She tucks a set of keys into her purse and crosses the room, her arm in his. "Where are you taking me, Mr. Callahan?"
"I'm taking you? Oh, I get it—you've got my land, now the wining and dining is over, is it?"
She looks at him, clearly unsure, and he keeps a straight face for an instant. Then, as subtle as a train whistle, he winks and smiles, and then goes back to the straight face.
"You're awful."
"I think I told you that before. When we first met."
"Oh no, you're not getting out of this that easily."
"Alright, fine. You're right. I'm sorry. Shouldn't have teased you. How can I make it up to you?"
"I don't know. It's probably impossible." She's fully in the role now, even as they walk together, arms intertwined.
"Anything. I'll do anything. How's dinner sound?"
"Dinner? Oh, you'll have to do more than just that."
"In too deep for dinner, huh? Dessert, then, too."
"You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Callahan."
"I know, but that's part of what makes me so charming, you see."
"You're right about that."
He slips into the truck, and to his surprise she slides into the passenger seat. It's so strangely unlike her—she's always been in that red speed machine of hers, always been driving herself.
He doesn't ask her about it. If she's decided to ride with him, that's her prerogative. He drives her out. There's no reason to mention that of course he already had a reservation. You hardly need them out here, even if you go into the city.
Of course, if they're celebrating—whatever they're celebrating—then you can't stay just in town, but Wyoming isn't exactly the bustling social scene of a place like New York or Vegas. Does she expect that sort of thing? He doesn't know. But there's no use in getting nervous about it now.
Morgan takes his arm again automatically when they climb down from the truck. It must have been strange, sitting so high up after having her butt only a few inches off the ground every day.
"Sir?"
"I called ahead? Phil Callahan, table for two."
The girl at the front is small, barely five feet tall and she looks like she could still be in high school. Maybe just outside of it. She looks down the list studiously and taps next to where his name shows up on the list, near the top of the page. Maybe he'd called a little early.
"Got you right here, sir." She picks up a couple menus and tucks them under her arm. "Right this way, sir."
He follows her, Morgan only a step behind, to a quiet little section of the restaurant. The place isn't dimly lit—not the romantic lighting that the last one had.
But you can get one hell of a burrito here, and to his very great surprise, their steaks aren't half bad either. Maybe if he'd gotten into raising cattle, rather than raising horses, he'd have a stronger opinion on the matter.
Then again, Wyoming territory, they probably have access to the best steaks in the country, and local to boot. So who the hell knows, any more.
Morgan picks up a menu, and he does the same. He doesn't particularly need to look it over. He's been here plenty of times.
But his eyes drop to the pages, for a minute or two. Running over everything to see what he can see, and that's probably why he doesn't notice when a man walks up until he speaks.
"Hey, Callahan. Small world. Who's your friend here?"
Phil looks up, a little tired and not in the mood to talk to Glen Brand tonight.
"Glen, this is Morgan Lowe. She owns those, ah, factories going up? I'm sure you heard about 'em."