Back to the A7 Ranch

Back to the A7 Ranch—A new Free Blog Post by Award-Winning Author Dennis H. Williams. The First Chapter is now available free to AZHeritage.net guests!

Patrick's Park was just your everyday, quiet neighborhood bar in South Phoenix five days a week. It had a small parking lot that might hold five or six cars. It sat on the east end of Southern Avenue in an inconspicuous place. But it turned into THE cowboy hangout of the early 1970s on Saturday night. It was just three-quarters a mile west of Frank Powell's arena, where the best jackpot ropings of the day were held. Everyone went to Patrick's Park when the roping was over at ten p.m.

Inside, the bar blended 1960s charm and rustic Western flair. The walls were paneled with dark wood and adorned with framed photos of famous rodeo stars and vintage advertisements for long-forgotten whiskey and beer brands. Red vinyl booths lined the walls, their seats worn from years of use but still comfortable. The ceiling was adorned with wooden beams, from which old lantern-style light fixtures cast a warm, golden glow over the room.

The bar was a long, polished mahogany lined with barstools upholstered in deep red leather. Behind the bar, shelves were stocked with an impressive array of spirits, each bottle gleaming under the soft lights. The décor was a mix of vibrant colors typical of the 1960s—rich oranges, reds, and browns—combined with classic Western motifs. A jukebox in the corner played a mix of country hits and classic rock, providing the perfect soundtrack for a night of dancing and socializing.

The star of Patrick's Park was Nora, the best manager in town. Nora grew up on a ranch, a feisty cowgirl from a young age. She could ride, rope, and shoot as well as any cowboy, but she also had a sharp mind and a knack for keeping numbers. With her ability to remember numerous bar orders even on the busiest nights, Nora was a natural fit for the fast-paced bartending world. Her dazzling smile and angelic face made her a favorite among the regulars, and her sense of humor was unsurpassed.

Nora’s presence behind the bar was magnetic. She moved with an effortless grace, pouring drinks and chatting with patrons as if she had known them all her life. She usually wore her hair pulled back into a practical ponytail, and her green eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. She had a body that had to be the devil’s playground, but her personality genuinely captivated any bar patron. She was witty, charming, and could hold her own in any conversation.

Nora had a way of making everyone feel welcome. Even if you didn’t drink, you visited Patrick’s Park to see her. She made it easy to buy another drink, and her laughter could often be heard ringing above the din of the bar.

Into this bar one night came a dark, tall young man. He was a solidly built cowboy, one inch over six feet and one hundred eighty pounds. His hair was as dark brown as it could get without being black. Big dark brown eyes set in an open face. A smile spread across his face when talking to anyone. He knew no strangers. Just two years out of the army and with one year in Southeast Asia behind him, at times, he seemed distant. He was a team roper, his only passion in life.

He had married when returning from Vietnam. It hadn't lasted, and he still struggled with relationships with women. He had done a month in jail when he had worn a good pair of spurs out on the head of his wife's lover's head. The one thing he brought back from Southeast Asia was an uncontrollable temper. But he was trying hard to keep it poked away in the back of his brain.

That night, when he walked into the bar, it was more of a glide than a walk. He found a spot at the bar and ordered a mug of beer. Nora greeted him with her usual warm smile, her green eyes sparkling. "Evening, Clayton. The usual?" she asked, already reaching for a frosty mug.

"You got it, Nora," he replied, returning her smile.

As she handed him the beer, she leaned in slightly. "You win big this weekend?" she teased, her voice a playful lilt.

Clayton chuckled. "That's always the plan. Plans don't survive contact with the cattle though. Keep your fingers crossed for me."

"I always do," she winked, moving on to the next customer with the same effortless charm.

Taking his beer, he went to the back of the bar where Gene Ray Ward and Bucky Bradford played an eight-ball pool game. He leaned against the wall, sipping beer and watching the game. Gene Ray stood next to him.

"You scratch them for any tonight?" Gene Ray asked.

"Yep, won a round and placed," Clayton answered. "You?"

"Naw, that's why I'm here. I blew out early. You want to play the winner?" Gene Ray asked.

"Nope, I'm headed to the house. We gotta ship five loads of fat cattle tomorrow. I need to get some sleep."

As they chatted, Nora passed by again, this time with a tray full of drinks. She paused just long enough to give Clayton a quick pat on the back. "Don't be a stranger, Clayton. You know we miss you when you’re not here," she said with a grin.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Nora," Clayton replied. As usual, those who noticed her watched as she deftly maneuvered through the crowd, smiles and headshakes between competitors as she went.

A well-built, auburn-haired young woman stepped up before the dark man as his eyes followed Nora. Her hair cascaded in loose waves down to her shoulders, catching the soft light from the overhead lanterns. The stranger wore a cream-colored blouse with small ruffles down the front, the fabric slightly sheer and delicately embroidered at the edges. Her bell-bottomed pants were deep indigo, flaring over a pair of polished Tony Llama boots that gleamed with every step. A thin silver belt cinched her waist, adorned with a turquoise buckle that matched the earrings dangling from her ears.

"Are you Clayton Towns?" she asked, her voice steady and clear. Looking over the rim of his beer glass, he nodded, intrigued by her unexpected appearance.

"That's me. What did I do this time?" he smiled.

"Nothing yet, but you'll be up to something by the time we're done talking," she replied with a playful smile. "How about I buy you a drink while you tell me your thoughts on this little 'something' I've got in mind?" Her smile grew wider, hinting at her coyness. "It's only fair, considering I might just say no to whatever you're about to suggest."

Clayton pointed the way to a booth that had just vacated. After getting drinks, he slid into the booth across from her and handed her a drink. "Now, what am I gonna do?" he asked.

"My dad and I just bought the A7 Ranch outside of Benson. We understand you know it well." She took a sip of her drink. Clayton noticed how she watched him as she spoke, seeming wary and putting forward an air of curiosity as if she were unsure how he would react. He assumed she was hesitant to end the small talk and get to it, but she was also curious how he would respond to cutting through to the chase.

"Well, first, you know my name, but I don't know yours. You do have one, don't you?" Clayton was trying his best to be charming. Her perfume, honeysuckle scent —he always liked the smell of honeysuckle—reached his nose.

"Maria Rourke, I'm sorry I should have introduced myself, but I have been looking for you for two days and missing you everywhere I go, and hunting cowboys down can be exhausting," she said, feigning weariness with her body language in a dramatic-stage way. She looked at him square and continued, "We want you to come take the ranch over." She talked fast like she was afraid he would say no before she finished.

The bar was getting busier as the Saturday bustle picked up. The bar was filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and the constant hum of conversation and background music.

"Okay, Maria, yes, I know it. I grew up there," Clayton said, raising his voice louder to be heard over the background noise. "But I already got a job with the freedom to rope all I want. So I'm not shopping around for work." He sipped his beer, which now tasted flat, and made a face, setting the mug down with a sigh.

She ignored the sour face he was making and reached into her blouse, retrieving an envelope, and handed it across the table to him. "This will explain it all. But you will get everything you have now and more. The ranch is run down, with unbranded cattle everywhere, and we need you. Please consider it." She almost pleaded.

"Tell you what, Miss Rourke," he looked over her shoulder as he wrestled with a plan, catching the dance of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. As a plan came to mind, he looked back, pausing to see her green eyes meeting his. Continuing, he talked with a solid voice; he had to force it to be level as those green eyes were working hard to derail his thoughts, "You know where the Pioneer Bar is just up from the stockyards? If you wait until tomorrow, I'll read this and meet you there for supper. Can you do that?" Clayton tapped the corner of the envelope on the table as he finished, knocking back a long draw on his drink to cover a cough. The smoke in the bar was starting to well up in his throat, he told himself.

The voice in his mind laughed and said, no, it's the green eyes, he almost grimaced. He knew that was more the cause than the smoke he was well used to.

Maria slid out of the booth gracefully with a smile. "I guess if I want you to work for us, I'll have to, huh? See you tomorrow. I've got somewhere to be now that I found you. Sorry, we can't discuss your day or talk longer; maybe next time."

His drink was on the table, the table-top damp now, and the drink quickly spun in his fingers as he brought up the envelope just below his nose. He held the perfume-smelling envelope there a moment before setting it on the table as he watched her stroll away, thinking about how this would work.