Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning (5 page)

“You did
what
? Are you crazy?”

“I don’t see what harm it can do —”

“Oh, let’s see. Number one, Angela. Think barracuda. And you’re about to toss lunch in the pool. Number two, he’s a
cowboy
.”

“Rancher,” Donna had murmured.

Lydia either didn’t hear or ignored the correction. “You did see the end of ‘Blazing Saddles,’ didn’t you? Where the cowboy types crash through the studio walls and get into a brawl with the musical types?”

“That was just silliness.”

“All good humor is based on truth,” Lydia declared haughtily. “The two do not mix. What is your cowboy going to think when some of the boys hit on him? Number three,” she pursued, “ships passing in the night do not get entangled. Are you getting entangled?”

“No, of course not.”

She might have undercut her denial by speeding away to find Ed and escort him to the party.

At the entrance to the stage, which had been transformed for the occasion into a buffet with open bar, she held him back with a hand on his arm.

“Uh, Ed, you know, uh, theater people are probably different from a lot you’ve met.”

“You’re different from anyone I’ve met.”

Heat spread, inside and out, making it difficult to catch her breath. “I don’t mean me, I mean . . . uh, some of the guys are not like you.” Now, why had she addressed that, when what she really wanted to do was warn him about Angela.

His face went solemn, but she saw the telltale glint in his eyes. “You know, I haven’t spent much time in big cities, but you’d be amazed the things we see on the ranch. Did you know some bulls prefer other bulls to cows?”

Three sounds came simultaneously: Her gasp of “
Really
?”, Ed’s chuckle, and the urgent call of her name.

“Donna!” An executive with the company producing the tour rushed up. His job was to grab spots on theaters’ future schedules. “Didn’t you go to school out in the middle of the country?”

“There are lots of schools in the middle of the country. Which one? I went to Indiana University, but — No, wait —”

“That’s the one —” Randall Witmeyer was already tugging her across the stage. “A member of the board went there and saw it in your Playbill bio. Need you to charm and delight as you always do.”

“But— Ed?”

“Don’t worry.” Ed smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

She saw he
was
fine, even as she was thrust at the elderly member of the board like a sacrifice in front of a cranky god. Lydia hooked an arm in Ed’s, and Donna felt a little better. A little later, Maudie joined them, and then she relaxed enough to truly concentrate on the board member.

They had a good time talking about the Bloomington campus, and how it had changed from his years there to hers. Such a good time that when they parted, with his wife insisting he meet the orchestra’s director, Donna had lost track of Ed.

A jolt hit her bloodstream as she spotted him.

A second jolt hit when she realized neither Maudie nor Lydia was with him, but Angela was.

Before she took a step toward him, a voice behind her left ear said, “Who knew you could find anyone that presentable from Denver?”

Henri played Vittorio Vidal as well as forming part of the ensemble. He and Donna had hit it off immediately. Possibly because she listened to the ups and downs of his stormy relationship with Brad with care combined with drama-dampening matter-of-factness.

Over her shoulder, he also looked across the room at Ed, who was talking with the chair of the theater’s board of directors, the top executive, Randall Witmeyer, and Angela.

“Not Denver,” she said absently. “Knighton, Wyoming. Actually, a ranch outside it.”

“Oh, my. You mean the cowboy hat’s the real thing?”

“The real thing.”

He moved around to beside her, peering into her face. “Oh, my,” he repeated, with entirely different inflection.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He turned back toward Ed and the others. “He seems to be holding his own with the locals
and
our tribe. Impressive.”

“I know,” she said.

“No visible signs of our Angel of Death feasting on him.”

She forced herself to not chew her lip. “You don’t think so?”

“Not a one. He’s obviously talented in sidestepping and pretending deafness. He was telling me earlier —”

She twisted around, grabbed Henri by the shirt, and placed him so she could see him and Ed at the same time. “You were talking to him? What did you say? What did you tell him?”

“Not a thing! I swear.” He dropped his innocent hands and act. “Except what a wonder our Donna is.”

“Henri, you didn’t . . . You weren’t too outrageous were you?”

“Outrageous?
Moi
?”

At that moment, Ed looked over and gave her a small part of his smile, a public version of ones he’d given her alone, and even that pale edition was enough to have Henri returning to his, “Oh, my,” and fanning himself. He sighed. “What a shame that isn’t a ‘Midnight Cowboy’ kind of hat.”

Donna laughed and swatted him. “You’re as bad as he is.”

“Oh, that sounds delightful. Do tell.”

But she’d headed toward Ed, and she wasn’t going to postpone to explain to Henri. Especially not since Ed’s smile widened with each step she took.

They were strangers with a mutual attraction. Okay, a strong mutual attraction. A
very
strong mutual attraction.

Last night’s kiss . . .

No. They were strangers. More important, she’d never entered a relationship she didn’t think might have a future, and this one had none.

Its end was scheduled. So, there was no sense starting it.

Yet . . . they were connected. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew they were connected. The connection tugged her toward him, step by step. As if her walk followed a line stretching from her to him and back again. Possibly a line of something that conducted electricity, from the way she felt.

As long as she remembers they’re just ships passing in the night and not to get tangled up
. . . .
Are you getting entangled
?

Of course not
.

Just . . . connected.

Ed said something to the group he was with, and turned toward her. She forgot about Lydia’s voice in her head. She didn’t care about Angela’s narrowed eyes. She focused on Ed.

He was going to take her hands in his. Maybe take her in his arms —

But as they met, before they could touch, Henri was there beside her again.

“Ah, so, this is the so-famous gentleman from Wyoming,” he said with a flirty smile. “We weren’t properly introduced before.”

“Henri —”

Ed caught several layers of warnings to her friend in Donna’s voice, along with exasperation.

“Yes, yes, I know, you want me to go away. But if you think for a moment, and if you see —
without
looking around, thank you very much — that our not-so-sweet Charity is considering which knife to throw at you first, you will come to thank your dear Henri for making this a threesome. So to speak.”

Donna sighed in acceptance of her friend’s concern, which put Ed on alert. He had no problem turning aside Angela’s less than subtle advances, a skill learned while rodeoing, but if the older woman posed any threat to Donna, he wanted to hear more.

“Ed, this is Henri LeFleur. Don’t believe the name or accent. He’s as American as we are. Henri, this is Ed Currick, who will not fall for your shtick. And, if you try to use Ed to make Brad jealous, I will
not
be happy.” She propped her hands on her hips. “Do you understand?”

“Oh, Donna, so much distrust in one so young and lovely is not becoming. Causes wrinkles.” Henri gestured to a spot between his eyebrows. “Besides, as it happens, our young Ed here has already met Brad. Now, aren’t you sorry you wronged me? And the conversation was entirely innocent. Entirely just us guys.”

He dropped to bass on the last three words, drawing a chuckle from Ed.

He’d felt the tension between Henri and Brad when Lydia had introduced them, and he was pretty sure he’d have figured it out even if Donna hadn’t given it away.

She hadn’t wanted him caught off guard. Or did she fear he’d be shocked? Either way, she’d been looking out for him. That felt good.

“What did you talk about?” Donna asked, clearly considering him the more reliable source.

“The bus breakdown, theater construction, the tour’s schedule, and pro football.”

“Pro football,” Henri repeated with a little shiver. Then he perked up. “Ah, there is estimable Maudie, along with Lydia. The reinforcements needed for the job of protective coloring I have borne on my own. I beckon and, yes, they begin to come this way.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Donna said. But she flashed Ed a look, and he suspected the one he returned ratcheted up the heat a degree or ten.

“
Please
.” Henri drew it out until they both looked at him. “You are making me blush with these glances. What a shame our Angel of Death hovers and the music isn’t right, or you two could at least dance. These hotly longing looks are generally thought acceptable on a dance floor.”

“Sorry, can’t dance,” Ed said.

“Oh, no,” protested Henri, “your line should be
‘
I Won’t Dance.’ ”

“I would if I could, at least with Donna, but I can’t.”

“No, no, it must be
won’t
dance,” insisted Henri, looking from one to the other with significance. “There is a song ‘I Won’t Dance’ in one of those Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies our Donna so loves.”

Ed saw brighter color seeping into her cheeks. She knew what was coming. With more interest, he turned to listen to Henri.

“And according to the song, the reason Fred won’t dance with Ginger is not because he can’t, but because it would be far too tempting to do something else entirely. Yes, I think the line fits this situation, perfectly. If he puts his arms around her, it
won’t
be to dance.”

“Were you really talking to Brad about football?” she asked Ed. She’d decided to ignore the topic of Henri’s outrageous banter. “Brad hardly talks to anybody. Usually just barks.”

They’d filled plates at the buffet, then found a quiet, dim corner well back from the party and its chatter. To enjoy their meal in peace, she’d said.

They’d long finished eating, and neither made a move to leave their seclusion.

“Yep, really was. Also about your upcoming schedule. He seems to be looking forward to your show being in San Francisco for Christmas.”

“San Francisco?” She focused on the holiday-themed napkin she was twisting in her hands. It showed two red bells, sporting gold bows against boughs of greenery. “I just knew we’d be in California.”

She hadn’t looked at the schedule since Thanksgiving. Except for one specific element.

“How much longer are you here?”

That
was the one element she’d checked. Earlier today. Trying to pretend she didn’t know why she was interested.

“We leave a week from Sunday, right after the show.” At its most generous count, ten days away. Aiming for offhand, she asked, “When does the stock show end?”

“Sunday.” She started to smile at the serendipity, then he added, “Day after tomorrow.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “When are you leaving?”

“Supposed to check out Monday.”

No.

For a long moment of suspended heartbeat and held breath that was the only thought to come. Then more rushed in.

No. That’s too fast. No time at all. He can’t leave so fast. It can’t be over. Not yet. Not before they’d even —

“What about your schedule for the rest of the — run, you call it?” he asked.

She blinked. Shaken by her own thoughts. Trying to get her mind to grapple with the simple information to answer him.

“We have two-a-days tomorrow and Sunday. Then we’re off Monday.”

But his stock show ended tomorrow. He’d be gone before she had her day off. Gone before —

Before they made love
.

Yes.

That was what was in her mind. In her bloodstream.

Making love with Ed Currick.

This man she barely knew. A relationship whose ending was as immutable as the date on a calendar.

She shot a look at him, and found his attention fully on her.

Oh, God. She wanted to make love with him
.

“The, uh, the rest of next week should be more routine. It’s a saying that the company lives for Week Twos. We have more time off, we can explore the city we’re in or —” She steered around “or.” “Then two-a-days Saturday, before Sunday . . .”

. . . before Sunday’s finale and departure
.

He’d be long gone. Back to Knighton, Wyoming. Back to the ranch that had been in his family for generations.

She didn’t want to think of moving-ons. Not hers, not his.

She dropped her head, smoothing the napkin out on her thigh, carefully ironing the creases and wrinkles with her fingers.

“Christmas is coming, huh?” he said, looking over her shoulder at the napkin. He sounded a little forced. He tapped a fingertip to the greenery behind the bells. The touch gathered heat as it traveled through the napkin, her slacks and into her skin. “Looks like snowberry. We have some on the Slash-C.”

He’d leave so soon, return to his ranch, to where they had snowberry for real, not just as illustrations on napkins.

He’d leave.

She’d never see him again. Never . . .

But they had now.

They had
now.

They had
tonight
.

They had to have tonight.

Could she do it?

“Snowberry. Sounds like the perfect plant for Christmas,” she said, brightly. She knew she said it brightly, because she hit the exact intonation she’d used for Ado Annie in “Oklahoma” in college, when the director said he wanted
brightly
, then called it perfect. “My favorite time of the year. I bet you decorate with snowberry.”

If she stretched up, touched her lips to his . . .

She ducked her head, the wanting and the uncertainty both too much, and said, with every bit of Ado Annie brightness she possessed, “I love Christmas decorations, don’t you?”