I glance up and the cowboy stands there, frozen, whiskey bottle gripped in his fist. His eyes land on my bangles. Something like recognition filters into his gaze. “Not from here, are you?” he asks, sounding surly. I rack my brain to think if I’ve seen him before. No. He’s just a dusty, crabby cowboy who should be pouring me a drink. “How’d you guess?” His nostrils flare. “Because when people are stuck on the side of the road in a small town, you typically stop to help.” He pours whiskey into a crystal glass. I scoff. “Strange men, hitchhikers? I don’t think so.” His frown deepens to a scowl.
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