Roseanne.
Hyeri: I miss your face already. Have fun playing Hell on Wheels?
Roseanne: What?
Hyeri: Your cowgirl. I looked her up. She looks like the hot guy from Hell on Wheels. You know, the one with the long hair? Did you know they filmed that show out there?
Hyeri: You should bang her.
Roseanne: No.
Hyeri: Want me to print you a picture of her for your wall?
Roseanne: I don't miss you at all.
Lisa and I drive in utter silence, which is fine. It gives me the opportunity to get acquainted with everything out the window.
"Turn here." One small turn takes us to a dead-end side street, at the bottom of which sits The Railspur.
The pub is not what I was expecting from a small town. In fact, Big Springs is not what I was expecting from a small town. I think my dad and I have watched a few too many old western movies, and I'm realizing that I am truly an oblivious city girl.
Because Big Springs is Beautiful. The main street has these adorable bricked-in sidewalks, ornate lamp posts with little town flags dangling from them, and the businesses down here have maintained the historic facades while modernizing or adding on to the rest. Old brick buildings with dramatic archways or charming colorful awnings line each side of Rosewood Street, the main thoroughfare in town.
And the pub is not some small-town dive either. It's like . . . cowgirl chic.
"Is this an old train station?" I ask as I roll into the parking lot that Lisa just silently pointed to.
"Yup."
"I guess the name should have been clue enough," I say, mostly to myself since Lisa seems limited to grunts and one-word answers, before pulling to a stop in a space not too far from the door.
She grunts. And I turn to her as she flings off her seatbelt, like she can't get away fast enough. "Are you always this monosyllabic? Or is this special just for me?"
"I don't need this," she mutters just before she slams the passenger door in my face and storms toward the bar.
I flop back against my seat and blow a raspberry out through my lips.
I ask myself what I always do.
If this were my last moment alive, how would I want it to be?
My eyes flutter shut, and I suck in a deep breath, like that might help me grow some extra patience to deal with the big asshole bull rider assigned to me. Because in my last moments, I'd want to feel happy. If I step out of this car and get run down, I want to go out feeling good, not pissed off at some long-haired, broad-shouldered, round-assed cowgirl.
That is not how Roseanne Park goes.
Not today, Satan.
Then my door is wrenched open. "Are you having a stroke?" Lisa peers down at me, lips curving toward the ground.
"What are you doing?" I ask, brows knitting in confusion. I thought she'd stormed into the bar.
"Opening your door for you. Now get out."
My lips tug up and a silent giggle fills me as I realize she's trying to be gentlewomanlike while also being a grumpy dick. And with that, I step out of my SUV, patting the hood on the way past with a quiet, "Sorry." Because that dick slammed her door way too hard.
We don't look at each other as we walk, but she touches my shoulder gently and gestures me across her body. She moves me to the opposite side of her before taking up position by the road.
This woman gives me whiplash.
She tugs the bar door open by grabbing one of the long brass pulls that stretches almost the full length of the wood frame. Once I pass through, Lisa is gone without a word, and I'm left admiring the interior of the pub.
Inside there's a long bar that runs the full length of the left side of the building and high-top tables dot the main area. Further back, I can see a slightly raised section with a pool table, burgundy leather couches, and a fireplace.
Lisa clearly made a beeline for the bar, and a few locals have cornered her. There are back pats and handshakes exchanged between them, but there's also a tension to the greeting, and I can't help but wonder what they're saying to her.
