A Cowboy of Her Own. Marin Thomas

have a draft—” Wendy poked him in the side. “Make that a Dr Pepper,” Porter said.

      “Scotch, neat, please.” She smiled at Porter’s wide-eyed stare. “You expected me to order wine?”

      “Or beer. Where’d you learn to drink Scotch?”

      “Most of my clients are men.”

      “I guess there aren’t a lot of women running livestock ranches these days,” he said.

      “There are some, but corporations are taking over the beef industry and family-owned ranches are disappearing.”

      The barkeep delivered Wendy’s Scotch and she nodded to Porter. “He’s buying.” She tossed down the drink, then set the glass on the bar. “I’ll take another.” Two drinks would relax her. When the barkeep delivered her refill, her stomach had warmed from the alcohol and her ears no longer winced at the crazy lady singing another oldie but goody. After the second song the rhinestone beauty abandoned the microphone and a quarter found its way into the jukebox.

      “Let’s dance.” Porter held out his hand.

      Wendy finished her drink, then stood and swayed toward Porter. She braced her hands against his chest and closed her eyes. “Whoever built this place did a horrible job with the floors. They’re sloped downward.”

      Porter’s chuckle drifted into her ear. Wendy could get used to having his hands on her. Standing this close to him, she noticed the bump on the bridge of his nose—he’d probably broken it roughhousing with his brothers. She shifted her gaze to his mouth. How would those masculine lips feel...? He lowered his head, closing the distance between their faces.

      No. She pushed away from him and walked over to the stage. She picked up the microphone and tapped her finger against it, then jumped at the loud thump that echoed from the speakers on the floor.

      “How does this work?”

      Right then the song “Nine to Five” by Dolly Parton began playing and the screen hanging from the ceiling displayed the lyrics. Wendy made an attempt to sing along, but couldn’t keep up with the bouncing ball and sounded like an idiot. When the song ended, the group of men whistled. “Would you like me to sing another?” she asked.

      “One song is enough,” Porter said.

      “I wasn’t that bad, was I?” She looked at her fans. The men saluted her with their beer bottles.

      “How about a game of darts?” Porter asked.

      “I’ve never played before.” She accepted his help off the stage.

      “I’ll show you how to hit the bull’s-eye.” He laid money on the bar and the barkeep handed them two sets of darts.

      “Can I have the blue ones?” she asked.

      “Sure.” Porter stood behind Wendy, grasped her wrist and raised her arm.

      “What are you doing?” she whispered when his breath feathered across the back of her neck.

      “Showing you how to throw.” He pulled her arm back and then thrust it forward. She released the dart and it sailed across the room, hitting the wall next to the board.

      “You’re not a very good teacher,” she said, turning around.

      “I’m better at other things.” The heat in his eyes stole her breath.

      If you kiss him, you’ll compromise your investigation.

      Right now she didn’t care about her job. All she wanted was to feel Porter’s mouth on hers.

      He stepped back suddenly. “It’s late. We’d better go.”

      Wendy followed, relieved one of them had come to their senses before it was too late—she just wished it had been her and not Porter.