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Carl’s Saloon was a low-ceilinged, dimly lit beer joint that seemed like it was plucked out of an old Hollywood western. It had honest-to-god swinging saloon doors, a crowded dance floor of couples two-stepping and discarded peanut shells littered the ground, smashed into dust by the hard soles of hundreds of cowboy boots.
“Ow,” Kelsey grunted, as one of those boots crushed her perfectly manicured toes that peeped out of a pair of silver strappy sandals. “First thing tomorrow, ladies? We’re going shoe shopping and getting us some cowboy boots.”
None of the friends objected.
Dani was wearing the most sensible shoes of the group—a pair of cute little black ballet flats that went perfectly with her skinny jeans and black sequined tank top—but they were already dusty and she’d been stepped on a couple of time herself. Boots wouldn’t be the worst idea.
The crowd swayed to the beat of a rocking country anthem blaring over the speakers. There was a bit of a rock beat under the country twang and Dani found herself tapping her foot along to the rhythm. She and the girls were no strangers to clubbing on their vacations, but Carl’s Saloon wasn’t their normal type of venue.
Typically, they found themselves in huge nightclubs with disco balls, strobe lights, scantily clad club-goers and thumping house music. In Carl’s, the dress code was boot-cut Wrangler jeans, snap-buttoned shirts, and gigantic belt buckles.
With her sleek black braids, skinny jeans and sparkly tank, Dani, easily the most conservatively dressed of her group, felt like she stuck out like a sore thumb.
“Is everyone staring at us?” she whispered to Tami as Alexis and Kelsey left their little cocktail table and pushed their way to the bar to get a round of drinks.
“Of course they are,” Tami whispered back, fluffing her mass of black curls and squaring her shoulders. Tami was smaller than her friends—at four foot eleven—but she never seemed tiny. Tonight, she was sheathed in a black mini-dress that clung lovingly to every curve on her sexy little frame. “These Wyoming folks ain’t never seen anything like us before,” she said, winking at Dani. “Let’s give them something to look at, shall we?”
Before Dani could object, Tami was pushing her way to the dance floor, where a line dance had just started.
“Tami is country dancing,” she tattled to Kelsey and Alexis, when they returned, bottles of Budweiser clinking in their hands.
“What?” Alexis asked, peering through the crowd on the dance floor, trying to spot their tiny friend. “Where?”
“She’s in there somewhere,” Dani said. “What is she even doing? Tami doesn’t know this dance—”
“But she’s learning!” Kelsey crowed, pointing to the dance floor, where Tami had momentarily reappeared, moving in time with the Wrangler-wearing crowd around her. “Let’s go, ladies!”
And with that, Kelsey and Alexis disappeared into the crowd, leaving Dani behind to watch their beers at their little table in the corner.
She sighed, shoulders slumping. She should have known that she’d fall back into her role as the mother of the group, stuck behind at the table watching drinks and coats and purses, while her friends went out and rocked the dance floor. They were probably meeting all kinds of fun people out there; the ratio of men to women in the bar greatly favored the men, and Dani could see some guys already eyeing Kelsey.
There were more than a few riders from the rodeo in Carl’s that night. Dani saw the dark-haired, stubbly man that Alexis had admired in the program leaning against the bar, chatting to another rider she recognized. A group of familiar looking rodeo boys gathered around the jukebox, but Dani didn’t find the face she was looking for: Weston Stroh, the handsome blonde bull rider.
“Wow, ma’am,” a voice came from over her shoulder. “I’ve heard of double fisting, but eight beers at once? You must be havin’ a hell of a night.”
Dani wheeled around. Standing directly behind her, his blonde head uncovered and bright blue eyes gazing down at her, was Weston Stroh.
“What?” Dani spluttered. “What do you mean?”
Weston grinned a little, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a mischievous smirk, and gestured to the sea of full Budweiser bottles littering the table in front of Dani. “That’s a lot of beers for one little lady.”
Dani’s eyebrows shot up so fast they almost flew off her face. “Oh no,” she said. “Those aren’t mine.”
Weston looked around. “You’re the only standing here.”
“I mean, they aren’t all mine,” she continued. “I’m here with some friends.”
“Ah,” Weston nodded, but his blue eyes still twinkled. “And where are these alleged friends?”
Dani leveled her gaze at him, hands on hips. “If you must know, they’re dancing.”
“And why aren’t you dancing?”
Dani paused. She was going to say I don’t dance, but that would have been a lie. She danced—she danced all the time at clubs in Chicago and on vacation—but she didn’t dance like this, this weird twangy, stomping country dancing.
“I don’t know this dance,” she said, finally.
“Can’t your boyfriend teach you?” he asked.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Dani admitted, saying those words aloud for the first time in twelve years.
Weston’s expression softened, but his blue eyes still glimmered in the dim light of the barroom. “Would you mind if I taught you?” he asked.