"Not ale tonight. Whiskey." A wide hand, with fingers like thick sausages, waved irritably towards the old barkeep, who turned away with a long-suffering look in his eyes to fulfill the request.
The man stood at the counter with both palms now braced upon the wooden grain, and his shoulders hunched as if he might collapse without its support. He remained thus until a light touch was felt upon his arm, and a soft, high voice chirruped near his ear.
"Well, hullo, stranger!" said the voice.
Westen turned his glowering eyes to the one who spoke. "Pansy," he replied, speaking her name as a greeting.
The young woman grinned at him, flicking a curl of cinnamon colored hair from her eyes. She leaned onto the bar beside him, thrusting her hip out in the process to try and accentuate the figure beneath her simple farm dress. "You haven't been to see us in a long while. Months! Not since the winter, I think. Where've you been hiding?"
"I don't hide, woman," he grunted in reply, pushing himself up to stand straight. "Not from you or your kin, anyway."
Pansy snorted out a laugh. "Who do you think you're telling tales to, Wes? I've known you for how long? Mm, ever since you decided to chase my sister." She, too, adjusted her stance to match his, straightening her spine as if they were sizing each other up now. "You're a master of hiding."
Westen gave a dramatic, slow roll of his head, granting himself time to sigh out a deep, lazy grunt. At the end, his eyes landed on her again. "Do you have anything interesting to say, Pansy? Did you walk over here just to be a bother?"
Behind the bar, the innkeeper was watching the scene with curiosity, though he held his tongue and simply sat down the small glass of amber liquid by Westen's hand.
Pansy was shrugging one of her shapely shoulders and cocking her head to peer up at the towering man from beneath her lashes. "Well, she's off and married now, you know. Of course you know! You know everything that goes on, don't you?" She sidled closer, oozing along the length of the counter until her arm touched his. "You're not still angry about all that, I hope? No reason you and I couldn't be...friends now."
Westen plucked the glass from the bar and brought it to his lips, looking down at her from the corner of his eye. "Friends? I don't keep friends, Pansy. You know that."
The girl smiled alluringly, flashing her surprisingly well-kept teeth at him. "I also know that you're out of work. Mhm, I listen to the talk that goes on at the Comb and Wattle!" She giggled then, a sound that he found irksome, even though it made something pleasant flutter in his guts. She did a little spin in place, pleased as punch with herself. "There's a farm hiring in the next village. I heard they're expecting quite a harvest and have taken on quite a few local lads. Paying well, too."
The whiskey was thrown violently down Westen's throat with a jerk-back of his head. "That so?" he replied in a rasping voice, swallowing a few times against the burning liquid.
"I could take you there," said Pansy, foregoing the hand on his arm this time in favor of leaning lightly up against him. The softness of her breasts pressed into his elbow while her golden eyes stared up at his face. "I know the family a little. Could introduce you. I'm sure they'd take you on, big and strong as you are..."
Westen kept his eyes straight ahead for a few seconds. He licked his bearded lips, lapping away the traces of the sour whiskey, and set the glass down with a hard thud. "For someone who claims to know me so well," he muttered, turning to look down at the woman. "You don't know me at all." He stepped abruptly away, and she stumbled forward without his body there to lean upon. "I'll find this farm myself."
He did not wait for the inevitable ire, but brushed his hands together and turned to stride to the door.
"You're a right filthy boor, Westen!" she barked at his retreating back.
Westen tugged the door open and grinned at the yawning night beyond. "I daresay I am," he mumbled to himself.
