Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I wince. “For one, you seem to have a natural connection with Pixie. He loves her and would never intentionally harm her, but there’s more tension between them now, which isn’t fair to her.”
“Makes sense.” Porter stares off in the distance as if considering his own relationship with his father. “And what’s the other?”
“Huh?”
“You said for one, so there’s got to be more of an explanation than alcohol and envy fueling it.”
“At this point I’m speculating.” I shove a fry in my mouth and chew it as I gather my thoughts. “No way Randy would ever admit it out loud. Sour grapes and all.”
“Admit what?”
“That he can’t give Pixie the one thing she’s always wanted—besides a sober father.”
His eyebrows knit together. “A horse of her own?”
“Bingo! She loves competing—it’s in her blood, same as her grandfather. Mom and Dad encouraged her to use Willow for the events this past spring, and she did well. But competitions require training and money. My parents considered offering her the mare since she’s developed such a bond with Willow, but I talked them out of it. I know a proud man when I see one, and he seems to have a knack for holding grudges.”
Porter averts his eyes, and I wonder if he can relate to Randy—at least in the stubbornness and holding grudges department.
“Randy would’ve crumbled under the upkeep fees and riding schedule. Now that Pixie’s back in school and she’s only around afterward and on the weekends, it takes some of the pressure off him. But the fact remains that Randy doesn’t have the natural ability or temperament to train horses, let alone own one that competes. But he wishes he did. For Pixie.”
“And here I show up at the ranch, and I’m allowed to work with a wild mustang,” Porter replies absently, as if putting all the puzzle pieces together.
“He’s not only jealous of your connection with Pixie, but of your innate skills.”
“Well, damn, when you put it like that, I kinda feel sorry for the guy,” Porter says. “But I’m also not gonna make excuses and stop being who I am just ’cause it gets under his skin.”
“Would never expect you to.” I drain my glass. “Plus, you’ve grown fond of Pixie. We all have and want the best for her.”
Porter doesn’t deny it, only says, “Probably should watch my back, though.”
I grimace. Sure, the men argue and give each other shit, but this is different. “If he comes after you, puts his hands on you, I won’t wait for Wade or my dad. I’ll send him packing.”
He shrugs. “Sometimes a good knock-down-drag-out is necessary. Been in my share of ’em.”
I smirk. “Oh, I’ve heard enough stories to know you have.”
He wipes his hands, then scoots out of the booth. “Gonna use the john.”
While he’s gone, the owner removes our empty plates. I motion toward the small makeshift stage, next to the jukebox with the Out of Order sign on it. “You still showcase live music?”
He frowns and looks away. “Not so often anymore.”
Well, shit, that’s a damn shame.
“I happen to know a guy here with a guitar.” At least I hope he brought it. “Do you mind?”
“Have at it,” he says over his shoulder as he shuffles away. “Would be a welcome change.”
I’m grinning when Porter returns to the booth. “Uh-oh. What are you up to?”
“Still have your guitar with you?”
“Yeah, left it in my truck. Why?”
“I just got you a gig.” I motion toward the stage. “It’s not paid, but still, I’d love to hear you play again.”
He bites his bottom lip, considering the idea, then sinks down in the booth. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Aw, come on.” I lean toward him. “I figure it’s either you play a set, or you finally tell me why you skipped town all those years ago.”
He thumps the table and stands. “No contest there. Be right back.”
I laugh as I call after him, “I’ll order us another round.”
There’re not many people in the bar when Porter drags a chair over to the stage. He plugs in the small speaker and the cable from the dusty mic stand, then starts plucking on the strings. A quick glance around tells me most are enjoying the familiar country ballad. Familiar song or not, hearing Porter play again is exciting, but this time is a bit different than in front of the fire and at Buck’s. He looks serene, relaxed, which in turn makes the atmosphere feel cozy, like putting on a pair of warm, fuzzy socks.
Plus, I like watching him, how he shuts his eyes on certain notes and seems to tune out everything around him. The mic stand is sitting low to pick up the guitar, but when he starts humming, my eyes spring to his lips as his head moves, his knee jiggling in time with the refrain.