“No,” Trish says. “To be honest, once the papers are signed, I usually stay in touch with my clients because they are often lost. You could be onto a bigger idea than you think.”

For a moment, I forget about the chimney fire, the insane amount of work I have left to do, the Dragoon Lady, my diminishing savings account and let myself feel unabashedly excited.

“You ladies need another round?”

I hear a gravelly voice and think it’s Doris again, but when I look up a man in full-on Duck Dynasty camouflage who looks as if he’s been drinking for days is standing at our table.

“No, thank you,” Trish says, lifting her glass. “Still good.”

Trish and I resume our conversation, trying to ignore the man, whose beard is nearly touching the table.

“What are you drinking?”

“White wine,” I say. Trish kicks me under the table.

“White wine!” the man bellows toward the bar, before suddenly taking a seat next to me, his legs now pressing against mine. “Name’s Jerry. Friends call me Buck, ’cause I get one ever’ time I hunt. See my buddy over there at the bar? We got two bucks this mornin’. Celebratin’ ’cause we’ll be eatin’ some good venison.”

“That’s great, Jerry,” Trish starts.

“Buck,” he interrupts.

“Buck,” Trish continues with a faux smile. “But my friend and I haven’t seen each other in a while, and we’d like to catch up.” She smiles even bigger. “Thank you for understanding.”

“I would think two women sitting alone together drinking in a bar on a weekday afternoon want some companionship,” Buck continues, nudging me over in the booth with his behind. “Rude not to accept a drink.” He motions with his hand for his friend to join. When he just sits down by Trish, she takes her wine and dumps it in his lap.

“Oh, my gosh,” Trish says, a shocked look on her face. “I didn’t see you there. You’re camouflaged.”

I bust out in laughter, spewing wine across the table.

Buck stands, nearly knocking over the table. “You ladies got a problem?” he says.

Trish stands. “I do,” she says. “When I say we don’t want to be bothered, I mean it.”

“That’s why you two are alone,” Buck says, slamming his fist on the table. “You’re as cold and icy as the weather. You don’t like men.”

“No,” I say. “You don’t like women.” I stop and turn to him until his beard is brushing my body. “And I do like men. I just prefer them with teeth and a respect for women.”

Buck mutters an expletive under his breath at me, and I follow Trish’s lead: I toss my wine into his lap.

Both men turn and stomp out of Bobber’s.