“Next thing you’ll be tellin’ me is you don’t like pinto beans and fried potatoes,” Jill said.

Sawyer threw a hand over his heart and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “That would be sacrilege. I’m not sure you can get into heaven if you don’t like pinto beans and fried potatoes. Saint Peter would send you straight on down to the blazing fires of hell, so don’t even whisper such blasphemy.”

“It would be almost as bad as not liking a good thick steak,” she agreed with a nod as she pulled her cell phone from her shirt pocket.

“Callin’ the boyfriend?” he asked.

“I’m calling Aunt Polly, and if you are askin’ if I have a boyfriend, I don’t, and I don’t want one, especially not a Brennan or a Gallagher. What time of morning do you call your girlfriend or your wife?”

A grin showed perfect white teeth. No tobacco stain and no cigarettes in his shirt pocket. That was definitely a plus if she had to live with the man. She hated a spit can and smoke.

“No wife or girlfriend. Both are too much trouble,” he said.

“That applies to boyfriends too,” she told him. “I’ll set the pot on the cabinet so it doesn’t boil dry. We can reheat the coffee in the microwave this evening. Do we take one truck or two?”

“Might as well take one. I’ll drive,” he said.

She held up a finger. “Hello, Aunt Polly. We thought we’d make breakfast at the bar this morning, since there’s nothing in the bunkhouse until we do some shopping. You’re kiddin’ me! That’s not safe. Everyone knows that’s where people put spare keys.” She nodded. “Yes, we’re going to make bacon and eggs. Pancakes? Do you have the stuff for that at the bar?” Another pause. “That’s fine with me. I love pancakes. Right now I could eat cow patties, I’m so hungry.”

Sawyer was staring at her when she ended the call.

“The spare key is in the flowerpot outside the bar. Aunt Gladys is bringing a box of that mix where you only add water to make pancakes, and some maple syrup. I guess we’re having a party. I promised you’d cook and clean up the grill and wash the dishes.”

When she looked up, Sawyer was standing above her. “I’ll cook because I’m hungry, but if I cook, I don’t wash dishes.”

“Looks like we’re lucky that the bar always uses disposable plates. Aunt Polly doesn’t like to wash dishes either, and she’s too tight to hire a full-time dishwasher.”

* * *

Polly and Gladys were sitting on the bar stools. Gladys wore jeans, a red sweatshirt, and a big smile. Both of them had smiles that said they were up to no good. They weren’t any better than Sawyer at hiding what they were thinking, and Jill didn’t like it. But then again, maybe they’d only been talking about everything that had happened the afternoon before.

They’d married brothers, so they weren’t blood kin, but folks tended to think they were, since their last names were Cleary. Polly was dressed in her usual bar garb, which was bibbed overalls, a long-sleeved knit shirt of some description, and tennis shoes. That day her shirt was the color of a summer sky, which matched her eyes perfectly. Her short gray hair was still wet with whatever mousse she’d run through it and reminded Jill of the spiked hairdos that rockers liked.

Gladys was a tall, lanky, part–Native American woman with a touch of white in her chin-length hair, a gravelly voice that said she probably smoked on the sly, and brown eyes. Her skin wasn’t nearly as wrinkled as Polly’s, but then folks with her DNA usually leathered rather than wrinkled.

They both cussed like sailors, even if Polly did play the piano for the church, and they couldn’t have been a bit closer if they’d been blood sisters.

“We’re hungry. Bacon, eggs, and bread is over there beside the grill. Gladys already stirred up the pancake batter,” Polly said.

“Who’s minding the store?” Jill asked.

“Verdie came in and agreed to watch it for a couple of hours if I brought back a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, so cook the whole pound, Sawyer,” Gladys answered.

“Give me a hug, girl,” Polly said.

Jill hiked a hip on the bar stool next to her aunt and leaned in for a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

“I ain’t moved since you was here last.”

“Or got any sweeter either,” Jill said.

Polly laughed. “Ah, Gladys, she still loves us.”

Sawyer fired up the grill. While it heated, he removed the white butcher paper from around the fresh-cut bacon. “Did you smoke this yourself?” he asked Gladys.

“No, but the man I get my pork from down in Salt Holler did,” she said.

“Is that legal? Buying meat from an individual?”

She shrugged. “It’s don’t ask, don’t tell. I don’t ask the gover’ment if I can buy my bacon and pork from him. He don’t tell the gover’ment that I do.”

“Well, it smells like what my grandpa used to make out in his smokehouse,” Sawyer said.

“Don’t you dare burn it,” Polly said. “She don’t offer it up free very often.”

“And the eggs came from the same man, as well as half my fresh produce in the summertime,” Gladys said.

He opened two cartons to find big brown-speckled eggs. Sawyer pulled slice after slice of bacon from the thick stack and lined them up on the grill. The sizzle and the smell filled the bar, and Jill’s hungry stomach grumbled.

Polly patted her on the shoulder. She and Gladys had been sisters-in-law for more than fifty years, and Jill loved both of them.

She hugged Polly tightly. “I’m glad to be here. Did you hear about what happened at the bunkhouse?”

“Get up here on this stool beside me.” Polly motioned to her. “Gladys already told me about it. You be careful, girl. I swear them Brennans and Gallaghers are sneaky.”

“Yes, they are,” Sawyer agreed.

A granddaddy long-legged spider jumped from the bucket of peanuts on the bar in front of Polly and landed right on her nose. She squealed, swatted at it, and leaned backward. Everything happened in slow motion and yet too fast for Jill to do a blessed thing to help. She reached out to grab Polly, but all she got was a fistful of air.

“Well, Polly!” Gladys said.

Then there was a crack, and Jill thought the leg of the stool had broken when it hit the hard floor. But when she saw Polly’s ankle, she knew it was far worse.

“God, that hurts,” Polly said.

“It’s broken. Aunt Gladys, call 911 and get an ambulance,” Jill said.

“What can I do?” Sawyer was suddenly beside her, supporting Polly’s head with his big arms.

“Just hold her right there while I make a call. Don’t move, Polly. The bone isn’t out of the skin just yet, but it looks bad.” Gladys fished in her purse for her cell phone.

Sawyer jerked his out of his shirt pocket, hit 911, and handed it to Gladys. She talked to someone who assured her that an ambulance would be there in twenty minutes.

“I’m supposed to keep you right here, and you ain’t supposed to move a muscle,” Gladys said.

“Y’all could pick me up easy-like and load me in the backseat of my truck and take me to the hospital. Damned ambulance comin’ this far is going to cost a fortune.”

Gladys narrowed her eyes and said, “And if we dropped you and you got a worse break and gangrene set in and rotted your foot off?”

“Who’s going to take care of the bar?” Polly groaned.

“We’ve got two kids right here who can do that until you can walk again,” Gladys said.

“I can’t cook,” Jill said.

“I can cook.” Sawyer patted Polly’s hand. “Don’t you worry. We’ll hold down the fort until you are all better. I’ve done a little bartending in my day. It wasn’t an operation like this, but I know how to fill beer pitchers and make a few fancy drinks.”

“And I’ll take care of you. When you get released from the hospital, you can come to my house, and we’ll do just fine,” Gladys said.

“The store?” Jill whispered.

“I’ll take care of it in the morning while you do the ranch work, and then in the afternoons you can relieve me, just until Polly gets better. Can’t leave her all day by herself,” Gladys said.