“In a fun house,” Rance muttered under his breath. Then he pasted a smile on his face. “Can I help you, sir?”
“You don’t recognize me?”
“Can’t say I do.”
He blew out a breath, clearly annoyed. “Of course you do. You had to know I was coming. I’m your father.”
“Oh, that’s right. Mom did say something about it. What’s your name again?”
Clint snorted and went to take a drink order.
“I’m Irving Quick.” He took a hardback out of a satchel. “I brought you a book. It’s autographed.”
“Thanks, but I don’t read that stuff. You could donate it to the local library, though. They’re always happy to promote struggling new authors.”
“I’m not a—okay, cut the crap. You know damn well who I am. You’re just pissed at me, and I get that. Let’s start over.”
“No can do. It’s water under the dam and over the bridge.”
“Oh, you’re my son, all right. I was a smart-mouthed kid, too, always had the last word. You’re a chip?—
“Complete that sentence and I’m coming across this bar. I’m the son of Desiree McLintock and you’re nothing but a sperm donor. Got it?”
Applause erupted from a nearby table. He glanced over. In his misery he hadn’t noticed several of the Wenches were having lunch at the Buffalo today. Coincidence? Likely not.
Irving didn’t look pleased. Evidently he’d expected a different reception. Oh, well.
“Coming in here while you’re working was a bad idea.”
“Figured that out, didja?”
“Do you have a break coming up?”
“Not anytime soon.”
“When does your shift end?”
“It depends.”
“I haven’t been out to the ranch yet and I… I was hoping before I go we could talk, man to man, maybe clear the air.”
“Oh, I see. You want to absolve yourself with a ten-minute chat. What a self-absorbed concept.” He turned away and picked up a bar rag. “I have work to do, so?—”
“Are you writing?”
He froze. Had somebody squealed on him? No. His family wouldn’t have told. Had to be a wild guess on Irving’s part.
“You are! My God, that makes me happy. You have no idea. Neither of my other—well, that’s not important. You’re writing. That’s amazing. What are you writing? No, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Just the fact that?—”
“Hey, Rance.” Clint approached, phone in hand. “I just texted Tyra. She’s coming out to help behind the bar. She’ll leave the office open. You can use?—”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass on that offer.”
Clint turned his back to Irving and lowered his voice. “You should talk to him.”
“Don’t want to.”
“Do it anyway. It’s like lancing a boil. Keeps it from festering.”
