CHAPTER EIGHT
Wimpy’s Steakhouse was a typical western saloon, with a long bar, wide-plank flooring and western décor like saddles, lassos, and artwork of bucking broncos on the walls. Peanut shells crunched under their feet as the hostess led them to a corner booth.
As she slid into the bench seat, Michael said, “So . . . shots?”
She looked up from the drink menu. “I said I’d have a couple drinks. You don’t want to have to carry me out of here.”
He shrugged. “Just thought it would help loosen you up.”
The waitress came by for the drink order, and she said, “I’ll have a margarita on ice, salt the rim.”
He gave her a pouty face—he was the only fully-grown man who could pull that off without looking ridiculous—and said, “All right. Give me a Pine Stout.”
When the waitress left, he lea
