“Judd, it’s me, Cleo,” the voice mail had said. “Cleo Delaney,” she’d added as if he might not recognize her voice.

He would have had an easier time not recognizing his own hand.

She’d chuckled in the voicemail then, and repeated his name—twice. It was the kind of repeat a person would do when they were trying to figure out how or what to say except Cleo had said it in that whispery sigh voice of hers. A voice that reminded him of things that could be put on the Stupid Sh*t Men Say board.

“Look, Judd, I need to talk to you,” Cleo had finally said, “and it’s not something I want to get into over the phone. Call me when you get a chance so we can set up a meet.”

He hadn’t called. Instead, Judd had gotten in his truck and driven first to her apartment. When no one had answered the door, he’d looked up the address of the bar—the one she’d emailed him about shortly after she’d told him she’d bought the place. That’d been three months earlier, with the subject header of “Catching up.” It went with her other emails over the past ten years or so of “Just saying hello” and “Long time, no see.” Phone calls and voice mails were rare. So rare that it’d spurred him to come to her right away.

By the time Judd reached the hall at the back of the building, he heard the music. “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy).” There was also the occasional male whoop and yee-haw, and Judd followed those sounds into a large room that might have been used for private parties. There were tables that circled a stage with a mechanical bull, where three men were dancing.

Cowboys.

And Judd used that term loosely.

They were wearing boots, cowboy hats and small swatches of denim fabric that covered their crotches. There was so much oil slathered on their bodies that Judd was surprised it wasn’t dripping onto the stage floor.

He spotted Cleo right off. She was seated with a blond woman at a table at the front of the room, and both had their attention fixed on the greasy cowboys who were gyrating and grinding to the song.

“Uh, cowboy on the right, something fell out of your G-string during that last kick,” Cleo called out.

“Cowboy on the right” quickly shoved what appeared to be a wad of cotton back into the swatch. Considering the other things that could have come tumbling out, Judd decided that had been the best option of what he’d just witnessed.