LITMIR.BIZ

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with her. The dos and don’ts had been implied. Come to think of it, Wendy couldn’t remember her father or mother ever raising their voices at her. Their preferred method of discipline had been giving her the look. The disappointment and censure in their eyes had affected her far more than if they’d grounded her.

      “I think Grandma Ada and Grandpa Ely knew we ran wild after hours, but they were old and too tired to chase us down. And we never broke the law, except for the underage drinking.”

      “Dixie doesn’t talk about your mother much.”

      “She wasn’t around very often and when she was, she acted like one of us. I remember asking to borrow her car and she told me to check with my grandfather. It was as if she didn’t consider us her kids.”

      “Dixie loved your grandmother.”

      “Yeah, it was tough on her when Grandma Ada died. The two used to spend hours in the barn making soaps from the family recipes.”

      Wendy wished she had a memory of doing something special with her mother—besides arranging flowers. But her mother and father were always busy in the shop. If Wendy had ever complained, her parents made her feel guilty, insisting they were toiling away for her future. It was difficult for her to be angry with them after they’d help pay for her college education.

      “Who knows where I’d be now if I’d been raised by a mother and a father,” Porter said.

      If you’d been raised by my parents, you wouldn’t have had nearly the fun you had on the farm. And I guarantee you wouldn’t be driving a livestock truck.

      Hoping to divert the conversation away from her childhood, she asked, “What are your hobbies?”

      “Just rodeo. There’s nothing like the rush of competing against a bull or bronc.”

      “Dixie said you and your brothers used to sneak onto your neighbor’s property and ride his cows.”

      “Fred Pendleton and his wife, Millie, never had kids of their own and they ratted on me and my brothers every chance they got.”

      “What did your grandparents do?”

      “Not much until Conway and Buck got caught letting Pendleton’s prized heifer out of the pasture. The old man called social services and told them that our grandparents were too old to raise a bunch of hooligans and we should be taken away from them.”

      “That was mean.”

      “A lady from child welfare services stopped by the farm and threatened to put us all in different foster homes and it scared us kids bad enough that we quit playing pranks on the neighbors.”

      Wendy couldn’t imagine the Cash siblings being split up. They were a tight-knit family who looked out for one another.

      “What kind of trouble did you get into during your teens?” Porter asked.

      Wendy was embarrassed to admit she’d been a Goody Two-shoes. “I broke curfew once.” She’d been an hour late returning home from choir rehearsal. When she’d gone out to the school parking lot, she’d discovered a flat tire on her car. A teacher had offered to help, but she’d been determined to change the tire herself. The teacher had remained with her in the lot, cheering her on until she’d succeeded. And before he let her leave, he made her drive around until he was satisfied the tire wouldn’t fall off.

      “Did your parents ground you?”

      “No.” After she’d explained the emergency they’d understood. But they’d still given her that look because she hadn’t phoned them to say she’d be late.

      “You felt guilty for weeks afterward.”

      She laughed. “Yes.”

      “I admit I was a goof-off in my younger years,” he said. “But I’ve changed.”

      Wendy didn’t comment.

      “Go ahead. Say it.”

      “Say what?”

      “You think I’m still a slacker.”

      “I don’t know you well enough to make that judgment.”

      “I’m sure Dixie shared enough stories about my exploits for you to form an opinion.”

      “Dixie loves you, Porter. She believes all her brothers walk on water.”

      “It would be nice if she let us know that instead of complaining about everything we do.” He grew quiet for a minute, then said, “One day I’m going to buy a ranch.”

      “Where?”

      “I’ve got my eye on a place in the Fortuna Foothills.”

      “That’s a nice area.” Buying property in the foothills would require a large chunk of money, and she doubted Porter’s employment history of hit-or-miss seasonal jobs would convince a bank to give him a loan.

      What if Porter was rustling bulls under Buddy’s nose and selling them on the black market in order to finance his dream? As soon as the thought entered her mind, she pushed it away.

      “So what do you say?” he said.

      “What do I say about what?”

      “Having a little fun before we pack it in for the night?”

      “It’s late. I’m not—”

      “Ten o’clock isn’t late.” When she didn’t comment, he said, “C’mon. Let your hair down.” He nodded to the clip that pinned her hair to her head. “I’ve never seen you with your hair loose.”

      “I wear it up because it’s cooler and it doesn’t get in my way at work.”

      “If it’s a pain then cut it.”

      Her long, silky hair was her best feature—according to her mother. “I’ve thought about it, but don’t men prefer long hair?” She winced. Porter would assume she was fishing for compliments.

      “I can’t speak for every guy, but there’s more to a girl than her hair and makeup.”

      That all sounded good but... “If you feel that way, why does Dixie believe you need to raise your standards and date women with brains, not—”

      “Boobs?” He laughed. “I have nothing against serious girls, except that most of them don’t know how to have fun. All work and no play stinks.”

      “Are you insinuating that I’m no fun?” she teased, knowing that it was the truth. The last time she’d goofed off with a guy had been in college, when Tyler had taken her to a miniature golf course.

      “I’m not insinuating. I’m flat-out saying it’s so,” he said.

      She’d show him she knew how to party. “Go ahead and stop somewhere.”

      “You sure?”

      “Positive.”

      Two miles later Porter pulled into the parking lot of a bar.

      “The place doesn’t look busy,” Wendy said.

      “It’s a Monday night. Only the regulars will be here.” He got out, then helped Wendy from the cab.

      “What’s the name of the bar?” she asked.

      “The Red Rooster.” He pointed to the rooster weather vane on the roof of the building. And the black door sported the silhouette of a red rooster on it.

      When they entered the establishment, a wailing soprano voice threatened to wash them back outside. Karaoke night was in full swing and a redhead in pink spandex and a rhinestone tank top belted out Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight” while a handful of men leered at her through beer-goggle eyes.

      Porter grasped Wendy’s hand and led her to the bar.

      A

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