Page 11 of Cowboy Heat

I raise my eyebrow when our hands drop.

He sees the question and thumbs behind him.

“Don’t tell me Kissy out here is leaving all the good details of Blue Lolita in the dirt,” he says. “Did she not tell you about the Bayou Cowboys?”

“I don’t believe she did.”

He whistles then dives in, sounding mighty rehearsed. “Not a lotta people know it, but Louisiana has a might of cowboys in its history, today too even. But Robin’s Tree had a group of ’em back in the Nineties that got real famous doin’ this n’ that. Riding off on horseback to keep the peace and such safe. Saving people and cats in trees and steppin’ in when the law got lazy or lost. One time I ’eard a few of ’em rode into town and kicked that trouble right on out. ‘Came a bit of a legend around here. Bayou Cowboys. One day, though, they uppin’ left, all ’cept the last one. Died out roundabout ten years ago.” He points to the house. “Then your papa here got Blue and, well, I guess you’re here now.”

“Ryan wasn’t my father,” I say when it’s clear he’s done with his tale. “And believe me, I’m no cowboy. Bayou or otherwise.”

The man cackles out a laugh. He holds his stomach for effect.

I don’t like him, I don’t think. Especially when I realize he hasn’t told me his name.

I wait to see if he’ll do it of his own accord.

“I imagine not,” he says to my cowboy comment. “Good thing is, Robin’s Tree don’t need any kind of Bayou Protecting. We’re good where we are. You know, everything quiet.”

His laugh went and died on the last part but that smile is still holding up the politeness in his tone.

It rubs me the wrong way.

I do something I normally don’t do. I angle my body from what’s become my default stance with newcomers to a position where I’m facing him more head-on.

When his eyes travel from my gaze to the right side of my face, I know my move did what I wanted.

He’s looking at my scar.

“I wouldn’t mind some quiet,” I say.

He didn’t expect to see that, and his recovery falters just enough to let me know he came up here unprepared about who I am. But he does manage to get back to that smile again. “Well’s quiet we can deliver on,” he says.

In a coincidence that times perfectly, the sound of an approaching vehicle makes us both turn to the road. Unlike the massive truck behind the man, the one coming our way is an old Ford, small, brown, and rusted in places.

I can also see the driver through the windshield no problem.

Kissy looks to me then her eyes dart to the man. She parks behind my rental, not his truck.

The man, meanwhile, doesn’t blink away from her.

Kissy gets out, and he’s talking right to her.

“Didn’t think I’d see you out and about at Blue today,” he says. I can’t read his tone, but Kissy smiles quick.

“Turns out I’m not good at giving quick tours,” she says. “This is me trying to finish it in a second go.” Kissy has her keys in her hands and holds them there. She might be smiling but there’s a new kind of tension in her.

If the man notices or cares, he doesn’t show it. “Looks like you’re better suited for it now, anyway.” He eyes her up and down too slow. “Last night you seemed a sneeze away from comin’ apart in that getup.”

Kissy’s smile falters. She glances at me and turns a bit rosy in the cheeks. Then she laughs and slaps her thigh. “Give this girl the option of parachute pants and neon or something more sensible and jeans, and she’ll pick sensible the second time.”

It’s true. She’s less flashy than the day before in her white blouse, jeans, and tennis shoes, but her hair is just as big, and there’s a yellow headband trying to keep it out of her face. There’s also a few bangles on one arm and a big blue purse across her chest and shoulders. It definitely looks more comfortable than the day before, but in this moment she seems increasingly uncomfortable.

How does she know this man?

Had they been together before the tour started yesterday? After I’d left her at her grandmother’s?

Or was this man somewhere at end of the dark road we’d stopped at before then?