Devil-may-care cowboy Lucky Livingston is out to settle an old score with outlaw Eddie Bruce, the man responsible for his mother's death.
Bridget McGuire is a frightened young woman with a dangerous secret. She is desperate for a safe hiding place from outlaw Eddie Bruce, who threatens the lives of her and her two young brothers.
Bridget and Lucky strike a risky bargain designed to rid them, once and for all, of Eddie Bruce.
Their bargain doesn't include complications added by the interference of a marauding band of Ku Klux Clansmen, the plotting of Lucky' two bumbling brothers, the meddling of an over-bearing aunt, and the shady maneuverings of a dishonest deputy sheriff.
Bridget closed her menu and looked around the room. "Folks are staring at us already. Maybe we shouldn't push our luck by asking questions."
Lucky scoffed. "I always push my luck." He was beginning to wonder if luck hadn't decided to push back. His feelings for this woman could get out-of-hand with a few more shoves.
Bridget looked down at her khaki uniform. "I'm not properly dressed. Maybe we should go."
Lucky grinned, "Not on your life." He sobered. "You look beautiful." The words were automatic. The emotions they evoked were new and disturbing. "We came here to have dinner and that's what we're gonna do." He winked broadly. "As soon as I figure out what we're having."
Bridget giggled. "You're right. Let's order something."
"Okay. What will it be?
Bridget shrugged. "I don't know. You decide."
The waiter reappeared and stationed himself beside the booth. With pad open and pencil poised, he asked, "Would you care to order now, sir?"
Lucky peered down at his menu. "We're making up our minds. What is this here Tripes a la Mode de Caen?"
The waiter answered, very much on his dignity, "It's a most delicious entree."
"Could you tell me what's in it?"
The waiter cleared his throat. "Are you requesting the recipe?"
"Nope, I'm requesting to know what you put in this here entree." Lucky slapped the menu with the back of his hand.
On the end of a long-suffering sigh, the waiter recited in a singsong voice, "Tripe, carrots, onions, some seasonings such as thyme and cayenne, a little white wine, some chicken broth, a calf's foot--"
"Whoa, partner, a calf's foot?" Lucky's eyes rounded as he looked across the table at Bridget. She was doing her best not to smile.
The waiter shifted his weight. "The foot is removed before the dish is served."
Lucky lifted an eyebrow. "Bridget?"
Bridget struggled to keep a straight face. "I don't care for tripe." She opened her menu and scanned down one side. "What is Riz de Veau a I'Ancienne?"
The waiter looked more pained by the minute. "It's sweetbreads and kidneys cooked with chicken broth, truffles, mushrooms, heavy cream and a little Madeira wine."
Lucky's brow furrowed. "Lord, man, don't you people serve anything but innards?"
The waiter made a disapproving sound deep in his throat. "Innards, Sir?"
"Stuff like kidneys and sweetbreads and tripe?"
"We offer Squab Remboullier and Quail Chasseur."
What Lucky craved was a rare steak and a pile of French fries. He closed his menu. "We'll have the squab."