Free Liz Ireland by A Cowboy's Heart

men looking very excited to be within spitting distance of the inside of a building again. A building with liquor in it, too.
    “Think I might have me a sarsaparilla,” Oat said, looking about as animated as Will had seen him.
    “Me, I’m gonna have a whiskey.” Trip almost licked his lips. “Seems like forever since we’ve had that, hey, Paulie?”
    The two looked at each other and smiled—an exchange Will tried to glean for any kernel of meaning. But of course the intent, if not the meaning itself, was clear. From this peculiar couple, a shared grin was the equivalent of a loveydovey simper from a more traditional pair of lovers.
    “It seems forever since I’ve sold any, I know that,” Paulie agreed. “But you never did care about sellin’ so much as drinkin’, Trip.”
    Will winced. Hearing them talk about the mundane goings-on at that saloon of theirs, he felt as if he were listening in on the most intimate of conversations. Oat didn’t look the slightest bit uncomfortable…but perhaps he just didn’t know the truth. Yet. The way Paulie and Trip were carrying on, everyone was bound to start suspecting sooner or later.
    “What about you, Will?” Paulie asked. She reachedover and nudged him in the arm—at her merest touch, he nearly shot right out of his saddle.
    “Good grief!” Trip exclaimed. “From the way you reacted, Will, anyone would have thought she’d poked you with a bolt of lightning!”
    Will shook his head to clear it. “What were you asking, Paulie?”
    “I asked, what’s your poison going to be?”
    “I’m not here to socialize,” he said tightly. “I’m here for answers.”
    He spurred his horse and rode on, loping into Vinegaroon just ahead of the others. He needed to put some distance between himself and Paulie and Trip. Their relationship was just none of his business. He needed to get a hold of himself.
    Roy Bean, a tough wiry old cuss if ever there was one, pushed out of his chair and leaned against the porch railing, looking bemused by the approaching party. “Well, if it ain’t Will Brockett!” he said in his signature terse, wry voice. He tugged at his handlebar mustache. “I heard you’d gotten back from Kansas, Will, but I wasn’t expecting you to come callin’ so soon.”
    Will dismounted and tethered Ferdinand at the post in front of saloon. “I just came by to—”
    “Well, well!” Roy cried, too focused on the company Will was keeping to care about why he had come around. “This is a ragtag band you got riding drag! Oat, Trip Peabody and some whippersnapper I ain’t never seen before.”
    Before Will could make introductions, Paulie was off her horse.
    “I’m Paulie Johnson, from Possum Trot,” she said excitedly, pumping Roy’s hand a mile a minute. A while back she had seemed reluctant to meet Roy, but now she was greeting him as though he were her long-lost uncle.
    “Johnson?” he asked, his beady eyes sparking with interest. “That girl that runs the Dry Wallow?”
    Will folded his arms and felt the corners of his lips tug into a frown. Paulie, apparently, could charm men more ably than he had ever given her credit for. At least rough types who hung around saloons.
    “I imagine you folks want to come on in and wet your whistle,” Roy said. “I was just about to set myself down to lunch.”
    Paulie practically licked her lips. “Lunch?”
    Roy eyed Will. “Man, are you leading these folks on some sort of starvation trail?”
    It seemed as good an opening as any for telling Roy why they were really there. “Actually, I’m—”
    Roy didn’t wait for his explanation. He was too enraptured by his other newcomers. “Well, come on inside and help yourself,” he told Paulie. “I don’t know if the vittles is what you’re used to, but I’ve got plenty of ‘em.”
    The judge led Paulie, Oat and Trip into the saloon, leaving his companion on the porch unintroduced. Will turned to the man, a mean-looking character who didn’t even