Turn and Burn

Tanna and Harlow worked together at Wild West Clothiers on Monday.

Tuesday she worked alone. Business was slow, giving her time to look over the merchandise—a lot of merchandise. Funky, cool, retro Western clothing, as well as some conservative pieces sprinkled in. Racks of accessories lined one entire wall. She figured out Harper’s coding system for when items arrived in the store and it looked to her like nothing was over six months old. Which meant she moved merchandise. That’d been Tanna’s biggest complaint working at Billy Bob’s. She swore some of the clothing had been on the racks since the place opened.

On Wednesday blond bombshell Harlow popped in fifteen minutes before her bar shift started. She’d donned sedate black clothing as well as a jaunty fedora that she pulled off, in the way so few women can.

“So, Tanna, I have to ask you a favor.”

“What?”

“I know I’m scheduled to work in here Friday and you’re in the bar, but could we switch?”

“Why?”

“Because I have a date Thursday night. An overnight date, which means I’d have to leave Casper at six a.m. to be here to work by eight.”

“So I have to suck up another two hours on shift so you can have a booty call?”

Harlow cocked her head. “Yes.”

“This is the first week on the job and you’re already asking for schedule changes. You don’t see anything wrong with that?”

“I’d switch with you if you asked,” she said mulishly.

Tanna tapped her fingers on the counter. “Fine. I’ll switch with you. But when I need to swap a shift, I’d better not hear you bitch. At all. You don’t get to pull that Oh, I’m sorry, I’d really love to fill in for you, but I’ve made plans bullshit. Understand?”

“I understand. Geez. You’re a real hard-ass.”

“No, I’m just older, wiser and I’ve worked with people like you before.”

“People like me?” Harlow repeated snippily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You skate by with the minimum amount of work, but you expect to be treated with the same respect as those of us who work our asses off and do our damn job.” Tanna realized how harsh that’d come out and backed off. “I like you, Harlow. I think we’ll work well together as long as you act like you need this job, not that you’re entitled to it.”

“There goes my chance to f**k off and use the experience in my master’s thesis on how I spent my summer vacation,” she said breezily.

Tanna rolled her eyes. “Get to work, smart-ass.”

Harlow smirked and flounced off.

God. If she didn’t throttle that kid it’d be a miracle.

She’s not really a kid. Remember what you were like at that age?

Worse than Harlow. Spoiled when she went home, pampered at events by her sponsors, hell on wheels on the road. Not giving a shit about anyone else’s issues. Doing whatever she wanted and answering to nobody.

It was hard to stomach that she used to be like that. How long would she have gone on that way if her life hadn’t changed so drastically?

Pointless to ponder . . . but she found herself thinking about it off and on all day.

Late Friday afternoon she counted out the till and secured the money and the day’s receipts in the safe. After locking up, she exited out the side door.

The air had a bite—surprising for May—and she hustled down the hill to her trailer. So much for her plan to sit out on her deck and enjoy the end of the day. Texas had nothing on Wyoming when it came to how hard the damn wind blew.

Inside her trailer, she grabbed a beer and settled on the couch. Déjà vu hit her. Then it occurred to her it wasn’t déjà vu—she’d done this exact same thing the last four nights. Parked her ass on the couch. Popped a top. Flipped through crap on the TV. Then she crawled between the sheets.

Was this how her days would play out over the next three months? She’d work hawking clothes or booze, return to her quarters, knock back a beer, and eat a sandwich while she watched the boob tube and then toddle off to bed?

Fuck that.

She was Tanna Barker. She didn’t have to go balls to the wall crazy. No impromptu wet T-shirt contests. No dancing on the bar. No showcasing her pole dancing skills. But she could head to the closest watering hole. Soak up a little local culture. Check out the claim that Wyoming cowboys were a breed apart from Texas cowboys.

You already know that firsthand. Didn’t one night with the good doc prove it?

Yes. And he claimed he wanted to prove it over and over again.

So why hadn’t Fletch called her about their coffee date this week?

Tanna knew he was busy. She ought to cut him some slack.

Then again, when had she ever waited for a man to make the first move?

Never. And she wasn’t about to start that meek and mild routine now.

She drained her beer and changed into a lace cami the color of ripe raspberries and a long-sleeved cream-colored Western shirt decorated with vines of hot pink roses. She slipped on her favorite pair of Miss Me jeans with the white angel wings on the back pockets and big rhinestones on the front. She opted not to wear one of her championship buckles. She shoved her feet in a short pair of orange and pink Old Gringo cowgirl boots decorated with cacti.

Tanna fluffed up her hair—making it big, Texas style. She added more eyeliner, more mascara, more lipstick and spritzed on her favorite perfume. She debated on putting in a pair of colored contacts. Growing up with brown eyes, like everyone else in Texas it seemed, she’d wished for an exotic eye color. When she’d discovered colored lenses, she’d bought a set in every funky hue. Most people couldn’t tell when she had in her “fake eyes” and it amused her when they tried to figure out what was different about her.