“I’m just here for the rhymes,” she said, like she was some kind of cowboy poetry purist.
“But—”
Jean shushed him as the first performer took the stage.
Forty-five minutes later, they’d heard poems about cows and dogs and horses, pickup trucks and tractors, snowstorms, spring mud, sleeping under the stars, and sharing a bed with a “yeller-haired temptress.”
To Jean’s delight, Sergeant Cowboy opened the second act.“I call this ‘The Secret to a Good Life,’” he announced, before settling onto a stool behind the microphone.
“A man isn’t a man if he can’t man his own ship.
From mess halls to rest stops, I eat my vittles and grits.
Sometimes life gives you a lickin’—”he pointed to his scars.
“And you come back so mad you’re spittin’
But get yerself a dog and a nice warm fire
When winter storms blow, put on your good tires
Pour yourself a whiskey, or maybe some gin—
Tomorrow’s sun still comes a-risin’
Sure as shootin’.”
He busted out a harmonica, wailing a plaintive melody in time with the stomping of his boot.
“Talk about a man with layers,” Jean said when the applause died down. “I would kill to know the story behind those neck scars.”
“Hot coffee,” replied Charlie, who hadn’t left her side. She pretended not to be aware of his presence, as if she were serving up witty asides for her own amusement.
“I assumed it was a bar fight. Or a helicopter.”
“Like—the blades?”
“I don’t know. Maybe something with explosions.” Jean mimed a fireball expanding between her hands.
“The lid came off his takeout cup, and the coffee scalded him.”
Jean sucked a breath through her teeth. “That must have hurt. Not as much as a propeller, but still.”
“The silver lining is that he got a big settlement from the fast-food chain, and that’s how he started his trail riding business.”
“Huh.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Which body part I would sacrifice for fuck-you money.”
“Please don’t.” He grabbed for her, not seeming to realize he’d done it until she glanced at the place where his fingers wrapped around her arm. “I like your body the way it is,” Charlie whispered, letting go.
She smoothed a hand over her midsection, noticing how his eyes tracked the movement. “As an independently wealthy heiress, I don’t have to worry about selling my organs on the black market. But I appreciate your concern.”
“An heiress named Eve,” Charlie added, like he was cramming for a test.
“Exactly. And Eve has it all. She doesn’t need anyone or anything. Because nothing touches her.”
