My Hero (17 page)

Someplace deep inside him, Cal suspected that he'd wanted to be Holly's hero, and he'd kept her in harm's way longer than necessary to accomplish his objective. That was why all the kudos and congratulations out on the street this morning had just about turned his stomach.

Just as he was coming to this less-than-heroic conclusion, Holly sat up on the bed, still holding the compress to her forehead. He was glad to see her color had come back.

“You must think I'm the biggest wimp in all creation,” she moaned.

“No, I don't. Are you feeling a little better now?”

She nodded, tentatively at first as if she were testing her head, and then with guarded enthusiasm. “A lot better, actually. Thanks for playing white knight to my dumb damsel in distress.”

“Aw, shucks, ma'am. It was nothin'.” That was the right response, wasn't it? That's how John Wayne would've responded, his eyes downcast, lifting his beefy shoulders in a shrug and toeing the ground with sincere humility. Then The Duke would've promptly changed the subject, which is what Cal proceeded to do.

“Do you like Latin music?” he asked.

Holly, intelligent woman that she was, seemed to sense a diversion. She set the compress aside, then shifted so she was sitting cross-legged on the big bed like a curious little girl not about to be denied. She cocked her head to one side, jutting out her chin. “You don't want to talk about what happened this morning?”

“Not particularly.” Attempting to rise from the floor like a guy who didn't have a bad leg and bum knee and hit-and-miss balance, Cal thought he probably looked like his own grandfather. He tried not to sound like him when he said, “I'd rather talk about tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah. Tonight. A little salsa, a little mariachi, a little whatever it is they're playing around here these days. What do you say? There's a roadhouse not too far from here. Are you game?”

Uh-oh. Apparently not, he thought, watching her lips thin and her forehead furrow. Well, hell. He wished now he'd never asked her. He wished he were dead. He'd rather face a firing squad than this woman's polite, well-meant, articulate rejection.

“Sure,” she said as her frown transformed itself into a smile. “Why not?”

Why not? All of a sudden, Cal could think of about a hundred and twenty reasons, beginning and ending with the powerful physical attraction he felt toward her. And somewhere on the list was the minor, but nevertheless significant detail that he was still a married man, even if he did have divorce looming in his future, along with possible unemployment.

Her grin turned sassy as hell and utterly delicious. “This would be an official date, right?”

“Right.” He couldn't help but grin back. “Our second, technically. Does that make a difference?”

“No. Just checking.” She unwound her legs and scooted off the bed. “It's always good to clarify these things up front. Plus…” Now she was sauntering toward him, a devilish glint in her green eyes. “I'll be glad to get all this dating out of the way so I can get my head back to business.”

Despite the fact that his heart was ramming his ribcage, Cal managed to sound cool. “Distracting you a little bit, am I?”

“A lot.”

By now she was standing less than a foot away from him, her hands on her hips and her pretty face tilted up to his. For all intents and purposes, she looked like a woman who wanted to be kissed. But Cal, former D.C. Don Juan and West Wing Lothario, didn't trust his instincts anymore.

He took a cowardly step back, in the direction of the door. “How 'bout if I pick you up at seven o'clock?”

“Perfect.”

“Okay then.” He reached out his hand and connected with the doorknob. “See you at seven.”

He left the rose-papered room so fast it wouldn't have surprised him if his Reeboks had laid rubber on Ellie's polished oak floor. After that, he detoured around the central block of Main just in case some Sunday morning stragglers felt compelled to congratulate him again. When he reached the T-bird at the high school, it wasn't even noon yet. That gave him a little more than seven hours to recover his once legendary cool and to sharpen whatever remained of his instincts where women were concerned.

Holly lay back down and draped the damp compress over her entire face, not because her head hurt, but because she'd just behaved like…like…a lap dancer or something. She certainly hadn't acted like herself. Cal had looked at her as if he no longer even recognized her just before he beat a path down the hallway and the big staircase and out of Ellie's house.

It must've been temporary insanity, Holly thought. She'd been lying here, recovering from heat prostration or hero fever or whatever it was that had struck her down, when suddenly she'd decided the only way she was going to get her mind off Cal Griffin was to surrender to this overwhelming attraction she had for the man. Trying not to think about him was a little like visiting the observation deck of the Empire State Building and trying not to think about jumping. It was like a dieter trying not to think about Pringles and Sara Lee and M&Ms.

So, when he'd suggested the date, Holly had leapt on the invitation. It just seemed so logical, so brilliant, practically inspired. She'd immerse herself in Cal Griffin tonight. She'd think about him, focus exclusively on him, breathe him, savor him, maybe even kiss him. She'd pig out on the man, and then she wouldn't be hungry anymore, and she could get her mind back on business, where it belonged.

Otherwise…

Her cell phone gave a little chirp in the depths of her handbag. Holly flung the damp compress aside. Now who in the world was calling her on a Sunday?

The word “hello” had hardly cleared her lips when she heard Mel Klein's gruff voice.

“We've got a problem, kid.”

Mel often worked on Sundays when there was no one in the office to disturb him or, as he put it, to get in what was left of his hair, so the timing of the call didn't really surprise Holly. But a problem?

“Oh. What?” she groaned, climbing back onto the big bed. If there was a problem, it could only be one thing. “They've decided to give the piece to somebody else, right? They hired another producer. I knew it. Damn. I knew it was…”

“No. Whoa. Slow down. Where'd you get that idea? You're still producing it, Holly.”

Thank God. “Well, then, what's the problem?” she asked. Or maybe she should have specified
the problem in New York,
because she already knew the problem in Texas. At the moment, her hero story was all hero and no story.

She could hear the springs in Mel's chair squeal as he leaned back and growled, “We just found out late Friday that the History Channel is putting together something similar and planning to run it the first week in October.”

“A biography of Cal Griffin?” she asked.

“No. A hero series.”

“Featuring Cal Griffin?”

“No,” he said. “I don't even know who they're featuring, but it doesn't make any difference. Hero, schmero. Bottom line is we're moving our series up a full three weeks in order to…” He chuckled. “Well, we're gonna head 'em off at the pass, to use your language, kiddo.”

“That's not my language, Mel.” Holly rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I've never said that in my life.”

“I was just twitting you, kid. Listen. Here's the deal. I need you back here no later than Thursday afternoon with all your production notes. We've lined up Wesley Cope to host Griffin's segment…”

“The Country and Western singer?”

“Yup,” he said while another chuckle rumbled in his sarcastic, city-slicker throat.

Holly hardly knew which bit of information to react to first—the sudden three-day deadline or the fact that a man notoriously long on looks and hair but short on brains would be hosting her piece. The deadline. Definitely, the deadline.

“Thursday afternoon! Mel, that doesn't even give me three whole days to wrap things up,” she exclaimed, as if wrapping up were all that was left to do, as if she
had
anything to wrap other than her arms around her hero.

“Sorry, kid. That's the deadline I'm working with on this end. We'll need the polished shooting script by the end of the following week, and then you'll go back for the actual shooting with Wesley Cope over the Fourth of July. You might want to go ahead and pin down your interviews with that in mind. Will Griffin be there over the Fourth? Do they have anything special going on in town? A parade? Fireworks?”

“I haven't the vaguest idea.” Holly thought about the events of that morning, wondering if that was enough fireworks for Mel. She wouldn't be able to use any of that in her piece, unfortunately, because of her own involvement.

“Have you managed to spend much time with him?” Mel asked.

“Griffin? Oh…yeah. A few hours here and there.”

“Have you nailed him yet?”

Holly sat up, blinking. Had she nailed him? “Excuse me?”

“Have you got a decent hook for your story?”

“Oh. Sure.” That kind of nail. Not that there was anything hanging on it yet. “It's coming right along.”

“Good. Okay. Well, I'll see you Thursday afternoon, kid. Cheryl will get your ticket. You might want to check back with her tomorrow or Tuesday.”

“Okay. See you Thursday.”

Holly broke the connection, then sat there envisioning her career as a small skiff being captained by the Tid-E-Bol guy, going around and around in ever-decreasing circles, about to disappear in one gigantic flush.

Ruth and Dooley got back from Corpus Christi at two o'clock Sunday afternoon. The new restaurant—
Ma Maison
—where they'd dined the night before hadn't been any great shakes in Ruth's opinion. The upholstered chairs and the quilted tablecloths had been an interesting touch, but overall the décor, the excellent service and a fine wine list hadn't made up for the fact that the chef, Paul somebody, supposedly from Paris by way of New Orleans, was a disaster.

His veal was overcooked, its texture reminding Ruth of the thin sole of a bedroom slipper. His pasta was at least two minutes past
al dente
—even Dooley agreed that the linguine was pretty near mushy—and his salad of field greens, roasted beets, and walnuts was overwhelmed by the Feta. Upon leaving the restaurant, Ruth had felt quietly smug, as well as newly inspired to open her own place.

Corpus was now on her list of possible sites not only because of the dearth of fine restaurants, but because she and Dooley had so enjoyed the view of the Gulf through their wide balcony door. That view had been inspirational, too. She couldn't even remember the last time they'd made love twice—in moonshine and then again at sunrise.

Still, it was good to be back at the ranch. She always liked coming home. Not that she ever went away all that much. As she stepped down from the pickup, she could hear the phone ringing inside the house.

“Let it ring,” Dooley said, catching her in his rangey arms as she came around the front of the truck. He nuzzled his soft mustache into her neck while his hand slipped beneath her shirt. “Let's go back, Ruthie. Right now. This minute. Let's jump in the truck and drive back to that motel room.”

“Dooley Reese!” She laughed, and briefly considered her husband's proposition before she frowned and said, “Let go now. I've got to answer the phone.”

“Cal's home.” He angled his head toward the Thunderbird parked just in front of their truck. “Let him get it.”

“You know he won't.”

“Then let the damned thing ring.”

“I can't do that.” She pushed gently out of his embrace, and then began tucking in her shirt as she headed around toward the rear of the house and the kitchen door. Her herb garden hadn't suffered in her absence, she was happy to see. She'd forgotten to ask Cal to water it, but he wouldn't have remembered anyway.

Her kitchen always made her smile when she first entered, whether it was first thing in the morning or arriving back home after being away, even for an hour or two. She grabbed the phone on what must have been its twentieth ring.

“Mrs. Reese? This is Chuck Bingham of Bingham Properties.”

“Oh! Good morning, Mr. Bingham. Or I guess I should say good afternoon. Were you able to get by the ranch yesterday?” Damn. She wished she'd had a chance to talk to Cal about the man's visit. She felt at a distinct disadvantage, not knowing who the prospective buyer was or how he'd reacted to the ranch yesterday.

“Yes, we did. And I think I have some very good news for you,” the realtor said.

Ruth's heart felt like a fist surging up in her throat. Was this it? Was she finally going to have the money to finance her dream? She could hardly breathe. “Well, that's wonderful,” she said, trying not to sound too eager.

“My client's interested in the entire fifteen hundred acres . ..”

Damn. Her calculator was on the desk in the living room, and she wasn't on the portable phone.

“…and he's willing to go as high as two hundred thirty-three dollars per acre.”

Ruth blinked. Two hundred thirty-three? She didn't need a damn calculator to confirm that it was less than half the six-hundred-dollar-per-acre figure she had in mind. She swallowed the anger and disappointment that were rising in her, told herself this was business and that the man was simply opening negotiations. She needed to be cool and clearheaded.

“I'm willing to listen to a higher bid, Mr. Bingham,” she said, pleased with her tone. Friendly but forceful. A steel door, but one that was still open.

“That's as high as he's willing to go,” Bingham said. “In all honesty, Mrs. Reese, I think it's a very generous offer in light of the problems at Rancho Allegro.”

“What problems?”

“Well, you know.” He laughed nervously. The man sounded like a jackass. “That business with the titanium. You know. The dead goats. All that.”

“The titanium.” Ruth's voice was flat now and sour as curdled milk. Her foot began to tap on the floor. “Dead goats. You must've talked to my brother yesterday.”

Across the kitchen Dooley walked in the door, all smiles, while the realtor was replying, “Your brother? No. No, I don't believe I did. I spoke with a Mr. Bascom, one of your neighbors, and his wife. They stopped to chat while we were looking at the northern acreage of the ranch. Oh, and by the way, Mrs. Reese, I wonder if you have Mr. Bascom's phone number. My client wanted to make him an offer on his Thun-derbird.”