In Ben’s experience, it was hard to look truly absurd at Glasgow’s Grand Ole Opry, but Evan was coming close.

Though Ben had brought the pimp-purple ten-gallon Stetson himself, he hadn’t expected his companion to wear it for more than a moment. But here they were, nearly an hour into their second date, with Evan still in the hat, which looked rather fetching with his gray-and-black poncho.

“You’re a better line dancer than I am,” Ben panted as they left the floor, tugging the front of his T-shirt to cool himself. “Did you go on YouTube for lessons?”

“I’m a fast learner.” Evan bobbled as a drunken ginger lady careered into him. He steadied her, then touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am,” he said before turning back to Ben. “Or maybe I just missed my calling.”

“Don’t give up your day job.” As they joined the queue for the saloon, Ben seized his own segue to gather clues about Evan’s profession. “Talking of jobs, as much as I love weddings, it’s rather luxurious not working on a Saturday.” He nudged Evan. “What about you? Standard Monday through Friday hours?”

“Pretty much.”

“No night shifts? No emergency situations? What if a building was falling? You might be needed as a consultant by the police.” He watched Evan’s reaction to the p-word.

But Evan just shrugged. “Maybe.” He looked at the Opry’s events chalkboard on the wall. “What’s this shootout thing?”

“Quick-draw duels,” Ben said, well aware Evan had changed the subject. “They use cap guns, obviously, not real ones. There’s still time to sign up for tonight’s shootout, if you’d like to have a go.”

Evan’s eyes flashed with excitement, which he quickly blinked away. “Nah, I’m all right.”

A wistful Faith Hill ballad began then. Ben raised his chin and smiled at the opening lyrics. “I love this song.”

Evan crooked his arm in invitation. “Want to dance?”

Ben looked at the center of the room, where men and women—and only men and women—were swaying together. “I’ve never slow-danced with a man here.”

“So let’s change that.”

He edged closer so he could whisper. “But then they’ll know we’re gay.”

“I’m wearing a purple cowboy hat,” Evan whispered back. “I think they already know.”

Ben wiped his mouth to smother his smile. “Right, but it’s one thing to be gay and another thing to…you know.”

“What, act gay?”

“To be gay together. As a couple.” Saying it said aloud made Ben realize his own cowardice. “Fuck it, let’s do this.”

As he took Evan’s arm and wove through the crowd to an empty spot, he felt like his heart was slithering down into his large intestine. But the thought of hiding who he was out of fear made him feel even sicker.

Ben rested his hand on Evan’s shoulder and tried to obey Faith Hill’s gentle reminder to breathe.

This is fine. Everything about Evan inspired confidence: the low, calm angle of his brows, the determined set of his square jaw, and the relaxed posture of his broad shoulders. Between his physique and self-assurance—born of success on the football pitch and whatever the hell he did for a living—surely no one would mess them about.

“All right?” Evan asked. “We can stop if you’re uncomfortable.”

Ben realized he was tensing every muscle. He exhaled, letting his hip relax against Evan’s so they could move together.

A few of the other dancers were noticing them. Most had no reaction, and two older couples even sent them warm, slightly patronizing smiles. Ben felt better, but also a bit like a fluffy animal in a zoo.

He focused on Evan again. “Well done on the Clint Eastwood circa 1964.”

“Sorry?”

“The poncho. Man with No Name, right?” At Evan’s blank look Ben prompted, “Sergio Leone’s spaghetti-western trilogy?”

“To be honest,” Evan said, “I bought this poncho from the thrift shop so I could wear regular clothes underneath. And because I thought it looked cool.”

“It does. Ooh! We could watch the first film tonight if you fancy. I’ve got it at my mum’s house. Her TV’s much bigger than the one in my flat. And she’ll be out all night at a wedding in Inverness. We could pop some popcorn, curl up on the couch, and…” He gave Evan’s poncho a flirtatious tug. “Whatever.”

“Och, state of these Brokeback Mountain yins,” came a man’s voice, far too loud and close.

Ben flinched. “Who said that?”

Evan’s eyes narrowed as they focused behind him. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Is he talking about us?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It’s bad enough what they get up to in their own bits,” the man complained again, louder. “They shouldnae bring it here.”

Ben’s stomach felt squeezed like a sponge. He peeked over his shoulder to see a middle-aged man in a red pleather vest glaring at them. His wife looked down in embarrassment as she tried to slow-dance-steer him away.

“That’s Tombstone Tim,” Ben said, “the shootout champion.” This song should be over by now. Is it some sort of extended remix?

“He won’t hurt us.” As he focused on Tim, Evan’s gaze turned as steel-cold as his voice. “I won’t give him the chance.”

A shiver rippled over Ben’s back. “Is it wrong that the thought of you getting violent kinda turns me on?”

Evan’s eyebrows popped so high, they were lost in the shadow of his cowboy hat.

Ben kept talking, raising his voice so he couldn’t hear Tombstone Tim’s complaints. “I mean, I’ve always been more of a peace-love-and-understanding guy. It’s why I hate football, with all the shoving and shouting and kicking—and that’s just the fans—and why I prefer curling, because it—”

“Stay here.” Evan let go of Ben and moved past him. Ben peered around Evan’s shoulder to see the shootout king headed their way, his wife hanging onto his arm in a futile attempt to prevent the confrontation.

Suddenly Maisie, the Grand Opry manager, stepped between Evan and the gunslinger. “Bad news, Tim!” She lowered her voice to say something Ben couldn’t hear.

Tim threw up his hands. “Again?! He’s a fucking coward, that Black Hills Boy.” Then he stalked off the dance floor, tugging his wife behind him.

Maisie turned to Ben and Evan. “If that arsehole bothers you anymore, it’ll be my pleasure to hoist him by the oxters and chuck him into the street.”

“Thanks, Maisie.” Despite the rescue, Ben’s face was still burning. “What’s he raging about now?”

“His opponent skedaddled. Now he’s got naebody to fight. He cannae win tonight’s shootout without a willing victim.” Maisie checked her watch. “Gotta clear the dance floor after this song.” She turned for the stage.

“I’ll do it,” Evan said.

Maisie stopped. “Do what, mate?”

“Sign me up.” Evan turned to Ben, whose face burned hotter under that fierce gaze. “I’ll fight Tombstone Tim.”

Evan shifted his borrowed weapon from hand to hand. It was made of plastic, its black muzzle featuring a bright orange tip marking it as a toy. It was nothing like the Glock he’d carried in Belfast—the one he’d last seen pointed at his own face.

He had to lose this shootout, though it would kill his pride. After Ben’s probing questions about his job, Evan couldn’t risk raising more suspicions by being competent with a weapon.

“It’s best of three,” said Ben, who stood with him at the edge of the dance floor while the Opry prepared for the shootout. “The objective is obviously to draw first, but you also need to aim for that black box between you and your opponent. It’ll detect the flash of light from your revolver.”

“And that’s the last of the raffle winners,” Maisie said from the stage. “You know what that means, cowboys and cowgirls. It’s time for the shoooootouuuuut!” The crowd whooped and hollered. Across the floor from Evan, the bellend in the red pleather vest was already high-fiving his friends.

“Pecos Paul and Sir Scallywag, to the floor, please,” Maisie said. Two gunfighters stepped out, including the one who’d lent Evan his spare cap gun. They shook hands, waved to the crowd, then retreated to their respective corners to stand within a half-circle wire “cage,” which Evan assumed was to protect them from flying beer bottles.

“Gunfighters, are you ready?” Maisie asked. “Fire!”

Evan jumped at the crack of the cap guns. “She doesn’t give them much time.”

Ben nodded. “You’ll need lightning reflexes.”

“Round Two,” Maisie said. “Gunfightersareyoureadyfire.”

Again the weapons were drawn faster than Evan could see, proving it wouldn’t be a challenge to lose this shootout. He rubbed his chest to calm his pounding heart.

“That’s you up next,” Ben said.

Maisie spoke into the microphone. “In the near corner, can I have Tombstone Tim?”

The man strutted backward into the open cage, waving his hat and stirring the crowd into a professional-wrestling-level frenzy. Half the spectators seemed to worship Tim, and the other half seemed to hate him.

Maisie covered the mic with one hand and asked Evan, “What’s your gunfighter moniker?”

“He’s the Man with No Name,” Ben called back.

Maisie gave a thumbs-up. “In the far corner, let me have the Man with No Name!”

Evan imagined a spotlight shining upon him as he strolled toward his cage. His boot heels striking the hardwood floor thumped loud in his ears, even as the cacophony of whistles and shouts rose around him. He didn’t look at Tim, much less offer a handshake he knew wouldn’t be accepted. Evan gave the crowd a cool nod, touching the brim of his hat. I hope I did that right.

When he reached the cage, he adjusted his poncho to give himself access to his holster. Then he glanced over to see Ben gazing at him with a mix of fear and hope, the same expression new Warriors fans often wore, afraid to believe people like them could be as good as everyone else.

Maybe Evan would try to win. Just a peedie bit.

“Gunfighters, are you ready?” This time Maisie paused for nearly two seconds. “Fire!”

Evan whipped the gun from his holster, so fast it went flying from his hand before he could touch the trigger. The weapon clattered against the floor, spinning round and round until it finally stopped, pointing back at him.

In his panic, he’d not seen whether the black box had lit up, indicating a kill shot. But based on the way Tombstone Tim was bent over laughing, Evan presumed himself symbolically dead.

Blotting out the crowd’s jeers, Evan walked through the acrid cloud of cap-gun smoke to retrieve his borrowed weapon. He picked it up and inspected it for cracks—he would’ve felt horrible if he’d broken someone else’s toy—before stuffing it back into his holster. Then he kept his face stoic as he returned to his cage.

As Maisie announced Round Two, Tim was still laughing. As she said, “Gunfighters, are you ready?” Tim was still laughing.

But when she said, “Fire!” and Evan drew his gun and pulled the trigger before his opponent could move, Tombstone Tim stopped laughing.

“Yaaaaassss!” Near the stage, Ben jumped up and down, waving his snow-white Stetson. “Get in!”

Evan maintained his stoic facade, but inside, every nerve sparked with adrenaline. He wanted to win so badly he could taste it, almost as badly as he wanted to taste every inch of Ben’s body.

Tombstone Tim was pacing in front of his cage and moaning to Maisie about how she’d said “Fire!” too soon. When she ignored him with a serene smile, he retreated into position, hand twitching at his side, all traces of gloating gone. His eyes gleamed with ferocity as they locked onto Evan’s.

“Quiet, please.” Maisie cleared her throat, waiting for the crowd to hush. Soon even the clink of bar glasses came to a halt.

“Gunfighters, are you ready?” Maisie asked. Then she paused, letting time stretch out for two…three…four seconds. “Fire.”

This time it felt like slow motion—the draw, the pull of the trigger, the snap of the hammer. Tim’s revolver flashed, and instinct made Evan touch his left side to check for a wound.

The crowd stayed quiet, accentuating the echo of cap-gun fire in his ears. What just happened?

The floor judge stepped forward and examined the black box before raising a hand toward Evan. The Opry exploded.

“That’s the Man with No Name,” Maisie said over the whoops and whistles. “Congrats to the mysterious stranger, winning on his first try.”

Evan couldn’t move his feet, he was so shocked. Tombstone Tim was already barreling through the crowd toward the bar.

“You did it!” Ben slammed into him, wrapping his arms around Evan’s neck and toppling both their cowboy hats. “I’m phoning a cab this instant.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Ben moved his mouth to Evan’s ear. “I just can’t wait to get you alone.”