27. Bishop

We're sittingaround a table at Buck's Tavern, having ourselves a good old time. Well, most of us. Randy didn't show, so I assume he decided to pass on hanging out with us. I didn't ask, just feel relieved he can't shoot daggers Porter's way all night.

I don't think I'm biased when I say his resentment is misguided. Were his parents still alive and had his wife not left him, he might not be so bitter about everything. But plenty of these men have hard lives, and they're not out here aiming venom at the wrong target. If only he had some insight and could admit he's envious of Porter, for all the reasons we suspect. If they stopped sparring, they might even be able to find some common ground. Little does he know that for all of Porter's confidence, he's hurting as well.

Porter, who's sipping a beer directly across from me while his foot keeps accidentally brushing against mine beneath the table. He's making me weak in the knees with every pass, and I wish I could return the favor. It feels amazing being out with him tonight, even if we have to hide how we feel. Blowing off some steam with these men I work with most days of the week feels good as well.

Dad seemed none too happy when I informed him at dinner of my plans. But Mom landed on my side and told him to leave it alone, that I had my own ideas about how to run the ranch and how to relate to the employees. She sent me off with a warning, though. "Have fun but be smart."

That helped settle my stomach, as did Pixie's excitement that Mom was going to teach her how to needlepoint after the supper dishes were cleaned up. Watching them interact was endearing but heart-wrenching, like possibly Mom sees that little girl as the granddaughter she'll never have. But Mom seems to enjoy the nightly routine, as does Dad.

And maybe I'm not giving Randy enough credit. Maybe he chose not to join us at Buck's because he decided to put his daughter to bed for a change.

Wouldn't that be nice? Instead of taking my parents' charity for granted?

"You shoulda brought your guitar tonight and played something for us," I say to Porter.

"Is that what you been up to the last few weeks?" Bulldog asks. "You been playing at bars?"

"And here I thought you were just keeping Storm company," Jeb adds.

Wade clears his throat and looks away because he knows full well where Porter goes in the evenings. I struggle to form any words, but Porter saves the day.

"That's right. I either sing Storm a lullaby or come into town to play."

When Porter frowns, I feel terrible that we can't be out in the open. What would these men say anyway? They'd have to understand our history and feelings. Sure, they'll be confused since I'm not out, or they'll think Porter is just being his daring self by fucking the ranch owner's son. Again. That thought sits sour in my gut, though I know deep down that this is more.

I hope when all is said and done, he still wants me—wants us—and we can put our past behind us. Because I'm not sure I can take him leaving me again.

His eyes soften across the table as if he can read my mind. I shake those thoughts off. Not a good idea to get sappy right then in front of these guys, who'll no doubt bust our balls. They'd never do it to my dad, so maybe he has the right idea, but I don't think so.

"Well, no wonder Storm let you ride him," Big Jimmy quips. "You been sweet-talkin' him for weeks."

Jeb snorts out a laugh. "Now ain't that a notion? Sweet-talking a horse."

"And riding him." Otis pumps his eyebrows.

"Don't act like you've never sweet-talked your horse," Porter teases. "I've heard you while brushing Dash."

We all laugh, and Bulldog makes kissing noises.

"Yeah, but I don't go the extra mile," Jeb retorts. "Ain't no gay bars out this way, so your only audience is a horse."

"And a bunch of straight cowpokes." Otis motions to the gal onstage, singing to the surrounding tables, where plenty of men sit enraptured.

"How do you know all of them are straight?" Porter teases, and the men crack up.

"Do tell!" Bulldog says, as if settling in for a good story.

"Nah, no way I'm gonna out anyone 'round here just to tickle your fancy."

Despite knowing Porter is teasing, the thought of him being with anyone else makes me squirm, my stomach tight with jealousy.

That's when I feel Porter's foot sliding ever so slightly against my ankle.

My gaze springs to his, and he pretends he's doing nothing wrong as he takes a sip of beer and keeps his mischievous eyes on me. It makes me want to drag him out back again and have my way with him.

"Speaking of sweet-talkin'," Wade says, likely trying to change the subject, "what happened to that lady you were seeing, Bulldog?"

That leads to him telling us his women woes and others joining in to talk about one dating expedition after another, and suddenly I'm seeing these men in a new light. They've always busted each other's balls about that kind of stuff, but this conversation is a deeper, more sobering one. Turns out dating a cattle hand that works long hours and lives with other men in a bunkhouse is not ideal. Here I am, feeling sorry for myself, when their love lives are nothing to write home about either.

"Okay, this is depressing." Bulldog raps his knuckles against the table. "Who's ready to make a wager on bull riding?"

Bull riding?I throw Porter a glance, and he tilts his chin toward the other side of the room, where the bull-riding machine sits. It remains mostly unoccupied during the week, likely because most of us around here have seen our share of rodeos and riding. But it's popular with tourists, and as I spy the group of men heading toward it, I understand why Bulldog is already up and leading the other men from the table: to watch the newcomers make fools of themselves.

Porter and I remain seated to finish our beers but follow suit in another minute.

"I got five bucks on the guy with the bolo tie," Bulldog says. The man is also wearing a shiny new straw hat he likely bought in a souvenir shop.

"That old man? He'll likely throw out his back."

"Hey, watch it," Wade warns, then digs out a few bucks. "I'm with you, Bulldog. Bet he's got more experience than the others."

"From seeing the most Westerns?" Otis says, and everyone chuckles.

We grow silent as another man from the group climbs on the bull and is thrown onto the mat in two seconds flat.

"Damn it." Jeb hands over his money to Otis.

When the bolo-tie dude gets up there, Bulldog and Wade cheer him on, and he seems surprised he has an audience. The hardest part for all the riders is using only one hand, but those are the rules. This man is impressive because he hangs on for a good six seconds to whoops and hollers from our group.

As money exchanges hands again, I hear a ruckus near the entrance.

I wheel around to see Randy arguing with a man wearing ill-fitting cowboy boots. The guy is wiping the front of his shirt, so I'm guessing Randy knocked into him.

Randy does seem like he's a couple of drinks in, and my gut immediately churns. Here I'd hoped he was home with Pixie, but it looks like he had other ideas.

Randy's lip curls as he approaches our group. "What the hell is this?"

"What do you mean?" Porter says. "We all said we were going out."

He folds his arms in a huff. "Oh, I see, and you decided not to let me know."

My gaze swings to Bulldog, who looks sheepish. "I tried to invite ya, but you'd already taken off in your truck. I figured you had somewhere to be."

"Yeah, right," Randy spits out, then jabs a finger toward Porter. "I bet he didn't want me around."

"Now, come on," Wade says. "You're talking nonsense. Maybe you need?—"

"He just wants to get in good with the boss." Randy pumps his eyebrows. "If you know what I mean."

Porter makes a fist but keeps his arm firmly at his side. I take a step forward just in case.

"What exactly are you implying?" Porter's voice is tight with barely restrained anger.

I try to meet his eyes, but Porter won't look at me. Dread looms in my stomach.

"My old man told me stories about the Dixons," Randy lobs at him. "Said your daddy was making rounds at the bars, even tried to hit on my momma. And that's after he was drunk at work one day and ended up causing an accident that nearly got my daddy killed."

Hell, I didn't even know they'd worked together, but then, we were young when Porter's dad was alive, and it's not as if we were friends before his dad passed. Randy's daddy spent some time working in one of the local factories. Maybe that's what he's talking about.

"That's a damn lie and you know it." Porter takes a step into Randy's space. "And it's not like you?—"

"Porter, don't!" I warn. "He doesn't need any more ammunition."

Randy sways toward me, and I reconsider how many drinks the man's had. "Why are you always taking up for him? He's just using you, don't you see it?"

"And what's your excuse?" Porter points an accusatory finger. "You're using the Sullivans as a babysitting service. Maybe instead of worrying about my family, you should be spending more time with your kid."

"You leave Patricia out of this!" His face is red with anger. "You've got her wrapped around your finger too!"

When Randy shoves Porter, I'm sure they'll come to blows. Instead, Porter grips him hard by the shirt, gets in his face, then roughly lets him go.

Randy falls on his ass, and Porter storms off toward the exit. "Need some air."

The entire group is silent, some of them glaring at the man on the floor, as if finally seeing him for who he's become. Or maybe they always knew but kept their mouths shut, like all of us.

But I can't work in this kind of atmosphere, and I'm tired of bending over backward for a man I thought was too proud, but now I just wonder if he's simply ungrateful.

"Consider this your final warning," I say as Randy gingerly gets to his knees. "Get yourself together, or you'll no longer be working for the Sullivan Ranch."

Panic transforms his features. "Now c'mon, boss. You wouldn't put a ten-year-old little girl out on the street, would you?"

Just as I'm about to give him a piece of my mind, Bulldog steps in front of me. "That the way you're gonna play it? You drunk-ass fool! You better hope no one calls social services on you."

"You wouldn't dare," Randy slurs.

"Wouldn't I?" Bulldog replies, getting in Randy's face.

"You boys knock it off," Wade says sternly, and Bulldog takes a step back.

"Will you make sure Randy doesn't get behind the wheel again?" I say to Wade. "I'm gonna…"

"Got it, boss." He looks over my shoulder. "You make sure he's okay."

I head toward the door, wondering how this night got away from us.