Claiming the Cowboy's Heart

by Brenda Harlen

  “A few,” he acknowledged.

  “Since I have to go so I’m not running behind schedule for my shift at Diggers’ tonight, why don’t you fill me in on Monday morning?”

  He nodded. “That works for me.”

  * * *

  After a late Friday night at Diggers’, Macy usually struggled to drag herself out of bed on Saturday mornings. But knowing that this was her last such morning after her last late night, she was able to greet the day with a little more enthusiasm.

  “What are you doing up so early?” Bev asked, when Macy tracked down the triplets—and her mother—in the upstairs kitchen.

  Ava, Max and Sam were in their high chairs, set up side-by-side at the table where their grandmother could keep a close eye on them while she fried bacon on the stove.

  Sam spotted his mama first, and he gleefully banged his sippy cup on the tray of his high chair. Ava, not to be outdone by her brother, stretched her arms out and called “Ma!” Max just smiled—a sweet, toothless grin that never failed to melt her heart.

  “I wanted to get breakfast for Ava, Max and Sam today.” And though caffeine was required to ensure that she could function, she paused on her way to the coffee pot to kiss each of her precious babies.

  “Because you don’t think I can handle it?” her mother queried, transferring the cooked bacon onto paper towels to drain the grease.

  “Because you handle it all the time,” Macy clarified, reaching into the cupboard for a mug that she filled from the carafe.

  After a couple of sips, she found the box of baby oatmeal cereal in the pantry. She spooned the dry mix into each of three bowls, then stirred in the requisite amount of formula. Ava, Max and Sam avidly watched her every move.

  “You guys look like you’re hungry,” Macy noted, as she peeled a ripe banana and cut it into thirds. She dropped a piece of fruit into each of the bowls and mashed it into the cereal.

  “Ma!” Ava said again, because it wasn’t just her first but also her only word.

  She chuckled softly as she continued to mash and stir.

  “While you’re taking care of that, I’ll make pancakes for us,” Bev said, as she gathered the necessary ingredients together.

  Macy had given up asking her mother not to cook for her, because the protests had fallen on deaf ears—and because it was a nice treat to have a hot breakfast prepared for her on a Saturday morning. Especially pancakes.

  “You always made pancakes as part of a celebration,” she noted, with a smile. “Whether it was a birthday or a clean room or an ‘A’ on a spelling test.”

  “Which is why you got them more often than your brothers,” her mother remarked, as she cracked eggs into a glass bowl.

  It wasn’t true, of course. If Bev made pancakes, the whole family got to eat pancakes, but she always acknowledged when one of her kids did something special to warrant a breakfast celebration.

  “Well, we’ve got something to celebrate today, too,” Macy said.

  Her mother looked up from the batter she was whisking. “You got the job?”

  Macy grinned and nodded. “You are looking at the new manager-slash-concierge of the Stagecoach Inn.”

  Bev set down the whisk to hug her daughter. “Oh, honey, I’m so proud of you.”

  “I’ll work Monday through Friday for the next few weeks, and then, when the hotel is open, Wednesday through Sunday, eight a.m. until two p.m.”

  “That’s perfect,” her mom said. “You’ll have more time with your kids and be able to work at a job you enjoy.”

  Macy carried the bowls of oatmeal to the table. “I’m already looking forward to getting started,” she confided. “This is exactly what I’ve always wanted.”

  Her mother sprinkled a few drops of water on the griddle, testing its readiness. “Except that it’s in Haven,” she pointed out.

  Macy scooped up some oatmeal and moved the spoon toward Max’s open mouth. “You don’t want me to stay in Haven?”

  “Of course, I want you here,” Bev said, ladling batter onto the hot pan. “But I know that was never your first choice.”

  “Where are you getting that from?” Macy shifted her attention to the next bowl, but she was sincerely baffled by the statement.

  “Maybe the fact that you were on your way out of town practically before the ink was dry on your high school diploma.”

  Macy used the spoon to catch the cereal that Sam pushed out of his mouth with his tongue. “I graduated in June and I moved in August—three days before the start of classes at UNLV.”

  “Well, you’ve hardly been home since,” her mom remarked.

  “I came home every chance I got, which wasn’t a lot because I was juggling two part-time jobs along with my studies.” Ava swallowed her first mouthful of cereal, and Macy gave her a second before making her way backwards down the line again.

  “We could have helped you a little more,” Bev said.

  “You offered,” Macy assured her. “But the experience of those jobs was even more valuable than the paycheck.”

  “I know you’ve always wanted to work in the hospitality industry—ever since we visited your aunt at The Gatestone in Washington when you were a little girl,” her mother noted, as she began to turn the pancakes. “And, of course, the best career opportunities are probably in Las Vegas.”

  “There were zero career opportunities for me in Haven when I left,” Macy pointed out, as she continued to feed her babies. “The only place around that offered any kind of temporary accommodations was the Dusty Boots Motel, and they weren’t hiring.

  “I came back to Haven because I knew I couldn’t handle—or afford to raise—three kids on my own in Vegas. Maybe I was a little disappointed to give up my career, but I was happy to be home and happier still to know that my babies would grow up close to their extended family.

  “I might not have envisioned an arrangement quite this close,” she said. “But it works. And if I haven’t mentioned it lately, I’m incredibly grateful to you and Dad for everything you’ve done for all of us.”

  “You tell us every day,” Bev said. “And we’re happy to help.”

  “Still, I should probably look into making other arrangements for part-time childcare, don’t you think?”

  “What?” Her mom turned around so fast, the pancake on her spatula dropped to the floor. “Why?”

  Macy got up to retrieve the broken cake and toss it into the sink. “Because I feel as if I’m taking advantage of you and Dad.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Bev said. “Your father and I aren’t doing anything that we don’t want to do.”

  “You’re also not doing things that you would like to do,” Macy pointed out. “Like last Saturday, when Dad had to cancel his fishing trip with Oscar Weston because I was working a double shift and you were in bed with a migraine.”

  “Well, he’s fishing with Oscar today.”

  “And you gave up your pottery classes because I worked almost every Wednesday night.”

  “I was happy to have an excuse to quit—I couldn’t ever make a lump of clay look like anything else.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Macy scraped the last of the cereal from the bottom of Ava’s bowl. “But I appreciate you saying so.”

  “And since you won’t be working nights anymore, I can join Frieda’s book club.”

  She wiped Ava’s mouth with her bib, then offered the little girl her sippy cup of juice. “Mrs. Zimmerman has a book club?”

  Her mother nodded. “She started it last summer, after she saw the movie.”

  “The movie?” Macy echoed, because she was pretty sure that the local movie theater would have shown more than one movie the previous summer.

  “Book Club.”

  “Ahh, that makes sense,” she said, helping Max finish his breakfast.

  Bev stacked thr
ee pancakes on a plate, added four strips of bacon, then set it on the table. “Eat while it’s hot,” she instructed her daughter.

  Macy picked up a slice of crisp bacon, nipped off the end. “I’m glad the pediatrician finally approved the introduction of solid foods for Ava, Max and Sam,” she said, pouring maple syrup over her pancakes. “They’re definitely sleeping for longer stretches now and waking up happier.”

  “You’re grumpy, too, when you’re hungry,” her mom noted, bringing her own plate and mug to the table to eat with her daughter.

  “Is that why you always have breakfast ready for me when I get up on a Saturday morning?”

  “One of the reasons,” Bev acknowledged. “Another is that I really do enjoy having someone to cook for.”

  “You cook for Dad,” she pointed out.

  “Bacon and eggs. That’s what it’s been every Saturday morning for forty years.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to eat bacon and eggs.”

  Her mother shrugged. “It seems like too much bother to make something different just for myself, but it’s a pleasure to make it for you.”

  “Maybe I’ll make breakfast for you tomorrow,” Macy offered impulsively.

  “You’ve got enough to do with three babies without worrying about cooking for anyone else,” Bev protested. “Plus, you’ve got to get ready for your first day at your new job on Monday.”

  “There’s nothing to get ready for. And you managed to raise three kids and put meals on the table while also working outside the home.”

  “My kids weren’t all in diapers at the same time.”

  “On the plus side, they’ll hopefully all be out of diapers around the same time,” she said.

  “There is that,” her mom agreed.

  Macy glanced over at Sam, who’d started banging his cup on his tray again to get her attention. When he had her attention, he smiled.

  “What’s that in your mouth, Sam?” She pulled his high chair closer to the table for a better look. “Have you got a tooth in there?”

  He grinned again, giving her another glimpse of a tiny white bud barely poking through a red and swollen gum.

  Macy felt her eyes sting. “My youngest baby has his first tooth.”

  “It had to come sooner or later,” her mother pointed out with unerring logic.

  “I know,” she agreed, as she lifted a hand to ruffle his wispy curls. “But he’s been miserable for so long, I was starting to wonder.”

  She turned her attention to his brother, gnawing on the spout of his cup, drool dripping down his chin. “What about you, Max? Do you have a smile for Mommy?”

  He did, of course, but he had no new teeth—or any teeth at all—to show off to her.

  “Yours will come,” she promised. “Probably just another day or two.”

  “Don’t be in a hurry for them to grow up,” Bev cautioned her daughter. “I know it seems like they’re making slow progress now, but before you know it, your babies will have babies of their own.”

  * * *

  Macy was up early Monday morning, because today she had something to look forward to besides feeding her babies their breakfast.

  She was excited about starting her new job at the Stagecoach Inn. Although the boutique hotel wasn’t scheduled to open for another two weeks, she knew there would be a lot of last-minute details to take care of in advance of the big event, and she was happy to help. Liam had agreed that 8 a.m. was an acceptable time for her to start, but she was there by 7:30. In fact, she pulled into the parking lot beside the inn at the same time as her boss.

  “You’re early,” he noted, as he fell into step beside her.

  “I’ve got three babies who are up by five every morning,” she confided. “Plus I’m eager to hear all about your plans for this place.”

  “Compared to Las Vegas, they’re not very grand,” he warned.

  “Since this isn’t Vegas, it would be silly to make such a comparison. And while Haven isn’t ever likely to be a tourist mecca, there are people who visit Nevada for reasons other than gambling and quickie weddings,” she noted.

  “And weddings are really just a different kind of gambling, aren’t they?” he remarked.

  Her brows lifted. “Spoken like a man who has some experience in the matter.”

  “Just one close call,” he said, as he slid his key into the lock of the front door.

  Not wanting to pursue what she sensed was a touchy subject, she instead shifted the direction of their conversation. “When I was growing up in Haven, no one locked their doors.”

  “A lot of people still don’t,” he told her. “And with this property being centrally located, I’m not really worried about theft or vandalism, but I don’t want people sneaking in after hours to nose around.

  “There will be pictures on the website, of course, but I’m hoping that residents who are curious enough to want an up close and personal look at the rooms will book a stay.”

  “You’ll get some of those,” she assured him. “And when they tell their friends what an amazing job you’ve done with the renovations, you’ll get more.”

  “Fingers crossed.”

  She grinned. “You don’t need luck when you’ve got a fabulous property and a savvy manager.”

  * * *

  Macy threw herself into assisting with the preparations for the opening, willing to tackle any task Liam assigned to her. She also seemed determined to make him buy more stuff.

  When he’d given her the tour, he’d thought the rooms were ready for the arrival of guests. But while Macy approved of the furnishings and linens, she thought there should be a ladder shelf in the corner of one room, perhaps a quilt rack in another room, a fabric bench at the foot of this bed, more pillows on those window seats.

  He balked at her suggestions, reluctant to spend more money on a property that wasn’t yet generating any income.

  “Let me show you,” she urged, and dragged him out to the antique and craft market.

  Her first find was a wooden wash-basin stand with ceramic pitcher and bowl and a swivel vanity mirror.

  “This will fit perfectly in that empty corner in the Charles Goodnight Suite,” she told him.

  Aside from the fact that he didn’t believe every corner needed to be filled, he had to ask, “Isn’t one of the benefits of having running water the ability to turn on the tap to access that running water?”

  “Your point?” she challenged.

  “In the era of indoor plumbing, an antique wash-basin set has no practical purpose.”

  “In the beginning, you’re going to draw guests for one primary reason,” she explained, in the same patient tone he imagined she’d use to reason with a stubborn child. “Either they’re visiting Haven or just passing through town and looking for a place to sleep that has a little more ambience than the Dusty Boots Motel. Sure, you’ll get some locals booking a room or suite for a night, to celebrate a special occasion or score points with a special someone. But for the most part, your early guests will show up more by accident than design.”

  “So far this explanation is doing nothing to convince me that I need to fork over—” he looked at the tag affixed to the back of the mirror and winced “—a lot of money that is unlikely to give me any kind of return on my investment.”

  “But it will,” she insisted. “Because it’s part of your brand. And I know you know what I’m talking about—it’s why you invested in quality furniture and pillowtop mattresses over cheap laminate and economy sleep sets.”

  He did know what she was talking about. In his business courses at college, they’d discussed image and branding as a way of making a company or product stand out from the rest. And as she’d noted, he’d already distinguished his property from the Dusty Boots Motel, which represented the total sum of the rest of the overnight accommodations available in town.


  “So why do you think this other stuff is necessary?” he asked her.

  “Because there aren’t enough people just passing through town to keep you in business. You need to make the Stagecoach Inn a destination—not just a place for guests to lay their heads on their way to somewhere else, but a place they want to come to and stay at.”

  “And a wash basin and pitcher are going to do that?” he asked dubiously.

  “It’s the details that make a lasting impression. It’s the reason guests post online reviews to share their experiences with other potential guests. Almost better than reviews are the pictures. And people don’t take pictures of empty corners—they take pictures of antique wash stands and Arts and Crafts andirons.”

  “Andirons?” he echoed.

  “We’ll get to those next,” she promised. “The point is, you don’t want to give your guests a room, you want to provide them with an experience. One that they’ll want to enjoy again and again and tell their friends and family about, enticing those friends and family to book a room—no, an experience,” she immediately corrected herself. “To see for themselves what all the fuss is about.

  “Which leads me to another idea I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “How much is it going to cost me?” he wondered aloud.

  She ignored his question. “Spa packages.”

  “The spa isn’t really part of the hotel.”

  “I know. I was talking to Andria yesterday,” she said, naming the woman who owned and operated Serenity Spa. “And I won’t tell you that you missed out on a terrific opportunity there, but I will suggest that you could partner with her to offer special rates and packages for guests of the hotel.

  “There could be a separate page on the website,” she said. “The word indulge in a flowy script at the top of a page, maybe with an image of a woman wrapped in a plush robe, her feet in a warm bath. Or a man facedown on a massage table with a woman’s hands sliding over his strongly muscled back. Or both. And the copy could read something like—pamper your body and your soul, from head to toe, with a unique package of exclusive services offered by Serenity Spa at the Stagecoach Inn.”