A Woman's Devotion (Phantom Of The Opera x Reader)

13. Cowboy Like Me

(A/N: Maybe named after a Taylor Swift song? Maybe not? I'll never tell.)

Y/n's POV:

At long, long last, I found solid ground. We had docked in a little town in Arkansas. The once bright sun's heat turned oppressive. In July, it appeared the Arkansas climate was no different than New Orleans', though slightly less humid. My breakfast had also since evaporated in my stomach. If that increase of appetite wasn't a sure sign of my new state, I didn't know what was.

At the realization, I clutched Erik's hand a little tighter. In pursuit of luncheon and maybe a half hour to rest, we entered the only dining establishment in the tiny town: a saloon.

Just beyond the doorway, my stomach clenched. I had heard enough stories, though somewhat unreliable, of what went on in such places. Some men, once upstanding people, spiraled into gambling and drinking addictions here. Then, there was the danger of fights and whatnot. But I had faith in Erik. He would ensure we got out safely. And, really, when the next town could be hours away, where else were we supposed to eat?

Even in the middle of the day, people sat at the bar, slouched over half-emptied glasses of liquor. Talk was loud, yet it was made almost insensible by everybody's drunkenness. After ordering, Erik and I slid into a table near the back of the room, desperate to be hidden and, as a result, stay out of trouble.

A scantily-clad woman, donning far too low a neckline for midday, walked to our table with a cold platter. Apparently, they'd confused every other spice in the kitchen with the salt shaker. The cold cuts of meat, the cheeses, and the handful of peanuts were rendered inedible, all for the salt on them.

 "Why is it so..."

 "Salty?" Erik suggested, also struggling through the meal. I nodded. "Because, Y/n, if they make it salty, you end up thirsty, which means you buy more drinks, their true money maker."

It made sense, but because Erik and I weren't keen on getting tipsy in the middle of the day, we endured the meal with no liquid reprieve.

Cowboys at the nearby table constantly stared at us. Maybe it was mine and Erik's French. I doubted many clientele passed by with any accent except this unfamiliar, drawling English. I counted the posse of cowboys, numbering six in total. So, basically, if they tried to harm Erik and me, our lack of numbers would spell our doom.

When I could stomach no more of the saloon's terrible food, I depended on conversation to distract me.

 "So how long will it take to reach your friend's home?"

Erik first replied in French, but I held up a hand, still feeling those cowboy's eyes searing into our backs.

 "Please, Erik, let's try to speak in English." I said, still utilizing French. Then, in heavily accented, broken English, I repeated my question. "How long to friend's home?"

 "Quite some time," Erik said, his English far more fluent and unaccented than mine, "we still need to arrange some way to get there, and I'm a little lost on that one."

 "Yes. I am excitement."

My limited supply of English had already been drained. Noticing this, Erik lowered his voice and switched back to French.

 "Why do you insist upon speaking English, my dear? You can practice some other time."

 "It isn't that," I said, reverting back to French with a shake of my head, "those cowboys are looking at us. I think they believe our own language is bizarre. I don't like the stares."

I glanced over to show Erik who I referred to, but shock of all shocks, they had risen from their seats and walked towards our table.

 "Hear you're headed to a friend's place?" The tallest cowboy said.