The Trouble with Texas Cowboys Read Online Free PDF Page A

said.
    Sawyer threw a hand over his heart and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “That would be sacrilege. I’m not sure you can get into heaven if you don’t like pinto beans and fried potatoes. Saint Peter would send you straight on down to the blazing fires of hell, so don’t even whisper such blasphemy.”
    â€œIt would be almost as bad as not liking a good thick steak,” she agreed with a nod as she pulled her cell phone from her shirt pocket.
    â€œCallin’ the boyfriend?” he asked.
    â€œI’m calling Aunt Polly, and if you are askin’ if I have a boyfriend, I don’t, and I don’t want one, especially not a Brennan or a Gallagher. What time of morning do you call your girlfriend or your wife?”
    A grin showed perfect white teeth. No tobacco stain and no cigarettes in his shirt pocket. That was definitely a plus if she had to live with the man. She hated a spit can and smoke.
    â€œNo wife or girlfriend. Both are too much trouble,” he said.
    â€œThat applies to boyfriends too,” she told him. “I’ll set the pot on the cabinet so it doesn’t boil dry. We can reheat the coffee in the microwave this evening. Do we take one truck or two?”
    â€œMight as well take one. I’ll drive,” he said.
    She held up a finger. “Hello, Aunt Polly. We thought we’d make breakfast at the bar this morning, since there’s nothing in the bunkhouse until we do some shopping. You’re kiddin’ me! That’s not safe. Everyone knows that’s where people put spare keys.” She nodded. “Yes, we’re going to make bacon and eggs. Pancakes? Do you have the stuff for that at the bar?” Another pause. “That’s fine with me. I love pancakes. Right now I could eat cow patties, I’m so hungry.”
    Sawyer was staring at her when she ended the call.
    â€œThe spare key is in the flowerpot outside the bar. Aunt Gladys is bringing a box of that mix where you only add water to make pancakes, and some maple syrup. I guess we’re having a party. I promised you’d cook and clean up the grill and wash the dishes.”
    When she looked up, Sawyer was standing above her. “I’ll cook because I’m hungry, but if I cook, I don’t wash dishes.”
    â€œLooks like we’re lucky that the bar always uses disposable plates. Aunt Polly doesn’t like to wash dishes either, and she’s too tight to hire a full-time dishwasher.”
    * * *
    Polly and Gladys were sitting on the bar stools. Gladys wore jeans, a red sweatshirt, and a big smile. Both of them had smiles that said they were up to no good. They weren’t any better than Sawyer at hiding what they were thinking, and Jill didn’t like it. But then again, maybe they’d only been talking about everything that had happened the afternoon before.
    They’d married brothers, so they weren’t blood kin, but folks tended to think they were, since their last names were Cleary. Polly was dressed in her usual bar garb, which was bibbed overalls, a long-sleeved knit shirt of some description, and tennis shoes. That day her shirt was the color of a summer sky, which matched her eyes perfectly. Her short gray hair was still wet with whatever mousse she’d run through it and reminded Jill of the spiked hairdos that rockers liked.
    Gladys was a tall, lanky, part–Native American woman with a touch of white in her chin-length hair, a gravelly voice that said she probably smoked on the sly, and brown eyes. Her skin wasn’t nearly as wrinkled as Polly’s, but then folks with her DNA usually leathered rather than wrinkled.
    They both cussed like sailors, even if Polly did play the piano for the church, and they couldn’t have been a bit closer if they’d been blood sisters.
    â€œWe’re hungry. Bacon, eggs, and bread is over there beside the grill. Gladys already stirred up the pancake batter,”