He smiled. “I told you so.”
“This isn’t even normal for Friday and Saturday.” She pulled the keys to the bar from her purse. “Get ready. If they’re here this early, it means they’ll want food as well as beer and whiskey.”
“It’s not every day the Gallaghers have to buy back their cattle from Salt Holler. Since they are blaming the Brennans for stealing them, they’ll all come in here with chips on their shoulders tonight. And the other folks will come to see the show. Maybe we should charge admission.”
“Not a bad idea. Do you ever wish there was another gathering place for the folks, other than Polly’s?”
“Never thought of it. Maybe the Gallaghers should build their own bar. I don’t think the Brennans would want to own one, with their religious background, but they could continue to visit Polly’s,” he said.
“Let’s get the doors open, but I’ll tell you one thing for sure, that shotgun will stay loaded and ready.”
“I’ll fire up the grill. Keep them eatin’, and maybe they won’t be so quick to want to fight,” he said.
Thirty minutes later, he finally looked up and said, “You are the prophet, Jillian Cleary, not me. That is my fortieth onion burger since I walked in the door. And we’ve used six bags of frozen fries.”
A rush of cold air took her eye to the next customers, and she smiled.
“What’s so funny?” Sawyer asked.
“Nothing.” She fished in her purse and brought out a bright purple daisy affixed to a hair clip, pulled her hair back on one side with her fingertips, and fastened the daisy right there above her ear. The smile on her face widened when Kinsey and Quaid Brennan claimed a couple of bar stools.
“What can I get you this evening?” Jill asked sweetly.
“Nice touch in the hair there. Looks like you’ve been to the islands. Hey, Sawyer, you want to fly down to the islands this weekend with me?” Kinsey asked. “We can leave on Saturday night and be home early Monday morning.”
“No, thank you. Y’all want something from the grill?”
“No, just a pitcher of margaritas and one of Coors.”
“Thank you for the roses, Quaid,” Jill said. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
“They are beautiful, but not as beautiful as you are. I was hoping you’d see that I’m serious about getting to know you better.” His flirting was deliberate and practiced.
“Where’d you get that daisy in your hair anyway?” Kinsey asked.
“Sawyer gave me two dozen today. I picked out the brightest one for my hair.” She smiled.
“So you like daisies, Sawyer?” Kinsey asked.
He set two pitchers in front of her. “I like Jill.”
She put a bill in his hand. “As in you are dating, or as in you are friends?”
He laid her change on the bar. “As in what I said. The rest is our private business.”
“Well, you don’t have to get pissy about it,” Kinsey said and flounced off to claim a table not far from the jukebox.
As luck would have it, Betsy and Tyrell were the next two to let a little fresh air into the bar. Betsy raised an eyebrow at the daisy in Jill’s hair. “Is it beach night at Polly’s or what?”
“Nope, it’s nothing but a normal Monday night. Y’all get those cows back yet?” Jill asked.
“We’re negotiating a deal,” Tyrell answered quickly.
“Oh, thank you for the roses,” Jill said.
“Just a little thank-you for all the help. They weren’t as pretty as you, but then nothing is that gorgeous.” He winked.
“So what’s with the flower? Sawyer, darlin’, would you fix us up six cheeseburger baskets and a couple of pitchers of beer?”
“Comin’ right up,” he said.
Betsy’s eyes had trouble staying above his belt buckle, and the expression on her face told the whole story about what she’d like to do if she ever got past the buckle and zipper.
Jill drew up two pitchers of beer and set them on the bar. Tyrell put a couple of bills in her hand, and she made change. He grabbed her hand and bent over the bar to kiss her fingertips.
“Darlin’, I’ll put red roses on every flat surface in my house if you’ll agree to let me cook supper for you. You choose the menu, and there’s no strings attached,” he whispered.
The very picture in her mind made her feel like she was smothering. That many red roses in one place. She’d feel like they were coming after her, like zombies in the apocalypse.
Betsy picked up the beer and started back to the table. She stopped after a few feet and looked over her shoulder. “Tyrell, bring the cups, please. And why do you have that flower in your hair, Jill?”
“Sawyer gave me daisies today, and they were so bright and pretty that I brought one to work with me.”
Tyrell’s face went dark. All the flirting turned to anger, and the determination into rage. He dropped her hand, and his strong jaw worked like he was chewing gum. “So are you two together now? Why aren’t you wearing one of my roses?”
“Because you and Quaid both sent red roses, and besides, I like daisies better,” she said.
“So that’s the way it is.”
“I’ve never led you on.”
“But you never completely shot me down, either.”
“Yes, Tyrell, I have. You just didn’t know it. We’ll holler right loud when the cheeseburger baskets are done,” she said softly.
He nodded curtly and joined Betsy at a table in the corner.
“We might have entered the war as a third country,” Sawyer said.
“They’d better hope not. When I fight, I go in with intentions of winning. Bless their hearts, there might not be anything left of them when the dust settles if they continue to pull us into this war, not even a beefsteak from one of their blondie steers.”
Chapter 23
Something had happened. Something big.
Jill wasn’t sure what it was, but Sawyer didn’t like it. He’d been distant most of the evening. After the sweet daisies and the note that had brought tears to her eyes, she’d thought they’d climbed up on a higher level in their relationship. But something had sure enough ticked him off royally. Had Kinsey or Betsy finally convinced him to go out with them?
A stab of jealousy shot through her faster than any speeding bullet or two-edged hunting knife. A picture of either of them lying naked on his bed, getting a full body massage, played through her mind. She could almost feel the smoke coming out of her ears as the image sharpened and grew brighter. Would he scatter daisies on the bed for them? Would he write poetry about them?
The jukebox was unplugged. The flashing lights around the outside had gone dark, and it was tired of singing for the people. Smoke still hung above the tables, but a lot of it had escaped as the packed house fanned in and out of the door.
Sawyer’s expression was blank, set in stone. If he smiled, cracked a joke, flirted, or even looked her way, it would most likely shatter like broken glass. Whatever his problem was, if he didn’t want to talk about it, then he could damn well fix it without her help. She was tired, cranky, and ready for bed—as in sleep.
Andyouthoughthecouldwalkonwater. Men are men, and they are all rascals, the mean voice in her head taunted.
He finished sweeping and started getting the bar ready for the next day—checking everything at least twice, like he always did. The grill and fryers were turned off, the red cup dispensers were filled to the top so she wouldn’t have to stop for supplies, and the last of the beer and margarita pitchers were in the dishwasher.
She made sure toilet paper, paper towels, and soap were in both bathrooms, and sprayed a healthy dose of disinfectant spray into the air before she shut the doors.
“Ready?” He waited beside the door, the bulge of a handgun not far from his belt buckle.
She breezed past him, crossed the cold gravel lot to his truck, and had her hand on the handle when the beeping noise told her he’d opened the door remotely. A norther hit with a blast of colder air, sending dead leaves, cigarette butts, gravel, and dirt into a swirl. It would be fifteen degrees colder by the time they reached the bunkhouse. She’d love to curl up in his warm arms under the fluffy blanket, but that wasn’t happening.