He pushed a strand of fake cobwebs to the side and led her toward the bar, where six-foot black cat cutouts with green flashing eyes stood propped at each end. Cauldrons with billowing smoke sat on the bar and were scattered around the room on tables.

Ace reached up and grabbed Raylen’s arm as they passed his table. “Hey, hey, you goin’ to share, or do we have to have a duel? My pistol can outdo your whip for the harem lady.”

Ace had been in and out of the café all week. He and Jasmine were best friends and he reminded Liz so much of Blaze it wasn’t even funny. He had that confident swagger about his walk like Blaze, curly blond hair, and he flirted with every woman he met. The one thing that was different was the eyes. Ace had crystal clear blue eyes, not totally unlike Raylen’s. But when he sized Liz up with those eyes, it didn’t do a thing for her. Not one single bell or whistle went off like they did when Raylen graced her with a look and a smile.

Raylen grinned. “I’m pretty good with a bullwhip, pardner.”

“Ace, get your sorry butt behind this bar and help me,” Jasmine yelled and crooked her finger at him. “You are my backup and I’m swamped.”

Ace strutted over to the bar. “You’ve been saved by the sexy bartender who is begging for my help.”

“Who is he supposed to be?” Liz whispered to Raylen.

“John Wayne,” Raylen answered.

“Yes?” Ace turned quickly. “Did someone call my name? Is there a cowgirl in distress?”

“Not right here. This is Madam Dammagrammy,” Raylen said.

“Madam Drabami,” Liz corrected him again, this time with a giggle. “I guess Indiana will have to save her. John Wayne doesn’t save anyone but cowgirls.”

Ace winked.

“Two bottles of Coors, please, Miz Bartender,” Raylen said.

Jasmine popped the lids off two longnecks and set them on the bar. “Liz, can you really do the dance that goes with that getup?”

Liz nodded. “But not to the George Strait song that is playing right now.”

“Guess we’re slap out of luck then because all these cowboys listen to is country.” Jasmine smiled.

“What can I get you, Becca?” Ace asked.

Liz bit back the groan before it escaped her lips.

“I’m not Becca. I’m Annie Oakley and I bet I can outshoot and outdance you.” Becca’s eyes were on the cowboy at the end of the bar that Jasmine had pointed out as Taylor, the foreman of her father’s ranch.

Ace played along. “Well, Annie Oakley darlin’, what can this slow cowboy get you to drink?”

“I’ll have a whiskey and Coke,” Becca said and turned around, propped her elbows on the bar, and leaned back, straining the snaps on her shirt. “So you’re the fortune-teller tonight? Are you going to look into the crystal ball and tell me that I’ll be walking down the aisle with Raylen in six months?”