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Meeting Of She Devils
A Dutton Ranch and Dallas crossover short story in which each of the franchises femme fatalles meet on a Texas bar.
The bartender wiped down the counter with the same rag he'd been using all night, the stink of old beer and Pine-Sol clinging to it like bad decisions. Sue Ellen Ewing sat alone at the far end, her manicured fingers tapping a slow rhythm against her whiskey glass. The diamonds on her wrist caught the neon light every time she moved, scattering cheap red and blue dots across the scarred wood. She wasn't drinking—just watching the ice melt.
Two stools down, a man in a grease-stained cap was explaining to nobody in particular why his ex-wife had been the problem. "Ain't about the money," he lied, shaking a peanut between his fingers before tossing it back. "It's about respect."
The door swung open with a groan of unoiled hinges, letting in a gust of dry Texas heat and the faint smell of distant cattle. Beth stepped inside, her boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. She didn't bother glancing around—her shoulders already carried the weight of knowing every pair of eyes in the place had flicked her way. Instead, she slid onto a stool midway down the bar, the wood creaking under her like an old saddle.
"Whiskey," she said, not bothering to specify. The bartender nodded, reaching for the same bottle he'd been pouring from all night.
The bartender set the whiskey in front of Beth, the glass sweating almost as much as he was. She wrapped her fingers around it but didn’t lift it yet—just let the condensation bleed into her calluses while she stared at the amber liquid like it might hold an answer. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the slow, deliberate tilt of Sue Ellen’s head, the way her gaze slid over without fully committing to a look.
"Long day?" Sue Ellen's voice cut through the bar's murmur, smooth as the ice in her untouched drink.
Beth smirked, rolling the glass between her palms. "Every day’s long when you’re breaking ground where nobody wants you to." She took a slow sip, the whiskey burning a familiar path down her throat. "But I reckon you know something about that."
Sue Ellen’s laugh was low, practiced—a sound honed by decades of charity luncheons and boardroom negotiations. "Honey, they always want me somewhere. Just rarely where I am." She finally lifted her own glass, the ice clinking like distant chimes. "You’re the one who bought the McCready land." It wasn’t a question.
Beth exhaled through her nose, watching the whiskey swirl as she set the glass down with deliberate softness. The McCready land—three hundred acres of grudging soil and spiteful neighbors. "Bought implies they were happy to sell," she said, thumbing a drop of liquor off the rim. "Had to outbid a developer who wanted to turn it into a golf course for Dallas assholes who'd never set foot on it."
Sue Ellen's eyebrow arched—just enough to telegraph amusement without wrinkling her foundation. "And now you're the asshole who actually has to work it." She took her first sip at last, the whiskey leaving her lipstick untouched. A trick Beth noted. Professional drinkers learned that early.
The peanut-eater cleared his throat loudly, but neither woman glanced his way. Beth leaned her elbows on the bar, the leather of her jacket creaking. "Funny how dirt makes people forget you’re human," she said. "They see a woman on a tractor and suddenly you’re either a punchline or a threat."
Sue Ellen traced the rim of her glass with one fingertip, the motion precise as a surveyor marking property lines. "Mm. Try being a woman with a checkbook in this state." She didn’t bother lowering her voice. The bartender pretended not to hear, scrubbing at a nonexistent stain. "They’ll take your money, but God forbid you want to say how it’s spent."
Beth chuckled, a dry sound that matched the grit of the whiskey still coating her tongue. "Money talks, but it don't plow fields." She glanced at Sue Ellen sideways, catching the way the neon lights caught the silver in the woman's perfectly styled hair—not a strand out of place, despite the humid press of the bar. "You ever get your hands dirty, or just your accountants?"
Sue Ellen's smile was razor-thin. "Oh, darling, I’ve dirtied more than my hands." She set her glass down with a quiet click. "Just not in ways that leave calluses."
The peanut-eater finally gave up his invisible audience and slid off his stool, muttering something about "damn women running their mouths." The bartender didn’t look up as the door banged shut behind him. Beth watched the ice shift in Sue Ellen’s glass—neat, controlled, just like the woman herself.
"Accountants," Beth mused, scratching at a fleck of dried mud on her wrist. "Had one of those once. Fired him when he told me I couldn’t write off a shotgun as a business expense." She grinned when Sue Ellen’s mouth twitched—almost a real smile this time. "Turns out you can if you convince the IRS it’s for varmint control."
Sue Ellen's laugh was sharp this time—less polished, more genuine—and it startled the bartender into nearly dropping a glass. "Varmint control," she repeated, shaking her head. "I'd pay to see the look on that IRS agent's face." She swirled her drink, the ice catching the light like tiny diamonds. "Though I imagine you didn't need paperwork to convince the McCreadys to part with their land."
Beth's grin didn't waver, but her fingers tightened imperceptibly around her glass. "Let's just say they understood the language of a woman who knows how to use that shotgun." She didn't elaborate, and Sue Ellen didn't ask. Some things didn't need saying in a place like this, where the walls had ears but the patrons had shorter memories.
The bartender vanished into the back room with a clatter of dishware, leaving the two women in a pocket of quiet. Sue Ellen traced a fingernail along the edge of her glass, the sound barely audible over the hum of the ceiling fan. "You know," she said, voice lilting like she was discussing the weather, "there’s a man in Dallas who tried to buy that land from under the McCreadys three years ago. Had plans for a helipad and a polo field." Her smile was all teeth. "He still limps when it rains."
Beth snorted into her whiskey. "That why you’re slumming it in a dive bar on a Tuesday? Checking if the new owner’s got a limp too?"
Sue Ellen's laughter unfurled like a silk scarf tossed onto a bed—effortless, expensive, and just a little dangerous. "Darling, if I wanted to scout competition, I'd send someone who blends in better." She gestured to her own cream-colored blouse, the fabric so crisp it seemed to repel the bar's lingering smoke. "But you're not competition, are you?" The question hung between them, sharp as a barbed wire fence.
Beth rolled her shoulders, the leather of her jacket creaking like an old ranch hand's knees. "Depends what we're competing for." She knocked back the rest of her whiskey in one smooth motion, the glass hitting the bar with a decisive click. "You after my dirt, or just curious about the woman who outmaneuvered your Dallas boys?"
Sue Ellen’s gaze lingered on Beth’s empty glass, her own drink still half-full, the ice barely touched. She tilted her head, considering, as if weighing the question against something far older than either of them. "Oh, I’m always curious," she admitted, her voice dropping to something quieter, more intimate, despite the empty space around them. "Especially about women who make men like that limp." The last word curled off her tongue like smoke.
Beth smirked, spinning her glass idly between her fingers. "Figured you’d be pissed. Heard you and that Dallas crowd run in the same circles."
Sue Ellen's manicured nail tapped once against her glass—a sharp, deliberate sound. "Circles, darling, imply I don't have the good sense to walk in a straight line." She leaned forward slightly, the scent of her perfume cutting through the bar's stale air like a blade through rope—something expensive and floral with an undercurrent of steel. "That man was useful once. Emphasis on was."
Beth studied her for a moment, then signaled the bartender for another round without breaking eye contact. "Useful how?"
Sue Ellen waited until the bartender had set down fresh glasses and retreated before answering. She lifted her whiskey, watching the light fracture through the liquid like a shattered windshield. "He moved money for me," she said, voice low. "Quietly. The kind of transactions that don’t leave paper trails." Her smile was knife-edged. "Until he got greedy and decided skimming was easier than earning his cut." She took a sip, leaving the lipstick still pristine. "People forget—I didn’t marry into money. I married for it. And I know exactly how it bleeds."
Beth let out a slow whistle through her teeth. "So the limp wasn’t about the land."
Sue Ellen's smile deepened, the kind that didn't reach her eyes but promised she knew things worth knowing. "The limp," she said, tapping a fingernail against her glass, "was a courtesy. A reminder that some debts aren't paid with checks." She leaned back slightly, the neon light catching the gold in her irises. "But enough about disappointing men. You're far more interesting."
Beth snorted, swirling her fresh whiskey. "Not sure if that's a compliment or a threat."
Sue Ellen's smile didn’t waver, but something in her posture shifted—like a cat stretching just before it pounces. "Darling, in Texas, those are often the same thing." She let the words hang, then tilted her glass toward Beth in a mock toast. "Tell me—how many head of cattle are you running on that grudging soil of yours?"
Beth’s fingers drummed against the bar, her nails blunt and unvarnished next to Sue Ellen’s lacquered perfection. "Enough to piss off the neighbors," she said, shrugging. "They don’t like the noise, the smell, or the way the herds cut their commute time when they wander onto the road."
Sue Ellen laughed—a rich, throaty sound that seemed too big for the cramped little bar. "Oh, I like that," she murmured, her eyes flickering with something darker than amusement. "Nothing disrupts a man's day like inconvenient livestock." She took a slow sip of whiskey, her gaze never leaving Beth's face. "Though I imagine your neighbors aren't just annoyed. They're scared."
Beth arched an eyebrow, swirling the ice in her glass. "Scared of cows?"
Sue Ellen's fingertip traced the rim of her glass with the precision of a surgeon marking an incision. "Scared of you," she corrected, voice dropping to a murmur that somehow carried over the bar's ambient noise. "The way you move through this town like you own it—and now, technically, you do." She tilted her head, studying Beth with the calculated interest of a jeweler appraising an uncut stone. "They whisper about you at the feed store. Say you walked into the McCready place with nothing but a duffel bag and a deed, and walked out with their pride in your back pocket."
Beth smirked, thumbing a fleck of sawdust off her sleeve. "Had to put the deed in my boot, actually. Back pockets ain't deep enough for that kind of paper." She leaned forward, elbows on the bar, close enough to catch the faintest hint of Sue Ellen's perfume—orange blossoms and gunpowder. "But we both know deeds don't mean shit if you can't back 'em up."
Sue Ellen's fingers paused mid-tap against her glass. The sudden stillness made Beth realize how much motion had been in those manicured hands—tiny adjustments, calculated gestures, every movement serving a purpose. Now they were frozen, hovering like a hawk spotting prey. "Backing things up," Sue Ellen repeated slowly, "is where most people fail." She smiled, but it was the kind of smile that made the bartender suddenly find urgent business at the far end of the counter. "You know what they never tell you about power, Beth? It's not about having it. It's about making sure everyone else knows you have it."
Beth rolled her shoulders, the leather of her jacket whispering against the bar's vinyl stool. "Sounds like a damn tiring way to live," she admitted, knocking back half her whiskey in one go. "Spend all day polishing your reputation, you won't have time to get anything done."
Sue Ellen's smile sharpened at the edges, like a knife freshly honed. "Darling, that's why you hire people to do the polishing while you do the cutting. Speaking of—how's your water situation out there? McCready land always had piss-poor irrigation."
Beth's fingers stilled around her glass. The sudden shift in topic wasn't lost on her—Sue Ellen moved conversations like a chess player, always three steps ahead. "Dry as a Baptist picnic," she admitted, watching the older woman's face for tells. "Had to truck in water last week when the well pump gave out. Neighbors charged me double."
Sue Ellen's manicured nails resumed their slow rhythm against her glass—Morse code for an advantage. "I own a drilling company," she said casually, as if discussing the weather. "Specializes in artesian wells. Could have water bubbling up by Friday."
Beth studied Sue Ellen’s face—the practiced nonchalance, the way her eyes held just enough calculation to betray the offer wasn’t purely charitable. "What’s the catch?" she asked, blunt as a hammer strike.
Sue Ellen’s lips curved, slow and deliberate, like a river carving through rock. "No catch, darling. Just good business. I recognize an equal when I see one. Your family name carries weight here—same as mine does in Dallas. The Duttons and the Ewings… we’re cut from the same stubborn cloth."
Beth’s fingers tightened around her glass, the condensation sticking to her palm like sweat. She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, watching Sue Ellen’s reflection fracture in the warped bar mirror behind them. "Ewings and Duttons," she repeated, testing the weight of the words. "Only difference is, your family built skyscrapers. Mine built fences."
Sue Ellen’s laugh was velvet-wrapped steel. "Skyscrapers cast longer shadows, darling, but fences draw blood faster." She leaned in, close enough for Beth to count the freckles dusted across her cheekbones. "And right now, you’re bleeding daylight trying to irrigate that dustbowl with a teaspoon."
Beth knew corporate wolves; she had spent years making backroom deals to keep developers away from the Yellowstone before desperation forced her hand elsewhere. She wasn't about to be out-negotiated in a dive bar. "If you know my family, you must know my reputation too, Sue Ellen," Beth said, her tone flattening into cold iron. "Whoever crosses me, I destroy. Same as you do." She finished her drink in one definitive gulp.
Sue Ellen’s fingers traced the rim of her glass, the motion slow as a rattlesnake considering a strike. "Oh, I know exactly who you are, Beth Dutton," she murmured, the syllables curling like smoke from a distant wildfire. "That’s why I’m sitting here instead of sending some junior executive with a contract and a cheap suit. You don’t strike me as the type who appreciates intermediaries."
Beth’s grin was all teeth. "Intermediaries are for people who can’t get their hands dirty. But you didn’t answer my question. What’s your play here? You want a cut of my land? My cattle? Or just looking to stick it to those Dallas boys by backing the woman who outmaneuvered them?"
Sue Ellen’s smile deepened. "Darling, if I wanted your dirt, I’d have bought it from under the McCreadys years ago. What I want is far more interesting."
Beth didn’t blink. "Try me."
Sue Ellen set her glass down with deliberate softness, the ice shifting like bones in a shallow grave. "There's a developer," she said, voice smooth as polished marble, "who's been buying up parcels along the Red River. Quietly. Through shell companies. He's got plans for a pipeline that would cut right through your water rights."
Beth's knuckles whitened beneath her sun-leathered skin. She'd heard whispers of this at the feed store—men in clean boots asking too many questions about mineral rights. "Let me guess," she said, thumbing a fleck of dried mud from her wrist. "Same bastard who wanted to put a helipad on my land?"
Sue Ellen's smile was a blade wrapped in silk. "One and the same, darling. Carlton Hargrove the Third. Thinks his daddy's oil money makes him untouchable." Her fingers tightened around her glass. "He's already bullied three families off their land with nuisance lawsuits and 'accidental' fence cuts."
Beth snorted, rubbing a calloused thumb along the rim of her glass. "Sounds like someone needs to introduce Mr. Third to the business end of a shotgun. But you're not here to offer me artillery advice. What's your angle?"
Sue Ellen's fingers trailed down the condensation on her glass. "My angle? Carlton's using my old money-laundering routes to move his dirty cash. Routes I built." Her smile didn't reach her eyes this time. "He's about to learn what happens when you piss on a rattlesnake's den."
Beth let out a slow whistle through her teeth. "So this is personal." She spun her glass idly, watching the ice cubes chase each other. "And you're telling me because..."
"Because, darling, you’re the only one in this godforsaken county with both the land he needs and the spine to tell him no." Sue Ellen leaned in, close enough for Beth to catch the faintest tremor in her otherwise steady hands—the only crack in the armor. "And because I’ve seen what happens when men like Carlton get desperate. They don’t play by rules. They play with fire."
Beth’s jaw tightened. She’d seen it before—developers who started with lawsuits and ended with burned barns. "So you’re offering me a well," she said slowly, "in exchange for what? Playing bait?"
Sue Ellen's lips curved like a blade being unsheathed. "Not bait, darling. A partner." She slid a business card across the bar—thick ivory stock with raised black lettering, the edges sharp enough to draw blood. "That well comes with a team of my best drillers, no strings attached. Consider it... a gesture of goodwill between equals."
Beth picked up the card, running her thumb over the embossed text. "Goodwill's free," she said, squinting at the small print. "Your drillers aren't."
Sue Ellen’s laugh was low, rich—the sound of a woman who’d built empires on the bones of men who underestimated her. "Nothing’s free in this life, darling," she said, tapping a manicured nail against the ivory card. "But some investments pay better dividends than others. I’m not asking for a cut of your land. I’m offering a stake in something far more valuable."
Beth flipped the card between her fingers, the edge catching the callus on her thumb. "And what’s that?"
Sue Ellen's gaze locked onto Bette's, unblinking. "Information. Carlton's got plans to seize mineral rights under eminent domain. Claims it's for 'public utility.' He's bought two judges already."
Beth's thumb stilled on the business card. The McCready land sat atop a shallow aquifer—nothing spectacular, but enough to irrigate her herds. "Let me guess," she said, tossing the card onto the bar with a flick of her wrist. "His pipeline needs my water table."
She leaned back on her stool, the wood creaking under her weight as she studied Sue Ellen with the same intensity she'd give a copperhead sunning itself on her porch. "So Carlton wants to siphon my water, and you're offering me a well deep enough to drown him in. That why you're really here? To play white knight with a drilling rig?"
Sue Ellen's smile was razor-thin. "Darling, I stopped playing white knight when I realized black was more flattering." She slid a peanut from the bowl between them, rolling it between her fingers like a bullet before setting it down untouched. "I'm here because Carlton's using my shell companies to file those eminent domain papers. That makes it my mess to clean up."
Beth exhaled through her nose, watching Sue Ellen's reflection warp in the whiskey bottle behind the bar. "Let me get this straight. You want to drill me a well out of the goodness of your heart—"
"Business acumen," Sue Ellen corrected smoothly.
Beth snorted, flipping the card end over end between her fingers. "Same difference in your world, huh?" She caught the card mid-air and slapped it down on the bar, the sharp crack making the bartender jump. "Fine. Drill your well. But if one of your boys so much as looks at my cattle sideways, I'll repurpose that rig for something creative."
Sue Ellen's laugh was low and approving, like the purr of a well-tuned engine. "Darling, if my men misbehave, I'll hand you the wrench myself." She reached into her purse and produced a folded map, spreading it across the bar to reveal a satellite image of the McCready land with red X's marking proposed drilling sites. "We start here," she said, tapping a spot near the property's eastern fence line. "Sandstone shelf at 120 feet. Hit water by Thursday if we're lucky."
Beth stared at Sue Ellen, a dangerous, sharp glint waking up in her eyes. "We'll play it your way for now, Sue Ellen. Because despite our differences, I see right through you. Underneath all that polish, you are basically me when I reach your age." Beth leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, husky purr. "Did I tell you how arousing that is?"
Before Sue Ellen could respond, Beth leaned in and kissed her squarely on the lips—hard, taste of raw whiskey and shared malice.
Beth pulled back, her smirk returning as she slid off the stool. "I'll be expecting your drilling crew. And as I said... they better behave."
The door swung shut behind Beth with a thud that rattled the cheap glasses stacked behind the bar. Sue Ellen didn't turn to watch her go—just traced her fingertip along the rim of her glass where Beth's lips had been moments before, the ghost of tobacco, liquor, and defiance lingering like gunpowder after a shot.
The bartender materialized with a fresh rag, pretending not to notice the smeared lipstick on Sue Ellen's mouth or the way her pulse jumped when she finally lifted her untouched drink and drained it in one long, silent swallow.
Outside, Beth's boots crunched across the gravel parking lot. Sue Ellen counted each footfall—twelve steps, then the protesting squeal of an old truck door. The engine roared to life with a sound like an angry bull, spraying gravel against the bar's siding as it tore away into the Texas night.
Some women left with a whisper. Beth Dutton exited like a thunderclap.