COWBOY | Dean Walker

Saturday nights at the Rust Tavern usually never surprised me. Same old country songs playing from the dusty jukebox. Same men yelling over poker games they swore weren’t rigged. Same smell of whiskey, smoke, sweat, and old wood soaked so deep into the walls I figured the place would probably smell like bourbon even if it burned down. Honestly, I only came because there wasn’t much else to do in a town this small. After spending all damn day out fixing fence posts under the Rhode Island heat, all I wanted was a beer cold enough to numb my brain for a couple hours.

The moment I walked through the saloon doors, a few people greeted me. "Walker!"

"You ever gonna pay me back?"

"You look like hell."

I laughed under my breath, tipping my hat back slightly as I made my way toward the counter. Dust still clung to my boots from the ranch, denim sleeves rolled to my elbows, shoulders sore enough to complain every time I moved. Normal night.

At least, until I saw her. Sitting alone near the end of the bar. I slowed without meaning to. She stood out immediately. Not just because I’d never seen her before—but because she looked nothing like anybody in Rust. Too clean. Too put together. Her clothes looked expensive in that effortless city kind of way, and the way she kept glancing around the tavern told me everything I needed to know.

New. And probably uncomfortable. Definitely not from around here. I grabbed my beer from the bartender, but instead of heading toward my usual table, I caught myself looking over at her again. Pretty, too. That complicated things.

I told myself to mind my business. Small towns talked enough already. Didn’t stop me anyway. I walked over before I could rethink it, the wooden floor creaking beneath my boots as I pulled out the stool beside her. Up close, the difference somehow became even more obvious. Everybody else in the tavern looked like they’d spent the day working cattle or fixing trucks. She looked like she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere far from home.

I leaned one arm against the counter, taking a sip from my beer before glancing sideways at her. "New in town?" My voice came out lower than I expected, rough from smoke, exhaustion, and too many years of talking over loud bars like this one. She looked at me, cautious for half a second.

Behind us, somebody shouted after losing a poker hand while the jukebox switched songs again. Glass clinked. Boots scraped against wood. The whole tavern buzzed with noise, but somehow sitting beside her made everything else feel quieter. I let out a small laugh under my breath. "You got that look," I said. "And shoes without manure or mud give you away."

Saturday nights at the Rust Tavern usually never surprised me. Same old country songs playing from the dusty jukebox. Same men yelling over poker games they swore weren’t rigged. Same smell of whiskey, smoke, sweat, and old wood soaked so deep into the walls I figured the place would probably smell like bourbon even if it burned down. Honestly, I only came because there wasn’t much else to do in a town this small. After spending all damn day out fixing fence posts under the Rhode Island heat, all I wanted was a beer cold enough to numb my brain for a couple hours.

The moment I walked through the saloon doors, a few people greeted me. "Walker!"

"You ever gonna pay me back?"

"You look like hell."

I laughed under my breath, tipping my hat back slightly as I made my way toward the counter. Dust still clung to my boots from the ranch, denim sleeves rolled to my elbows, shoulders sore enough to complain every time I moved. Normal night.

At least, until I saw him. Sitting alone near the end of the bar. I slowed without meaning to. He stood out immediately. Not just because I’d never seen him before—but because he looked nothing like anybody in Rust. Too clean. Too put together. His clothes looked expensive in that effortless city kind of way, and the way he kept glancing around the tavern told me everything I needed to know.

New. And probably uncomfortable. Definitely not from around here. I grabbed my beer from the bartender, but instead of heading toward my usual table, I caught myself looking over at him again. Pretty, too. That complicated things.

I told myself to mind my business. Small towns talked enough already. Didn’t stop me anyway. I walked over before I could rethink it, the wooden floor creaking beneath my boots as I pulled out the stool beside him. Up close, the difference somehow became even more obvious. Everybody else in the tavern looked like they’d spent the day working cattle or fixing trucks. He looked like he'd taken a wrong turn somewhere far from home.

I leaned one arm against the counter, taking a sip from my beer before glancing sideways at him. "New in town?" My voice came out lower than I expected, rough from smoke, exhaustion, and too many years of talking over loud bars like this one. He looked at me, cautious for half a second.

Behind us, somebody shouted after losing a poker hand while the jukebox switched songs again. Glass clinked. Boots scraped against wood. The whole tavern buzzed with noise, but somehow sitting beside him made everything else feel quieter. I let out a small laugh under my breath. "You got that look," I said. "And shoes without manure or mud give you away."

Saturday nights at the Rust Tavern usually never surprised me. Same old country songs playing from the dusty jukebox. Same men yelling over poker games they swore weren’t rigged. Same smell of whiskey, smoke, sweat, and old wood soaked so deep into the walls I figured the place would probably smell like bourbon even if it burned down. Honestly, I only came because there wasn’t much else to do in a town this small. After spending all damn day out fixing fence posts under the Rhode Island heat, all I wanted was a beer cold enough to numb my brain for a couple hours.

The moment I walked through the saloon doors, a few people greeted me. "Walker!"

"You ever gonna pay me back?"

"You look like hell."

I laughed under my breath, tipping my hat back slightly as I made my way toward the counter. Dust still clung to my boots from the ranch, denim sleeves rolled to my elbows, shoulders sore enough to complain every time I moved. Normal night.

At least, until I saw them. Sitting alone near the end of the bar. I slowed without meaning to. They stood out immediately. Not just because I’d never seen them before—but because tey looked nothing like anybody in Rust. Too clean. Too put together. Their clothes looked expensive in that effortless city kind of way, and the way they kept glancing around the tavern told me everything I needed to know.

New. And probably uncomfortable. Definitely not from around here. I grabbed my beer from the bartender, but instead of heading toward my usual table, I caught myself looking over at them again. Pretty, too. That complicated things.

I told myself to mind my business. Small towns talked enough already. Didn’t stop me anyway. I walked over before I could rethink it, the wooden floor creaking beneath my boots as I pulled out the stool beside them. Up close, the difference somehow became even more obvious. Everybody else in the tavern looked like they’d spent the day working cattle or fixing trucks. He looked like they'd taken a wrong turn somewhere far from home.

I leaned one arm against the counter, taking a sip from my beer before glancing sideways at them. "New in town?" My voice came out lower than I expected, rough from smoke, exhaustion, and too many years of talking over loud bars like this one. They looked at me, cautious for half a second.

Behind us, somebody shouted after losing a poker hand while the jukebox switched songs again. Glass clinked. Boots scraped against wood. The whole tavern buzzed with noise, but somehow sitting beside them made everything else feel quieter. I let out a small laugh under my breath. "You got that look," I said. "And shoes without manure or mud give you away."