away ruffles her fur in the wrong direction. When he returns with her drink, he leans in to kiss her, but she ducks away.
“Aren’t you the one who said fraternization is bad for sales?”
He eyes her hard. “As long as that’s all it is. You’ve been acting weird lately.”
“Ha.” She waves him off. Now is not the time or place for that conversation.
After he’s gone, Maggie sips her drink. She chats with a slow trickle of customers, signing CDs, T-shirts, and sheet music, and posing for pictures in exchange for margaritas. Between transactions, she watches Hank. He’s entertaining a stream of people that have the look of rodeo buddies, with Fawn hanging on his arm and his every word. Every now and then she shows her canines to a female who gets too close. Hank’s ignoring Kaylee’s performance, which scores him a few points with Maggie. She already regrets not saying yes to dinner on the midway with him. It’s hard to focus over Kaylee’s bubblegum country, but Maggie tries to send Hank telepathic messages. Come back. Try again. The drunker she gets, the less she hides she’s watching him. A few times their eyes meet and hold, but he doesn’t take a step in her direction, and he doesn’t give her any more dimples. So Maggie keeps posing for pictures with fresh cups in her hand.
Brent swoops in to help pack up the merch as Kaylee nears the end of her show. He lifts the lid of the cashbox, familiar enough after two months of touring with Maggie to know at a glance how sales are going. “You’re killing it.”
She doesn’t tell him about the pics-for-drinks program, which, if added to the till, would take it from killing to slaying. “I guess. Thank God you’re here.” Her eyes flit to Hank again. This time, they connect with his, and she would swear she can hear the sizzle. Her nerves jangle in a way that only good sex can cure. Hell, he could skip dinner on the midway and just take her somewhere private if he wanted.
Brent says, “Chris and Celinda are hooking up. Look at them.”
Maggie tears her attention away from Hank. “Where?”
“Dirty dancing out there.”
Buckle Bunny Page 2
