My heart rate kicks up, and I twist in my seat, slipping my phone out of my bag and shooting off a text.
Rose:Need help. I’m at Bones.
“Richard, not now,” the blonde interjects.
Dallas’s eyes don’t leave his opponent as he greets her. “Hey there, Dusty.”
Really?The woman Ricky referred to as thequeena minute ago is named Dusty?
“You want to tell your brother to go hit on someone else? Rose is our guest. Surely there’s someone in Blue River he could haunt with those crooked teeth.”
Ricky advances, but Dusty reaches for the large cowboy. “I said back down,” she grits. “He’s in no shape to fight.”
Fight?Iwasafraidofthat.
I realize I’ve yet to say a word, and I feel like I need to.
Real soon.
But how do I break through the intensity between the two men? And a woman who looks like she could take them both with just her sharp eyes and frightening tone.
She turns to me. “Do me a favor and get outside.” My eyes widen. Is she threatening me? “It’s about to get ugly in here,” she mutters.
“I’m not leaving Dallas,” I stammer.
She perks a brow. “Suit yourself.”
“Growin’ a little tired of you pickin’ on girls who never asked .?.?.”
“Give it a rest, Dallas,” Ricky warns. “You’re alone, wasted. And I’m not feelin’ very neighborly.”
I notice the two other cowboys now step behind Ricky.
My stomach churns. I step between them. “That’s enough. Why don’t you boys get back to your rodeo talk, and I’m just going to mind my own business and have my purple drink. Allright?”
Ricky smirks at me. But it’s not friendly. He looks almost .?.?. dangerous. “Move, missy.”
“What?”
“He said move.”
Before I realize what’s happening, Dusty lifts me off my feet and tosses me aside like a ragdoll, just as a fist is thrown at Dallas.
Fortunately, the woman’s got skill, because I land on my feet. Unfortunately, someone bumps into me to see the fight, sending me stumbling backward into the wall. My dress snags on something—a nail, maybe—and I hear the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping.
Shit.
I pull myself up to find Dallas and several more men now standing by his side throwing fists at the cowboys.
I’m relieved he has help. And horrified at the same time.
The urge to pull Dallas out of a situation I got him into is strong. But I can’t. At the very least, I’ll get trampled if I try.
My heart thuds against my chest. At what point does someone call the police?
I grab my purse off the floor and practically crawl to the door, ducking behind people being knocked all over the place.
I push to my feet, trying to stay close enough for him to hear me. “Dallas,” I call.
