A Cowboy of Her Own. Marin Thomas

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      Her mouth opened, then she snapped it closed.

      “I’m guessing you don’t get asked that very often.”

      “No, I don’t.” Good Lord. “Porter.” She pulled in a steadying breath. “My waist size is none of your business.” His grin exasperated her. “I realize we already know each other, but maybe I need to remind you that this isn’t a joyride or a vacation for me.”

      His smile faded. “No, ma’am, you don’t need to remind me at all.” He stared out the windshield. “You can be sure I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

      Great. She’d offended him. Now she’d be fortunate if he spoke two words to her the rest of the way to Colorado.

       Chapter Three

      What the heck was taking Wendy so long? Porter stared at the restroom door outside the mom-and-pop gas station on the outskirts of Flagstaff. They’d driven only five hours and had made three pit stops already. The first one to gas up before they left Yuma. The second to buy snacks in Phoenix, because he’d grown tired of listening to Wendy’s stomach growl. And now a potty break. At the rate they were traveling, they wouldn’t make Grand Junction until ten o’clock tonight.

      He checked his cell phone for messages—none. Then he eyed the gas-station minimart, wondering how the building had remained standing when the outer walls sagged and the roof looked as if it might blow off with the next gust of wind. The owner could make more money than the property was worth if he sold the antique tin signs decorating the stucco facade. Drink Coca-Cola—Delicious And Refreshing hung next to the door, and below that was a Sinclair sign with the green dinosaur. On the opposite side of the door hung an old Mobilgas plaque with its winged horse. The faded black letters of Freedom Perfect Motor Oil Sold Here ran across the top of the building. Two red-white-and-blue Esso gas pumps—one regular and one diesel—lay on their sides in the dirt across the lot. A burn barrel served as a garbage can and sat between the newer gas pumps out front.

      Tired of waiting in the hot sun, Porter pushed himself off the truck fender and went back into the snack shop.

      The bell on the door announced his arrival and the clerk named Betty glanced up from the magazine in her hands. “You forget something?”

      “I’m waiting for my copilot to finish in the restroom.” It didn’t appear that Betty had budged from her stool behind the counter since he’d bought a lottery ticket from her twenty minutes ago. She shoved her hand inside a Cheetos bag and grabbed a cheese puff, then chomped on it like a hamster before turning the magazine page with an orange thumb and forefinger.

      He wandered over to the newsstand and selected the local paper from three days ago to read the headlines: When Push Cames to Shove, Elderly Man Lost Footing. Grandmother Inspires Orphans to “Create” Family Trees. Big Burrito Man Abandons Truck, Dreams.

      The burrito man’s story intrigued Porter, but before he had a chance to read the copy, a loud thump startled him. He glanced at Betty, but her head remained buried in the gossip rag.

      Thump. Thump. Thump.

      The noise sounded as if it came from behind the wall next to Porter. “Did you hear that?”

      Betty’s hand froze inside the Cheetos bag. “Hear what?”

      Thump. Thump.

      “That sound.” He pointed to the wall.

      “The restroom is on the other side,” Betty said.

      Wendy.

      “Key doesn’t always work. Your friend might be stuck in there.”

      Unbelievable. “How long were you going to let her sit in there before you went to check on her?”

      Betty stared as if he’d grown two heads.

      “Never mind.” Porter hurried outside and banged his fist on the bathroom door. “Wendy? You okay?”

      “The key’s stuck in the lock.”

      She didn’t sound panicked, which surprised him. The women he’d known would have pitched a hissy fit by now if they’d gotten trapped inside a stinky gas-station latrine.

      “Hang on!” He went into the store. “Do you have a screwdriver? Any kind of tool set?”

      “What would I need with a screwdriver?” Betty asked.

      “The restroom key is stuck in the lock, and I need to remove the door handle.”

      “You can’t deface the property.”

      “This place is already defaced.” He swallowed a curse word. By the time he and Wendy hit the road again another half hour would be wasted. “I’ll reattach the door handle once I get her out.”

      Betty pried her backside off the stool and walked through the store. “There might be some tools on the endcap over here.” She pointed an orange finger.

      Sure enough. Porter opened the kit and removed the screwdriver. He took one step but stopped when Betty blocked his path. “You gotta pay for that.”

      He opened his mouth to argue with her, then decided not to waste his breath and handed her a five-dollar bill from his wallet. “Answer me one question,” he said. “Why does the restroom lock from the inside with a key?” That made no sense.

      “Don’t ask me. I just work here.”

      Porter went outside and rapped his knuckles on the door. “I’m going to remove the handle.”

      Wendy didn’t say anything, and he became concerned that she’d passed out from the putrid fumes inside. He pressed the edge of the screwdriver into the latch at the base of the knob and jiggled it. The hardware was ancient and pulled right off. Next, he loosened the screws, then removed the mounting plate. “Hang on. I’m almost done.” He poked his finger inside the hole, scraping his knuckle. Ignoring his bloody finger, he pushed the latch aside, then shoved the door open.

      He wasn’t sure what he expected to find inside the windowless graffiti-covered compartment with a chipped ceramic sink and condom wrappers littering the floor, but it sure wasn’t Wendy perched on top of the toilet tank, texting away on her phone.

      “Thanks for freeing me.” She hopped off the toilet, inched past him and stepped outside, where she sucked in a breath of fresh air. “We should exchange phone numbers. If that happens again, I’ll be able to text you.” She marched to the truck, a strip of toilet paper stuck to the heel of her shoe fluttering in the air like a kite tail.

      Her nonchalant attitude confounded Porter. Manipulating the jammed key was difficult when it was connected to a bike chain that had been padlocked to an old hubcap.

      To hell with this. Cheetos Betty could figure it out. Porter replaced the outside knob then returned to the store. “I can’t get the key out of the lock. You’ll have to call a repairman.”

      Betty’s head remained buried in the magazine, but she waved her orange fingers in the air, signaling that she’d heard him.

      When СКАЧАТЬ