Chapter Eight

Back in middle school, Beck’s dad had taken him on one of his business trips to Vegas. They spent an entire evening meeting with a potential client at a country-themed bar and restaurant. Holiday had tossed back shots and harassed the pretty cowgirls. Beck had sat quietly on a barstool at the end of the bar, soaking in the ten-gallon cowboy hats and the way the dance floor shook when the majority of the diners took to the tiny parquet square during a well-known tune.

That memory came up in black and white compared to the living color of his first night on his own at the Rambling Rose.

Presley and Billy Ray alternated sets. The crowd didn’t seem to care who was onstage as long as the music kept playing. The walls vibrated, the floor pulsed, and the thunderous echo of hundreds of pairs of boots slamming into the dance floor ricocheted through his head. He sat back and watched for a while. The whole place operated like a well-oiled machine. So when he stepped behind the bar and tried to help Shep handle the mass of bill-waving customers waiting to order a beer, he wasn’t sure if he was being helpful or getting in the way.

“I can’t serve this—look at the head on this pour.” The mug he’d just filled reappeared in front of him, the foamy top cascading over the edge of the glass.

“Sorry, I’m still learning the ropes.”

At the sound of Beck’s voice, the redheaded waitress spun around. “You’re not Shep.”

“No.” Beck smiled, already refilling another mug.

“Oh my gosh, you’re Sully’s grandson, aren’t you?” Her eyes went wide, and a flush spread over her cheeks.

“That’s me. Beck Holiday. Nice to meet you…uh…” He slid the mug across the bar, waiting for her to introduce herself.

She didn’t move. One hand balanced the full tray. The other splayed across her chest like she’d just had the shock of her life.

“You are?” He ignored the guy leaning over the bar who was trying to get his attention by waving a twenty-dollar bill in his face.

“Dixie!” She sprang back to life, snagging the beer and finding a spot to set it down on the overcrowded tray. “I’m so sorry. Like I said, I thought you were Shep.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He waved his hand, trying to downplay the exchange as she disappeared into the crowd.

“Well, that’s gotta be a first.” Dwight slid onto a stool in front of him.

“What?” Beck moved to grab two longnecks out of the cooler and fumbled with the bottle opener attached to the bar.

“I ain’t never seen Dixie rendered speechless. That gal’s always got somethin’ to say, even if it ain’t worth hearing about.” Dwight pointed at the tap. “How about a beer on the house tonight, seein’ as how we’re friends and all?”

“Sure. First one’s on me. As long as you do me a favor?” Beck slid another foamy beer across the bar.

Dwight squinted at his mug. “Tilt the glass while you fill it. You’ll get less head that way.”

“Thanks.” It had been a long time since Beck had been on the serving side of anything, much less an ancient walnut bar in a honky-tonk in the middle of freaking nowhere. “Can you tell me how many employees they have here?”

Dwight took a swig of his beer and wiped the foam away on the sleeve of his checkered shirt. He must have traded in his coveralls for a big Saturday night out. “You met Shep, right?”

Beck nodded and listened while he tried to keep up with the demanding drink orders on the other side of the bar.

“So he’s the main bartender. Angelo runs the kitchen. Dixie and Charlie work the floor. They’ve got some part-time gals who help with the weekends. Like Brittany—she’s Charlie’s cousin, y’know, and was up for Junior Miss Texas a while back. Watch out for her. Oh, and watch out for Dixie, too.”

“Oh yeah, why?”

“Her daddy’s the preacher.” Dwight cupped his hand to his mouth like he was about to divulge a classified secret. “Rumor has it she’s saving herself, if ya know what I mean.” He waggled his eyebrows, apparently thinking Beck needed the extra emphasis to decipher what that implied.

Beck cut his eyes toward the redhead across the room. Yep. Everyone’s business was everyone’s business around here, that was for sure.

“Oh, and lemme tell ya about Billy Ray. Back in high school he got wasted one night and they found him with Mrs. Martinez’s goat—”

Beck thrust a palm toward Dwight, the universal sign to shut up. “I don’t need to know any more.”

Dwight snickered. “But it’s funny. He was so trashed—”

“Really.” Beck turned his attention to a group of giggly coeds and took their drink orders. They wanted three fuzzy navels, a sex on the beach, and buttery nipple shots all around. “Uh, Shep? Can you take this one?”

When Shep stepped over to mix the drinks, Beck bailed from behind the bar. Should have known better than to try to engage Dwight in conversation. There was something missing upstairs with that one. He’d have to ask Charlie about it when and if she ever decided to start speaking to him again. He worked his way around the room, shaking hands with locals who wanted to introduce themselves, clearing empty bottles and mugs from the tables, and sidestepping an older woman who reached out and claimed a handful of his ass.

He finally made it back to the kitchen to drop off the empties, where Angelo passed him a trayful of food and asked him to deliver it to the Ellisons. How was he supposed to know who the Ellisons were? He couldn’t very well pass through the crowd asking people to give him their names.

A flash of red hair caught his eye. “Hey, Dixie?”

She whirled around, the same wide-eyed look of surprise on her face. “Yeah?”

“Can you take this to the Ellisons for me?”

“Sure thing.” She snagged the tray along with another load of beverages and took off toward the stage.

Beck stumbled down the hallway in the direction of the office. A few minutes later, he collapsed into Charlie’s chair and attempted to pull the boots off his swollen feet.

Before he had the chance to examine the burning blisters covering his heels, someone knocked on the door. “Hey, Boss?”

“Come in.” He sat up straight in the chair. Never let ’em see you sweat. That was his dad’s motto. Or maybe some slogan he’d heard on a TV commercial at some point. His head swam with drink orders, names of the people he’d met, and the food orders he’d turned in to the kitchen.

Angelo stuck his head through the doorway. “We got a situation. One of the college kids is trying to throw a saddle on Baby Back.”

Huh? The name sounded familiar, but Beck couldn’t remember. Was that one of the neighbors he’d met a few hours ago? No, it was…damn, Charlie’s pig!

He thrust his feet back into his boots and cringed as the raw skin rubbed against his sock, next to the stiff leather. “Be right there.”

Angelo ducked out, and Dwight strolled in.

“Couple of city boys are about to throw down in the parking lot out front. Thought you might want to know.” Dwight shrugged, like fights happened all the time. For all Beck knew, they probably did.

“Where’s the bouncer?” He staggered to a standing position, his heels silently screaming in protest.

“He’s out there. But he might need some backup. It’s kind of like one frat house takin’ on another.”

“Dammit.” Beck ran his hand through his hair. “What would Charlie do?” Well crap, he hadn’t meant to utter that out loud. The last thing he wanted was for word to get back to her that he couldn’t handle a lousy Saturday night alone.

“She’d probably turn the hose on ’em and send ’em back to Austin with their tails tucked.” Dwight snickered. “She’s good at that kind of stuff.”

“Yeah. That’s a good idea. Can you take care of the hose while I head out back to save the pig?”

“You bet.” Dwight strolled toward the door. “I’m assuming there’s gonna be a mini-keg with my name on it for helpin’ you out of this hot spot, hey, hoss?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Just get out there, okay?” He waited until Dwight cleared the corner then limped toward the back door.

Someone had pulled a truck up in front of the pigpen, letting the headlights illuminate the action taking place in the mud. A buzzed hotshot stood on the perimeter of the pen, a saddle of some sort in both hands. Based on the way he swayed back and forth, he must have been more than a little inebriated. A crowd of onlookers shouted encouragement. Beck scanned the pigpen. Where was the pig?

He walked around to the gate and stepped into the pen, making sure it latched behind him. “You’re not supposed to be in here. Go home. Party’s over.”

The kid sneered at him. “Who the hell are you? Party’s not over until me and my buddies get a picture riding the pig.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” Beck crossed his arms and took a deep breath, extending to his full height, which had to be at least a few inches taller than the beanpole in front of him. “Come on out of here, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

“No way. I ain’t even ever seen you around before. I’m not leavin’ until I sit on the pig.”

Finally, Beck’s gaze landed on Baby Back. She had backed herself into a corner opposite the guy like she wanted to get a running start to charge him. Beck took a few slow steps her way. Why did he think climbing into the pen was a good idea? The porker had to outweigh him by a hundred pounds. She could probably fend for herself without his help.

“You’re not touching the pig. You’ll have to go through me to get to her, and I’m warning you, it’s not worth the headache you’d wake up with tomorrow to even try.”

The guy looked unsure of himself, but his buddies kept at him. Finally, he lunged toward the pig. Beck grabbed him by the back of his jeans and the collar of his shirt to set him on his feet. But Beck’s hand slipped, so instead he sent him flying into the mud. The kid landed with a splat. His friends’ cheers turned to snickers.

“Get out of here,” the hopeful pig wrangler yelled to the crowd. Sensing the excitement had come to an abrupt end, they began to head back inside. The kid turned toward Beck. “You can’t throw me around like that.” Dripping in mud, he scrambled to his feet.

Beck dodged him the first time, but the kid charged again, catching him by surprise with a shoulder to the gut and sending both of them crashing into the bottom rail of the pigpen. The board split, cracking in two.

Beck looked up just in time to see Baby Back sail past him, through the fence and out into the parking lot.

“Dammit.” He got to his feet, half limping, half staggering after the pig. The kid grabbed on to his ankle, holding on with both hands. Beck dragged him halfway across the pigpen before Baby Back rounded the building toward the front parking lot and disappeared.

Beck struggled against the death grip preventing him from chasing after the pig. Teeth sank into his calf and he went down, dropping an elbow into the center of the kid’s back. The grip loosened. Finally free from his determined opponent, Beck tried to catch up to the pig before she hit the open field.

He rounded the corner. Even Baby Back paused at the scene unfolding before them. A mass of denim, hats, and western shirts scuffled under a torrential spray of water. Dwight and Shep stood on the porch, wrestling a giant fire hose between them. That was the hose? If Beck thought the mud was a problem before, it was a catastrophe now. Tires spun, splattering mud and water all over the other parked cars. The guys who were still throwing punches were quickly being covered in a thick layer of muck.

Baby Back dove into the fray, splashing through the mud. She paused every once in a while to roll around in a particularly attractive puddle or two. Anytime Beck got near, she’d take off again, barreling through the crowd, knocking cowboys over like bowling pins.

Beck chased after her, hopping over the fallen men Baby Back left groaning and moaning in her wake. “Catch the pig! Can someone please catch the damn pig?”

A few guys tried to slow her down. One stood in front of her, waving his hands in an attempt to get her to break her stride. She paused long enough for Beck to wrap his hand around the strap of leather Charlie had secured around her neck. Was this supposed to be a collar? Before he could brace himself to jerk her back toward the pigpen, she took off again. Only now instead of chasing her, he was being dragged next to her, his hand still clasping the hot-pink band around her neck.

As his ass bounced over the combination of dirt, mud, and gravel, he tried to get his feet underneath him. She was fast. Faster than he ever imagined a pig could be. But then again, he’d never ridden sidecar to a runaway sow before.

The roar of water continued to rain down, drenching everyone and everything. Hands grabbed for Baby Back’s collar, but she prevailed, shaking off any potential capture attempts. Beck had almost had it. He was ready to let go and let the pig be on her way. If she wanted her freedom this badly, maybe she deserved it.

The crack of a shotgun rang out. The water went from a blast to a spray to a dribble. Even the pig stopped—at least long enough for Beck to get to his feet and secure her collar in both hands. A sheriff’s SUV blocked the exit to the parking lot. Lights flashed, bouncing red and blue off anything that hadn’t been covered in mud.

“Where’s Charlie?” The brawny deputy lowered the gun and shouted into the crowd.

Beck cleared his throat. “Charlie’s not here tonight.”

Brown eyes, pissed-off brown eyes, turned his way. “Then who’s in charge?”

He swallowed. “That would be me. Hi, I’m Beck. Beck Holiday.” He made a move to offer his hand but realized he was still holding on to the pig. Afraid to let go, he shrugged. “Charlie took a night off.”

The deputy let out a gruff laugh. “Some night off. Somebody’s going to have hell to pay tomorrow.”

Shep rushed over with a rope and secured it around Baby Back’s neck. “Hey, Cash. Some Saturday night, huh?”

Cash nodded toward Beck. “Beck Holiday, nice to meet you. I’m Cash Walker.”

Walker, dammit. Another one of Charlie’s brothers.

By the time they’d patched the pigpen and secured Baby Back, the party had mostly wound down. While the rest of them had been outside, Presley and Lamb Chops had taken it upon themselves to do an impromptu battle of the bands and blown a fuse. Half the building sat in darkness, including the kitchen and the bar, which meant no more food, no more music, and no more beer.

Beck learned that was the fastest way to shut down a honky-tonk in Texas—telling the crowd they couldn’t serve any more beer.

Before tonight, he’d thought he was tough. He’d thought he could hold his own in any situation. He’d thought wrong.

At this rate, three months would feel like three hundred years. He needed to suck it up and make up with the hardest-working, hardest-headed, hardest-hearted gal he’d ever met.

But first he needed to salvage what remained of his pride and limp back to his temporary home to shower away the mud, the poop, and all the memories of what had happened tonight. Especially the bit with the pig.

Priorities were a bitch.