He listens to the litany of rules, keeping pace with the two women by keeping his long strides slow. He can only measure them so much, and it's never enough to match Parker's shorter steps. Miss Kate Barlow, for all her swirling duster and impressive moxie, is built even smaller than Parker by a couple of inches.

It leads to his steps, long and ground-covering, gaining an extra little hitch, makes him look like he's wandering aimlessly instead of walking with purpose.

Which is fine. Parker always looks like she's moving with enough purpose for someone twice her size, so it evens out, and he doesn't mind giving a laid-back impression, meandering well below the danger signals of 'threat.'

"I'm sure we can keep any hullabaloo to a minimum," is all he says, dry, as they near the bar itself, but the rules are noted and filed away. Common sense. Don't start anything. Behave yourself.

He's unlikely to break any of those rules at any bar at home, but every law exists for a reason. Someone, at some point or another, must have flouted one or all of them.

The consideration of which slips cleanly out of his head when the cowgirl speaks, not to a bartender, but to the bar itself, and, worse, gets a reply in the shape of a filled martini, foggy with a chill on the glass, set on a quietly classy cocktail napkin.

It's a worse shock than opening the door was, and his fingers twitch at his hip before he digs his thumb firmly into his pocket, eyebrows pushing up and then furrowing down, hard.



There's suspicion and steel lurking behind the easiness of his reply. "Handy."