The Cowgirl's Man

2

CLAY CLIMBED INTO his dusty black pickup truck and drove out of Hard Knox, Texas, in a blue funk. Hell, no wonder Niki Keene declined to compete. She didn’t have to. Her friends and family would do it for her.

Thinking dark thoughts, he headed east. Eventually he’d hit Highway 35 and then it was a straight shot north to Dallas. It wouldn’t take him more than five, six hours at the most.

That was five or six hours to brood over the delectable but elusive Niki Keene. Jeez!

By the time she’d reached his table at the Sorry Bastard, he’d been tight as a drum and jumpy as a mustang with a burr under its saddle. The way people in that town talked, she was some kind of goddess or something. That didn’t sit too well with Clay since he was the one accustomed to such adulation, not the other way around.

Of course, in all fairness he had to remind himself that none of that came from her. Her only crime appeared to be a reluctance to be judged…how had she put it? Like a Holstein cow.

That brought a reluctant grin. So, she had a sense of humor. Big deal.

She also had a whole pack of other titles judging from what he’d seen on the back wall of the Sorry Bastard. She’d been named every Miss-Whoever-That-Came-Down-The-Pike. She was on a roll, gathering in every beauty title around. So what was Queen of the Cowgirls, chopped liver?

Brooding mile after mile, he hit the highway just north of Austin and turned north. By then he’d just about convinced himself that:

One, Niki Keene wasn’t as good-looking as he’d at first thought.

Two, if she didn’t want to compete for the title, he, for one, wouldn’t try to force it on her.

And three, she must not be too bright because if she had the sense God gave a goose, she’d see what a great opportunity this was.

But damn! She’d been wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds and she filled them out real good.

CLAY SLEPT late the next morning in the small but luxurious apartment Mother Hubbard herself had provided for a home base while he ran her errands. Although he rarely used it and considered his uncle’s spread in Oklahoma an uneasy home, it had turned out to be a handy pied-a-terre, as Mother called it.

“Ped-a-what?” Clay had demanded incredulously.

“Home away from home, dear boy,” she’d explained with a somewhat superior smile. “C’est la vie!”

That was Mother Hubbard.

He took his time over breakfast at a handy diner before heading for the head office of Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds. He’d come to know the towering steel-and-glass structure since he’d been hired as company spokesman just over two years ago.

At first he’d felt ridiculous, getting all duded up and having his picture taken with all the solemnity of an Important Happening. After a while he got used to it, though, and now it was just another job—a job that brought in big bucks.

“Mr. Russell!” The receptionist beamed at him. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks, Marla. The boss lady in town?” He rolled his eyes toward the elevators that rose to the top floor where Mother Hubbard held court.

Marla’s smile revealed perfect teeth. “Not only that—she’s expecting you.”

“She doesn’t even know I’m in town,” he objected, startled by her comment.

She shrugged, eyes widening. “Don’t ask me, I just work here. But I’ve heard it said she has eyes in the back of her head.” Smiling, she returned her attention to her computer screen.

Clay crossed the lobby toward the elevator, his boot heels clicking on the marble. Mother always seemed to know everything so why was he surprised? Punching the up-button, he waited patiently, his gaze wandering around the lobby, sensing a change.

Something new had been added: a blowup of a famous old ad campaign that had sold a helluva lot of denim. It featured “Mother Hubbard,” a lovely white-haired little old lady who—now that he noticed—looked a lot like Niki Keene’s grandma. She looked straight into the camera, pointing her finger and wearing a mischievous smile while declaring, “You should listen to your mother!”

Yeah, he thought as he stepped into the elevator. Listening to Mother Hubbard was what had gotten him into this strange world in the first place—that and a ton of money.

THE REAL Mother Hubbard looked absolutely nothing like “Mother Hubbard,” a fact that never failed to startle Clay. The first time he’d met the sleek, blond and sophisticated Eve Hubbard he’d thought it was a joke.

It wasn’t. Eve herself had explained why she’d hired an actress to play the part of Mother Hubbard in public—because Eve herself was not the image she wanted for her company. When the actress died three years ago, Clay had been brought in as spokesman to “take the company in a new direction.”

“I design the clothes because I love them, but I can’t wear them and I sure as hell can’t represent them properly in public,” Eve had explained bluntly, her scarlet mouth curving down in an unhappy line. “I just don’t project the proper image, hence the Queen of the Cowgirls contest.”

She’d winked. “Every cowboy needs a queen,” she’d said. “I’m doing this for you, dear.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You’re only half the package, darling. When I launched this company twenty years ago on a damned shoestring, I vowed never to let vanity, mine or anybody else’s, get between me and a strong bottom line.”

She obviously never had. Today her company was a multi-million-dollar success with Eve still flying high as chief designer and eccentric head honcho. Aggressive and smart, she terrorized most of the people she dealt with.

Clay liked her.

Her secretary waved him through with a smile and he entered the plush and modern office—another shock considering that the company produced down-home western styles. Eve rose quickly from behind a massive glass-and-chrome desk, her sleek red suit the only touch of color in the room.

“Darling!” Coming around the desk, she offered her porcelain cheek for his kiss.

“Howdy, Mother.” He pressed his lips to her cool skin.

“Do tell me about your adventures.” She plucked a manila folder off the desk before drawing him toward a black leather couch near the glass wall.

“Saw a lot of good-lookin’ women.” He sat down beside her.

“Twelve of them?” Eve asked sharply, spilling out the contents of the folder on the cocktail table: the eight-by-ten glossy photographs which had earned these women entrance into the finalists’ round. “Any duds, pardon the expression, in the bunch?”

Clay laughed. “Not a one. They’re all real good-lookers.”

“How about the girl from Tulsa?” She slid a photo from the messy pile before her and held it up.

“Pretty, but she’s kinda…guess you’d call it inarticulate. Put a microphone in her face and she starts to giggle.”

“She’s out, then.”

Startled, Clay frowned, thinking that the rest of the contest judges might not agree with her.

“How about that one near Denver?” She held up another photo, this one of a dazzling green-eyed blonde.

“A possibility. She looks good but there’s something kinda… I guess you’d say cold about her. Her personality, I mean.”

“I wonder if that would photograph,” Eve mused, squinting at the color likeness. She sighed and tossed it aside. “Let me think…. There’s got to be one in this group who’s just right.” She brightened. “How about the girl in that little jerkwater town south of here… Hard Hat, Hard Work—something like that.”

“Hard Knox.”

“That’s it.” Eve pulled out a photograph of Niki wearing a big grin and a Stetson. “How was she?”

How was she? Clay stared at the picture, startled all over again by the brilliance of those dark blue eyes, the vitality of the straight black hair. He’d spent most of the night trying to figure her out and failed miserably.

“She’s…a good possibility,” he said carefully, surprised to find he wasn’t ready to explain Niki’s reluctance to participate just yet.

“And the girl in Cheyenne…”

Eve continued questioning Clay closely and he answered as fully as he could, considering the fact that most of the things she wanted to know weren’t really things he noticed—carriage, grace, presence. If that’s what Eve wanted, she should have sent someone else.

The only contestant he’d noticed who had all those things to any discernable degree was Niki Keene and she didn’t want any part of the Queen of the Cowgirls competition. He really should tell Eve and get it over with but she was going to ask a bunch of questions he wasn’t prepared to answer so to hell with it.

“How many were wearing my clothes?” she asked suddenly, her expression moving from inquiring to serious.

He was ready for that question but sorry it had come so early in the proceedings. “Only one that I’m sure of,” he said slowly. “Niki Keene was wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds but—”

“Niki Keene…this pretty thing?” She waved the picture.

“Yes, but—”

“Can she talk beyond monosyllables?”

“Yes, but—”

“Is she as attractive in person?”

“More so.”

“Guess that settles it, then.”

“Settles what?”

“The winner of the first Queen of the Cowgirls title. That’s what we’ve been talking about, right?”

“Sure, but—”

“What’s your problem, darling?” she snapped. “Aren’t you used to women who can make decisions?” To emphasize her point, she snapped her scarlet-tipped fingers.

“I thought this was an honest contest,” he blurted.

“It is.”

“How can it be if you just decide who the winner is on a whim?”

“Good grief, the boy’s disillusioned!” Smiling almost diabolically, she patted his knee. “Don’t be. I always go with my gut instincts which is what makes me great.” She raised one carefully groomed brow. “Besides, I’m the final judge so what difference does it make if I pick the winner now or later?”

“I’d guess it makes a lot of difference to the other contestants.”

“Don’t get huffy, dear boy. They won’t know. It’ll be our little secret, if that makes you feel any better.”

“It doesn’t,” he said bluntly. “Before this goes any further, there’s something I think you need to know.”

She straightened and her hazel eyes narrowed fractionally. “Such as?”

“Niki Keene has shown a certain…reluctance to compete.”

“What the hell does ‘a certain reluctance’ mean?”

“That when the mayor made the announcement and presented the certificate, she said thanks but no thanks—and that’s a direct quote.”

Eve’s shock was almost comical. “You’re kidding!”

“I wish.”

“But…what woman in her right mind would turn down this kind of opportunity? Women have committed murder for less!”

“That’s what her friends and family were asking. She just kept saying she wasn’t interested.”

“Hmmm…” She rose to stalk to the desk and back again. Stopping, she fixed him with a determined gaze. “Did she mean it?”

“Sounded like it to me.”

“Hmm… You say she’s as gorgeous in person as she is in that picture?”

“Gorgeous-er, even.”

“And she was wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds.”

“That’s right.” And she looked damn good in them. “But if she doesn’t want to compete, nobody can force her,” he pointed out.

“Who’s talking force?” Eve’s head lifted and she grinned suddenly, as if she’d just puzzled out the problem to her satisfaction. “I’m more subtle than that, darling.”

“You could’a fooled me,” he observed dryly. “How do you intend to pull off this miracle of persuasion?”

“Not me, love. You. You’re going to convince our reluctant heroine that she longs for the Queen of the Cowgirls title more than anything in her entire little world.”

“No way!” He stared at her, appalled. “How am I, a perfect stranger, supposed to—”

“That’s the key, because you are perfect, stranger or otherwise. Why do you think I signed you on as Mother’s spokesman? Because you support charitable causes and are kind to kids and animals?”

“How do you know I’m kind to—?”

“I have ways of finding these things out.” She waved off his astonishment. “With your looks and charm, she won’t stand a chance.”

“Gimme a break.” Embarrassed, he sunk lower into the butter-soft leather. “I can’t just—”

“You certainly can. I want you to hightail it back to Hard Times—”

“Hard Knox.”

“—and convince this girl that she must compete.” She marched to her desk and sat down, began pulling open drawers in search of something, adding, “Without telling her the contest is basically fixed, of course.”

Clay gritted his teeth. This was not shaping up to his liking. “No,” he said. “I won’t do it.”

She pulled a sheaf of papers from a drawer with an exclamation of satisfaction, slammed the drawer closed again and leaned back in her massive leather chair. “Of course you’ll do it.”

Her certainty sent up red flags. “I said I wouldn’t.”

“But you’re going to change your mind as soon as I point out a certain little paragraph in your contract.” She tossed the sheaf of papers on the desktop. “It’s the one that says I can terminate your services on a moment’s notice if you refuse any reasonable assignment that doesn’t conflict with your primary career which is rodeo, and which of course, this doesn’t.”

He surged to his feet. “Dammit, Eve, I—”

“Darling, darling, don’t despair!” She came to meet him, all motherly concern. “I’m not asking you to do anything immoral or illegal. I’m simply sending you to convince this beautiful child that Mother Hubbard can make her life infinitely better.”

“While selling a whole passel of jeans and tight shirts.”

“That, too,” she said with a satisfied smile. “Look, I wouldn’t pressure you this way—”

“Yeah, right.” He rolled his eyes, feeling somewhat mollified.

“—but I have such a strong feeling that this is right for everyone concerned. You know about my ‘feelings,’ of course.”

He nodded, because everyone at M.H.W.W.D. knew. She always based business decisions on those “feelings.” This made the suits crazy and delighted everyone else, including Clay up to but not including the present moment.

She patted his cheek. “If you pull this off, and I’m confident you will, there’ll be a nice fat bonus in it for you,” she wheedled. “Don’t be difficult, darling. Trust me. This will work. Not only that—it should be a lot of fun, hanging around some little burg where you’ll be a big hero, spending time with a drop-dead gorgeous woman. What part of ‘summer fun’ don’t you understand?”

Clay sighed, because she had a point. He was not adverse to getting to know Niki Keene better…a lot better, he realized as his groin tightened. “Give me time to think about this,” he hedged, unwilling to concede total victory so quickly. “Maybe I have plans. Maybe I—”

“Love to,” she cut him off, “but we’ve got a press conference slated in a few hours to announce details of the actual contest. It’ll be held at my ranch—had I told you that?”

“No.” He knew her “ranch” was actually a spectacular estate on the outskirts of Dallas where her minions raised a few head of longhorns and a few quarter horses often used as publicity props for her company. It would provide an elegant setting for a dozen beautiful girls.

She nodded. “Well, it is. Now, I’ve just got time to brief you and then we’ve got to doll you up in the new Duds line. Trust me, Clay, this is going to be a great boost for everyone involved….”

NIKI BALANCED the tray of dirty dishes on one shoulder with professional ease and smiled at the handsome mustached man sitting alone at a table at the Sorry Bastard. “Hi, Travis. What brings you to town on a Tuesday?”

Travis Burke, Dani’s father-in-law and a popular rancher whose XOX Ranch was one of the biggest dude-and-working outfits in the country, grinned back at her. It was certainly easy to see where his son, Jack, got his good looks.

“Pa’s got a doctor’s appointment,” Travis said, referring to the elderly but still plenty salty Austin Burke. “Doc Wilson’s got an emergency so who knows when he’ll be done?” He shrugged. “I figured I’d grab a bite and then take something back to Pa. He’s convinced he’ll lose his place in line if he leaves.”

“He could be right. What can I get you?”

“A hamburger and a beer should do it.”

“Comin’ right up.”

When she returned a few minutes later with his order, he nodded toward an empty chair. “I sure do hate to eat alone,” he said plaintively. “Since most of the rush seems to be over, maybe you could sit down a minute or two?”

He was right; only two other tables were being used and the occupants of both were finishing their food. “Don’t mind if I do,” she said, sitting.

He piled condiments on his burger: pickles and onion and lettuce and tomato. “I’ve been wantin’ to ask if you ever found out who entered you in that contest,” he remarked.

She sighed. “It was Mason Kilgore, a photographer I worked for in Montana before we came here. He used to take pictures of me when he was bored. He got the bright idea to send one in and pulled it out of his files.”

Travis picked up his burger carefully. “It was a bright idea, apparently. When’s the contest?”

She looked at him in surprise. “I don’t know. Since I don’t intend to participate, it really doesn’t matter.”

“You meant what you said the Fourth of July, huh?” He took a big bite of his burger, his gaze curious.

“Of course, I did,” she said indignantly. “Why on earth would I want to—”

“Niki!”

Dylan rushed across the room, the sharp urgency in his voice making her start. Whatever had him in an uproar was all to the good, though, since she’d been meaning to track him down for some straight talk ever since she’d seen him with that strange, and very attractive, cowboy on the Fourth of July.

He galloped up, his face actually pale beneath his wide-brimmed hat. She felt a rush of alarm.

“What is it, Dylan? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I practically did.” He tossed a newspaper onto the table, half-covering Travis’s plate. “Have y’all seen that?”

“Today’s San Antonio Sun? No.”

“Then take a look,” he almost yelled, stabbing his forefinger at the page. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t read it in the paper.” He shook his head in disbelief.

Heart in her throat, Niki leaned over the page and saw a photograph—a photograph of the cowboy she’d just been thinking about. Helplessly she looked up at Dylan, who nodded.

“Yep, that’s him—none other than Clay Russell, World Champion Cowboy, in the flesh. And fool that I was, I set right over there—” He pointed dramatically at a table. “—and talked to him and never had any the least idea who he was.”

“His name’s Clay Russell?” She was having trouble grasping this. Leaning over, she read the caption.

Clay Russell, official spokesman for Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds, was announcing details of the contest to crown the first Queen of the Cowgirls. There, among the list of finalists, her own name leaped out at her.

Incensed, she looked up to find both men staring at her. “How dare he do this!” she exclaimed. “My name’s still there and he knows I have no intention of taking part in that stupid contest. What part of ‘no thanks’ doesn’t he understand?”

Dylan frowned. “You really meant what you said about turning it down?”

“Why on earth would I say it if I didn’t mean it?”

The cowboy shrugged. “I dunno. I thought…” He darted a guarded glance at Travis, placidly munching while watching the goings-on with interest. “I thought you just wanted to be coaxed.”

Niki groaned. “Dylan Sawyer, you know me better than that.”

“Well, heck, Niki, a woman can always change her mind.” He shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Now that you know Clay Russell’s involved…”

“That doesn’t change a darn thing.”

“I dunno, Niki.” Travis wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, his expression dubious. “This could be an awful good thing for the town, having you sashaying around the country as Miss Queen of the Cowgirls or whatever it is.”

“Et tu, Travis?” She gave him a reproachful look.

“Now, think about it,” he urged. “From what I hear, you’ll get money, prizes, fame, glamour….”

“I don’t want any of that.”

Dylan leaned forward. “You’ll get your picture took with Clay Russell,” he said. “That wouldn’t be none too shabby.”

Niki shivered. She didn’t want her picture taken with the handsome stranger who’d confused and unnerved her. Remembering his final words in light of this new information—I don’t think there’s anything here I really want—made her suppose he thought she wouldn’t have a chance of winning anyway.

Which should make her feel better but didn’t. She picked up her tray. “I don’t want to talk about this,” she said. “I appreciate your good intentions but the subject isn’t open for discussion.”

“But Niki—”

Undeterred, she went about her business, which lasted until the next customer entered.

“Have you seen the San Antonio Sun?”

That’s all she heard for the rest of her shift. By the time she turned in her apron and prepared to leave, she was heartily sick of all the gratuitous advice she’d been receiving, all of it the same: do it for us. Do it for the town.