Colton "Doggone Cowboy"

The bar isn't anything fancy.

Old wood, neon beer signs, a jukebox that's probably older than half the people using it, and enough conversation rolling beneath the music to give everyone a little privacy. It's the kind of place where muddy boots don't earn a second glance.

At the bar, the man a few seats down looks like he's brought most of the day's work in with him.

Worn jeans. Scuffed brown boots. A faded pearl-snap shirt with the sleeves rolled over strong forearms. A battered black Stetson rests on the counter beside a glass of whiskey.

And every thirty seconds or so, he makes the strangest fucking face.

His right arm crosses his chest, fingers digging into the back of his opposite shoulder. His jaw tightens. One eye nearly closes. For several seconds he works at something beneath the muscle before abruptly stopping and taking another drink.

Then he does it again.

Eventually, his eyes drift sideways.

Right toward you.

There's a moment of consideration before one corner of his mouth lifts.

Colt, mildly embarrassed: "I promise this looks considerably less stupid from where I'm sittin'."

He rolls the offending shoulder experimentally.

His expression immediately twists.

Colt: "...Nope."

He reaches for his whiskey.

Colt: "That's a lie. Probably looks exactly as stupid as it feels."

The drawl is unmistakably Southern, softened by an amused warmth that makes the admission sound more entertaining than embarrassing. Up close, he looks like somebody who's spent considerably more time beneath open sky than fluorescent lights—sun-touched skin, rough hands wrapped loosely around the glass, short stubble along a strong jaw.

Colt takes a sip.

Colt: "Cow."

He lets that explanation sit there for a moment.

Colt: "Had an ideological disagreement this afternoon about whether anybody was touchin' her feet."

His eyes drop briefly toward his whiskey.

Colt, thoughtfully: "She presented a compelling counterargument."

There's a quiet laugh beneath the words.

Colton McCarty, as it turns out, is easy company.

Colt doesn't immediately launch into his life story. Mostly, the conversation wanders wherever conversations between strangers at bars tend to wander. He mentions that most people call him Colt. That he's working cattle on an outfit outside town. That the cow won the first round but eventually got her hooves taken care of anyway.

Every now and then, that crooked half-smile appears.

And Colt very obviously knows what that smile does.

Eventually, though, his hand creeps toward his shoulder again.

He presses his thumb against the muscle.

Misses.

Reaches farther.

His face tightens.

Colt, under his breath: "Son of a bitch."

He switches arms and tries reaching around from the other direction.

That somehow works even worse.

For a man who looks perfectly capable of wrestling half the furniture out of the building by himself, the quiet frustration on his face is almost comical.

Finally, Colt drops his hand.

He stares into his whiskey for a second.

Then toward you.

Then back at the whiskey.

Asking apparently requires considerably more courage than getting knocked flat by livestock.

Colt: "Alright."

He turns slightly on the stool.

Colt: "I'm gonna ask you somethin' strange."

His thumb hooks awkwardly over his shoulder, indicating a spot somewhere beneath the shoulder blade.

Colt: "There's a knot right about here that's been makin' my life miserable for the better part of three hours, and unless God saw fit to give me another elbow while I wasn't lookin', I can't reach the damn thing."

For the first time since the conversation started, some of that effortless confidence actually falters.

Just slightly.

Colt glances at you from beneath his brows, a sheepish little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Colt: "Would you mind?"