In the Reins by Carly Kade

Author:Carly Kade [Kade, Carly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Carly Kade Creative

28

“So, I’ll be seeing you tonight then,” McKennon said in a matter-of fact-manner. He nodded as if it were certain, turned, and, over his shoulder, tipped his brim to me. Flustered, I watched him round the corner of Star’s stall and disappear.

Once he was gone, I mulled his words over. They had landed as a statement, not as an invitation. Relieved, I leaned back against Faith’s stall and let out a long sigh. My senses had been on high alert for hours now. My excited feminine nerves felt frayed.

Faith, eager to greet me and seemingly settled into her new enclosure, poked her muzzle through the feed slot at the front of her stall. I reached back, not turning toward her, afraid to remove my glued eyes from the path he just blazed away from me. I stroked the soft fuzz between her nostrils, and her warm breath fluttered tendrils of hair at my shoulder. I felt like my lungs had compressed. I needed to stabilize myself. He had left me a confused, sexed up, wanting mess.

Disoriented, I checked Faith’s water level, tossed her a flake of hay, and wandered back to JD’s trailer to freshen up for the evening’s festivities.

An hour later, buzzing neon sign flashing blue and green on the bare skin of my forearms, my hands found my hips. I examined the exterior of The Silver Spur, contemplating my decision to follow McKennon here. The once-white paint on the outside of the aged saloon was weathered, crusty and peeling. I reached out and stripped a crunchy piece of veneer from its lifted exterior. Examining the crispy eggshell-like surface, I mustered my confidence, tossed the paint chip to the ground, crushed it under my boot like a discarded cigarette, and entered the bar.

It was roaring. It certainly seemed like everyone from the show was there in honor of the Saturday night celebration. My nostrils were immediately permeated with the tang of spilt beer, smoke, and the sweaty musk of tangled bodies. Adjusting to the new aroma, heavy on the air, I hovered just inside the threshold on tiptoes, but fell too short to see much from my position. Committed, I smoothed my tight, black shirt, sucked in breath, and pushed myself into the boisterous, energized crowd, angling for a better view. Memories of adolescent crowd maneuvering at summer music concerts flickered in my mind.

As I navigated the small spaces between crammed humid bodies, my eyes swept over the interior of The Silver Spur. It was heavily draped in western décor. There wasn’t an empty cowhide-upholstered stool at the long mahogany bar that lined the back wall. Cowboys bending the brims of their hats and throwing back shots filled four-top tables at the overflowing, outer edges. Long-horned bulls with glass eyes, but without bodies, were bolted to the walls while a headless, mechanical one whirled a daisy-duke wearing woman slowly, seductively in a corner. Men crowded toward her with their mouth’s drawn open and leaned on the railing to get a better view of her go around.

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