Along Came a Cowboy (11 page)

“And Jenn has mentioned him a few times.”

“What did she say about him?”

“She said he's nice, and she thinks he likes you.”

“He doesn't—”

“Oh, and that he's drop-dead gorgeous for an old man.”

I laugh. “Yeah, well, she's got that right. Which is just another strike against him.”

“I didn't realize he was up to bat,” she says.

I gently slap my forehead. Why did I say that? She'll never let it drop now.

“You know, Tam, there's a reason people use the phrase ‘devastatingly handsome.' ”

“Isn't that a little judgmental?”

Only a sister knows how to hit where it hurts. I can't stand
for people to judge without basis. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you don't like him because he's a cute cowboy. What would you call that?”

“Smart?” I pop off then sigh. “I know you're right, but there's more to it.”

“Something to do with the past?”

I lean against the wooden railing of my deck and dial my voice down a notch. “He was there that summer. He was part of Brett's crowd. I'm afraid he knows.”

I close my eyes, and for a brief second, I actually see him—a thinner, ganglier Jack, laughing with Brett's crowd. Reckless. Cocky. Maybe, hopefully, oblivious.

“Does he act like he knows?”

I close my eyes against the tears that are pricking. “No. But even if he doesn't, he might remember more than he realizes. He might eventually put two and two together.”

“God's forgiven you, Rach. You've got to let it go and forgive yourself.”

I let out a trembly laugh. “If I had a piece of chocolate for every time you've told me that. . .but it's hard to let go of the past.”

“You know what, Rach? Don't let go of it. Your past made you the amazing woman you are today. But you still need to embrace the future, free of shame and guilt.”

I hear her fumbling around, and I open my eyes and grin. “Did you just write that down?” Tammy's a speechwriter, and sometimes her speeches flow over into her conversations. Or rather, her conversations flow over into her speeches.

She gives an embarrassed chuckle. “You know me too well. But I meant it. Call me later. Love you.”

We hang up, and I linger for a few minutes to watch the fireflies playing tag in the dark.

I tilt my face to the night sky and close my eyes.
Lord, You know I don't know what I'm doing. Please forgive me of the past. And help me.

The back door creaks. I swing around. Jennifer stands in the doorway squinting to adjust her eyes to the darkness. She's almost as tall as I am. How did she grow up so soon?

“Aunt Rachel?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you walk with me out to the car? I left my iPod out there, and I'm scared to go by myself.”

I grin, relieved in spite of myself. Maybe she's not so grown up after all. “Sure.”

I
'm a few minutes early for the next committee meeting, but Jack is waiting. He jumps up to pull out my chair.

“Hey,” I say and plop Ron's notebook onto the vinyl-topped table. “So, how do we get a real meeting started? We never made it that far last time.”

Jack clears his throat. “Um, before we get started, I gotta tell ya that a reporter called me today and asked when the next meeting was. I figured we could use all the media exposure for the rodeo we could get, so. . .”

“A reporter?” Uh-oh. “What reporter?”

“There she is now.” Jack pushes to his feet again.

I turn to look at the door and groan. I should have known.

Channel 6's
Wake Up, Shady Grove
has a reality show segment called “Get Real, Shady Grove.” Blair Winchester, the station's star anchorwoman, has decided it will be great fun to stick her nose into—I mean, get impromptu footage of—the various workings of the centennial celebration. I'd gotten my fill of her on-air manipulations when she'd followed Allie's landscaping crew, including me, around with a camera, trying to make us look stupid. I'd really hoped the rodeo preparations
would escape her notice, but apparently not.

I stand and brace myself as she approaches our table with a cameraman right behind her. “Blair,” I murmur in way of greeting, but I needn't have bothered.

She ignores me and swoops in on Jack like a starving buzzard over roadkill. “I'm Blair Winchester. It's such an honor to meet you. I've watched you ride bulls so many times and never thought I'd get a chance to meet you in person.”

Jack's face reddens, and he ducks his head. “Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Win—”

She throws back her head and laughs, a musical trill that she definitely practices at home. “You can call me Blair. But it's
Miss
. I'm single. And I'm planning to stay that way.” She bats her heavy-with-mascara lashes at him then has the audacity to give him a sly wink. “Unless I meet someone who makes me an offer I can't refuse.”

Oh, brother. Can we say obvious?

Blair slides into the chair opposite me. As Jack sits back down between us, she scoots over close to him and pats his hand, showing off her signature long red fingernails. “I'll just be a fly on the wall. You won't even notice I'm here.”

Her perfume alone makes that an impossibility, but I sit down and open my notebook.

She motions the cameraman to start rolling. “Sooo,” she purrs to Jack, “what time do you think the meeting will start?”

He looks at me and raises a brow. “You ready to get this done?”

I nod.

Blair frowns, but I notice her forehead doesn't wrinkle. Oh, the wonders of Botox. “Where is the rest of the committee?”

“For right now, I'm it.” I tap my notebook and look at Jack. “First let's talk about the concession stand.”

“Wait,” Blair interjects, the buzziest fly on the wall I've ever seen. “Do you mean our fair city's centennial celebration committee consists of one person?”

“No, but the other members weren't able to make it tonight,” I say through clenched teeth. No use in even telling her that I'm just filling in.

“Weren't able to make it?” she asks. “Why not?”

“Personal reasons.” She's a reporter; let her figure it out. “Now if you'll excuse us, we need to get a few details taken care of.”

She sits back in her chair and crosses her legs. Could that suit skirt be any shorter?

I start with the concession stand items, partly because I figure this is the least controversial, and I'm not about to fuel Blair's apparent love of tabloid-style reporting.

Jack pulls out two pieces of paper from his folder, keeps one, and gives me one.

I read the list of conventional concession stand items: hot dogs, popcorn, nachos, candy.

“Uh, Jack, I was thinking that maybe this year, we could, you know, maybe add some healthy alternatives. Sliced apples? Salad in a bag?” I put down the sheet. “I saw this company that makes vegetable wraps, and they looked so—”

“You're kidding, right?”

I expect the words from Jack, perhaps, but not Blair, who has apparently lost all attempts at objectivity. “Health food at a rodeo?” She leans back, shaking her blond curls, one eyebrow cocked. “Puh–lease.”

I glance at Jack. I see what looks like a small battle waging on his face, between agreeing with her and not wanting to make a scene on local television.

Oh yeah, that's right.
Local television
. I shoot a glance at the camera and pick up the sheet of concession items.

“This is a good start, however.”

Jack gives me the briefest of dubious looks before he says, “Our company orders the food and provides people to work the concession stand.”

I remember what Ron said about saving money. “I thought we'd have volunteers do that.” Oops, more controversy. I force a smile.

He shrugs. “If you want to, you can, but most people find it easier to let us do it.”

“For a larger cut of the profits.” I lower my voice as I say this, though. Maybe they won't catch it on camera.

“Well, yes.” A wry grin edges his lips upward. “We don't do it for free.”

“Normally I'd say let's do it the easiest way, but I crunched some numbers earlier, and unless we figure out a way to raise the attendance figures above average, we won't be making much of a profit anyway. So I vote volunteers.”

“Whatever you think,” Jack says.

See, that wasn't so hard. We'll get back to the food later. Meanwhile, I turn to Blair. Might as well make use of her presence. “If you could put out an on-air call for concession stand volunteers. . .”

She smirks. “ ‘Get Real, Shady Grove' is about the funny side of the celebration preparations. It's not a charity drive.”

“I thought you might want to do something useful for a change,” I mutter.

She seems to take that as some sort of subtexted line in the sand, because she leans forward, pushes her microphone in my face, and asks sweetly, “The last time we saw you involved in the centennial celebration, you were showing off your very amateur landscaping skills.”

It takes all my willpower to return her smile, but I remember
how skillful she is at editing these clips. “Yes, I worked with my friend Allie Richards of TLC Landscaping. She won the competition and is now in charge of the landscaping for the city of Shady Grove.”

Blair's nostrils flare, but she quickly recovers. “So is this another case of helping someone you care about? What”—she gives a pointed look at Jack—“or should I say who, has fired your passion for the centennial celebration rodeo, Dr. Donovan?”

I give her my best professional smile. “Maybe we can do an interview later, but right now we're in the middle of a meeting.”

Jack is grinning.

Blair shoots me a glare.

Jack's smile dims. He clears his throat and hands me a new paper. “Here's the proposed program order.”

I look down at the straightforward list of rodeo events.

“I wrote these out in the usual order, but if we have a lot of contestants in the junior events, maybe we should consider doing ten-ten-ten.”

I give him a benign smile, determined not to show my ignorance in front of Blair.

He apparently picks up on my confusion—hopefully the camera doesn't—because he jumps in to expound. “We'd start off with the little guys mutton busting, but then we'd have ten contestants in the sorting, ten in the goat tying—”

“Goat tying?” I shake my head. “Are we locked into these events?”

“Why?” Jack asks.

“Because I've always thought goat tying was barbaric.” I must sound like a softhearted idiot, but I can't help it. “Have you seen one of those little goats? Poor little fella. After the contestant unties him, he lies there and pretends he's dead—”
I break off as I notice Blair motion the cameraman to zoom in on me. Oops, again.

“We can discuss it later.”

Blair pastes on what I'm coming to think of as her buzzard smile. She has an unerring radar for weak spots. “Dr. Donovan, I would guess that your committee needs publicity for the rodeo. If you don't let us have a behind-the-scenes feel, then how can you expect to raise interest?” Apparently it's a rhetorical question, because she turns to Jack. “I've never seen goat tying, but it certainly
sounds
barbaric. What do you think?”

He gives me a level look that I roughly translate into “Why did you get me into this crazy mess?” then turns his gaze back to her. “I guess it just depends on how you look at it. Goats are known for being stubborn, and they're certainly not mistreated in our rodeos.”

“Do you feel they're mistreated, Dr. Donovan?”

Oh good grief. Jack cocks his head as if he's truly interested and not holding himself back from strangling me. Committee meetings—more fun than a barrel of goats.

I keep my voice cool. “It's been a long time since I've been to a rodeo.” I run my finger along the list of events and stare for a second at my short, unpainted nails. Prada versus practicality—that's Blair and me. But I will not rise to her bait. “You were explaining the ten-ten-ten schedule,” I remind Jack. Code for “Let's keep going and get this over with.”

Jack nods. “Yes, so after the mutton busting, we'd just have ten contestants in each event, the barrels, the poles, and so on, until the bull riding. Then, after we do all the bull riders, we'd start over with the remaining contestants in the other events and call out the winners.”

I frown. “What's the logic in doing it that way?”

He leans forward. “Keeps the crowd from getting bored.
Most people are waiting for the bull riding.”

“Says who?”

Okay, so that sounds a little junior-highish, but as a former barrel-racing champion, I'm insulted to the tips of my figurative cowgirl boots.

Blair's laugh trills through the room. Clearly, I'm also hilarious.