A Man of His Word by Sarah M. Anderson Page B

the restaurant—quiet, that is, by bar standards. They only had to shout a little over something that sounded like Charlie Daniels locked in a closet with KISS and an angry cat. “Halfway decent” was pushing it, but the dance floor was packed with every shade of hick, good old boy and white trash possible. The Rapid City Rollers were apparently quite a draw, Dan mused as they looked over the menus. He hadn’t been honky-tonkin’ for a good long time, and not with a pretty lady by his side for even longer. He was glad she’d picked this place. He wanted to show her that he wasn’t all thousand-dollar hats and million-dollar oil wells—he was perfectly happy being a regular guy, if that’s what she wanted to see. The night was shaping up real nice.
    â€œFour-drink minimum,” a skinny waitress with unreal blond hair yelled as she bounced her pen on the pad. She pointed her chin toward a handwritten sign over the bar. “4 Drinks, No Execptions. $4 Longnecks Friday and Saterday,”it announced. Exceptions and Saturday were misspelled. “What’ll ya’ll have?”
    â€œBud—in the bottle—and the T-bone, bloody,” Dan shouted back. Then he looked at Rosebud.
    Her sweet mouth was twisted off to one side. She looked like she was five seconds from wrapping all her hair back up in a business braid and grilling him under oath. Great. Now what had he done? “I’ll have the New York strip, medium, and a Coke.”
    â€œFour-drink minimum,” the waitress repeated, slamming the tip of the pen for each drawn-out word, like she was talking to a little kid. “Four, understand?”
    â€œI can count,” Rosebud shot back, slapping her menu on the table.
    Both women bristled, and Dan had that weird out-of-time feeling again, like he’d waltzed into a saloon in 1886 instead of into a bar in the twenty-first century. What next—armed bandits holding up a stagecoach? “We’re here for the band,” he said with his best smile as he dug out two twenties and a ten and placed them on top of the menus he handed back to the waitress. Pre-tipping never hurt anyone. “Four drinks shouldn’t be a problem.”
    He couldn’t hear over the wailing music, but he thought Rosebud hissed. For her part, the waitress broke into an ugly grin and winked at Dan. “No, I guess not. Two steaks, coming right up, sugar. ” So much for the night being real nice. This was starting to look like a bad idea.
    This time, Rosebud definitely hissed. He looked at her. She was hunched defensively, her eyes darting around the room. Anything good he’d started in the truck was long gone. “I take it you’ve never been in here,” Dan said, hoping to keep the conversation as light as possible while still screaming over the music.
    She shot him a smile that looked ferocious, but Danwatched as she got herself back under control. Her mouth untwisted as she leaned back in her chair, one arm slung over the back. At least she was trying. “No, I’ve never attempted this before.” The way she said it made it clear that she ranked honky-tonking right up there with skydiving without a parachute.
    If she’d never been here, why had she picked this place? There had to be other restaurants in this town. But rather than put her on the spot, he tried to keep things positive. “There’s a first for everything, huh?”
    For a second, Dan wished they were back in the truck. Not that he loved getting grilled about his past, but Rosebud was way too on edge in this place, and he had no idea why.
    He glanced around. Seemed like a run-of-the-mill honky-tonk to him. On second glance, he noticed everyone was looking at her, and not like he looked at her. No, just about every female in the joint was glaring at Rosebud out the corner of their eyes like she was wearing a huge scarlet A —and no pants. Most of the men had taken