The digital clock on the dashboard of his truck turned over to 11:11 when he rounded the back corner of the bar and nosed his vehicle in beside a bright-red SUV. “So, you’re not a cowboy, JJ.” He chuckled. “I sure hope you at least like a beer now and then.”
When he stepped out of the truck, the wind whipped his cowboy hat off and sent it rolling like a tumbleweed across the snow- and ice-covered parking lot. He chased it down and settled it back on his head. Another gust sent it flying across the lot again. This time it came to rest on a low limb of a huge pecan tree. He retrieved it a second time and held it tightly in his hands all the way to the back door of the Honky Tonk.
Merle said that the apartment hadn’t been used in years, so he wasn’t expecting much. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take long to clear off his bed and throw a set of sheets on it. Cameron was dog tired after driving for more than eighteen hours. Using the key Merle had sent him in the mail, he opened the door and stepped into a small apartment that smelled like lemon-scented cleaners. From the looks of the place, JJ was a neat freak and had chosen the twin bed across the room. Red and green throw pillows were tossed onto an off-white comforter, and the chest of drawers on that side had a doily on it.
“Sweet Jesus! What have I gotten myself into?” Cameron muttered as he crossed the room and opened the first door to find a utility room. The second door opened into a bathroom that was complete with the standard toilet, a wall-hung sink, and a deep claw-foot tub with a shower above it. He groaned when he realized he was looking at a shower curtain that had a Christmas tree printed on it. He turned around, bewildered. Cowboys didn’t decorate, and they damn sure didn’t use doilies under cute little lamps like the one sitting on the chest of drawers on JJ’s side of the room.
He shook his head, stepped into the bathroom, and closed the door. When he finished getting rid of two cups of coffee and a big bottle of root beer, he washed his hands and opened the door to find a woman standing in front of him with a pistol pointed at his chest.
“Who in the hell are you, and how did you get in here?” Her cornflower-blue eyes didn’t have a bit of fear in them. She had flaming-red hair that hung in curls down to her shoulders, and even though she was short, her stance said that she would be likely to shoot first and ask questions later.
He raised both hands and said, “I didn’t know JJ was bringing a girlfriend, but that explains all the foo-foo crap.”
“Are you drunk or crazy?” the woman asked. “No one calls me JJ except my grandparents, and I damn sure don’t have a girlfriend.”
“You are JJ?” Cameron felt as if his eyeballs were going to flip out of their sockets and roll around on the floor like marbles at the toes of his cowboy boots.
“I am Jorja Jenks,” she said, and her grip on that gun was firm and her hand was steady.
“I’m Cameron Walsh,” he said. “You can put the gun away. Looks like we’re going to be roommates and co-owners of the Honky Tonk.”
“That’s not possible. Cameron is a g-girl,” she stammered.
“And JJ was my favorite cousin, and believe me, he was all cowboy,” Cameron chuckled. “I think our grandparents and Merle Avery have pulled a good one on us. Would you please lower that gun? Talkin’ is a little tough with that thing pointed at my heart, and honey, we definitely have a lot to talk about.”
“I’m callin’ my granny.” She laid the gun on her chest of drawers and picked up her phone.
Cameron crossed the room, sat down on the bare mattress of the other twin bed, and slipped his phone from his back pocket. His grandmother answered with a question, “Are you at the Honky Tonk yet? We just got word that bad weather was coming that way. Y’all may get two or three inches of snow tonight.”
“You’ve got some explainin’ to do,” he said. “JJ is a woman.”
“Yep, and you’re a cowboy.” He could visualize his grandmother’s brown eyes twinkling. “All of us thought it was best not to tell you until you’d signed the papers.”
“I’m not living in a one-room apartment with a strange, pistol-toting woman. I’m not even unpacking. I can drive from your place in Stephenville every day,” he said.
“Nope, you can’t. We’re in Fort Lauderdale tonight. Tomorrow, we set sail on a long cruise that will last until after New Year’s. I forget what it’s called, but we’ve let out our house on one of those things where folks can come and stay while we’re gone,” Maria Walsh told him sternly.
“Y’all are at the top of my shit list,” he grumbled.
“Call it payback,” Maria giggled. “You were on the top of ours when you went and quit the college education we’d paid for without a degree and went to Florida to manage a bar. You have a brilliant mind, Cameron. You could have been an astronaut or a doctor or a lawyer, or even the governor of the great state of Texas or Florida if you’d set your head to it, but oh, no, you wanted to be a bartender. So, now you are one and we’re even. We’ll see you after New Year’s, and if you don’t like the arrangements there, then why don’t you go back to Florida and give your half of the Honky Tonk to Jorja.”
“Or maybe she’ll go back to wherever she came from and give her half to me,” he said.
“Don’t underestimate that redhead. From what Lila told me, she don’t back down easy,” Maria told him.
“We’ll see about that,” Cameron said. “Have a good cruise, and this isn’t over.”
“Don’t expect it is. Glad you made it to Mingus and that you’ve met Jorja. Y’all play nice now and share your toys.” Maria’s laughter was cut off when she ended the call.
Jorja tossed her phone on the bed and flopped down beside it. “Our grandparents have pulled a sneaky one on us. What would they do if we just walked out of here this evening and didn’t open up for business tomorrow evening?”
“You ever worked in a bar?” Cameron asked.
“Nope,” she answered. “Have you?”
“I’ve managed one for nine years. If you’ve got a mind to leave, then pack up your pretty little pillows and your Christmas-tree shower curtain, and sell your half to me.” Cameron met her cold stare and didn’t blink.
“I haven’t worked in a bar, and only know how to mix up a daiquiri and a margarita, but I have a degree in business management, cowboy, and if I can take care of a multimillion-dollar corporation for eight years, I expect I can run the Honky Tonk,” she answered with a definite sharp edge to her tone. “That said, if you don’t want to own this bar with a girl,”—she put air quotes around the last two words—“I will gladly buy you out, and you can scoot right back to the beach.”