These Men

Chapter 4: The Cowboy

The next day I bumped into the cowboy, Manning Dawn, at Rawster’s Convenience Store on Westing Street in downtown Templeton. Both of us were buying milk.

“You should come and see me play tomorrow night.” Manning batted his green eyes at me, took his Stetson off, and tipped his head forward. Such a gentleman. Always a gentleman. Never had I seen him out of character. Quiet. Polite. Tender. A charmer like me. Not once in the last year had he come across as rude or an asshole. He always had golden manners and shared a rugged smile with me. To me, Manning stood out as the ex-cattle rancher from Stockton County in Oklahoma who sported his cowboy hat, jeans, boots, and a holstered Colt .45 at his right hip. To others he was an outsider who gained a shitload of money and was trying to fit in to our small community next to the lake.

I heard too many people whisper to each other about Manning. “How’d the cowboy end up by the lake? He’s far away from home.” But I wasn’t one of those people, knowing his tale. Manning’s aunt, Miss Agatha Dawn, passed away in her bed after eighty-three happy years. Eighteen months before, he came to Templeton for her funeral and never left. Aunt Agatha willed him her massive house by the lake, a huge place called The Agatha, her expensive Bentley, and a bank account worth 33.7 million dollars. Truth told, Manning didn’t have to return to Oklahoma and work another day on his cattle ranch. Instead, he decided to live in his aunt’s stone mansion by the lake where he could find his soul, some solace, and write country songs for the rest of his life. Via the internet, I learned that he had hired a team of six (both men and women) experienced ranchers to manage the seven-hundred-plus acres of his cattle ranch business back in Oklahoma. No one, including me, knew when he would head west again. Honestly, I pretty much figured he was going to stay in Templeton. He liked the lakeside town, the lake’s soothing tone, and its quiet people…particularly me.

How did I meet the cowboy a year ago? At Laso, a country bar near Low Hollow, east of Templeton. I had a meeting there with my agent, Rosemary Daily. Over two whiskies and steak salads, Daily and I discussed my bestseller at the time, Risky Murder. I suggested somewhere professional and quiet to meet, but she insisted she liked Laso because of its steak salad, rugged cowboy waiters, live country music, and strong drinks. At early evening the bar was almost empty. Manning caught my attention from the corner of my right eye as Daily and I discussed my works in progress: Thunderhead Kill and Jester Knob Murder. He sat center stage in his boots, worn jeans, cowboy hat, and held a Martin 16 guitar on his lap. He played a soft something by Jason Aldean. After my meeting with Daily (she left the bar, explaining to me that she had another meeting to attend in Kent, Ohio with a historical romance writer that went by the pseudonym of Lucinda Chantell), he introduced himself to me. Manning shook my hand, tipped his Stetson, and grinned his pearly whites at me. I eyed him from his cowboy boots to his cowboy hat and studied the orange freckles on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, his lanky build, soft green eyes, and his five-ten frame. Fatless, handsomely suntanned, and smelling like a field of clover mixed with fresh hay, we hit it off almost immediately. For almost two hours we talked about his aunt being a monarch in our community, the wealth Agatha Dawn had gained from Dawn Whiskey Incorporated since 1943, how she had sold the company in 2015, and a little bit of factual information regarding my history at Chester House, and my claim to fame by writing a few bestselling mystery hardbacks and paperbacks.

Here and now, we carried our half gallons of milk up to the pimply-faced kid behind the counter at Rawster’s. Manning went first to pay.

I asked him, “Where are you playing?”

“The Rift.”

I rolled my eyes, thinking of my planned date with Zac Cramer. Nice coincidence. “I’ll be there.”

“Drinks and a tip are on me. Kyle’s running the bar and I’ll keep a tab open for you with him.”

“You don’t have to do that, Manning.”

He told me not to argue with him. “No problem. You’re worth it. Besides, I know you can afford a few drinks. Your books sell well. I just want to treat you to the evening. Every guy needs a good drink and some country music to go along with it. Will you let me do that?”

“Sure. Thank you in advance.” I thought of telling him about my date with Zac, but didn’t. I should have…maybe. The world was comprised of a ton of maybes, though, right? Right.

Honestly, I didn’t know if the cowboy was hitting on me. Some guys did that with their country music songs, swagger, good looks, and money. Some didn’t. Maybe the cowboy was flirting with me, nonchalantly, of course, being the gentleman that I deemed him to be.

He paid the cashier for the milk, pushing bills to the kid. “How’s the mystery writing going?”

“Busy. Always busy. Working on something called Slaughterhouse Die.”

“Busy is good. No one likes a slacker.” He paused. The cashier passed change back to him. “Great title.”

I nodded about the title. “Slacking isn’t in my vocabulary.”

“Mine neither.” He grabbed his half gallon of milk off the counter. Then he did something out of the ordinary: moved up to me, wrapped his free arm around my back, and squeezed me against him in a firm hug, chest to chest. When the hug ended, which felt like a year long, he smiled his whites, and said, “Always nice to see you, Joel. You’re one of my favorite men in this town. Don’t forget to come tomorrow night and see me play.”

I wouldn’t. Not a chance.

So he was flirting.

He waved goodbye, walking toward the exit.

I watched him leave: tight ass in jeans shifting left and right, broad shoulders, cowboy hat motionless on his head. A handsome man. A pleasant man. His hug baffled me, though. What did he want from me? Was Manning playing a game with me? I didn’t know. But it sure felt like it.

The pimply kid behind the register pulled me out of my trance and deep thoughts, said, “You going to pay for the milk or just stand there and look like a goof, pal?”

I spun around, passed him a five. “Sure. Sorry about that.”

“No problem.”

And life continued…