HER COWBOY VALENTINE
The Cowboys of Prospect Creek
Debra Salonen
Her Cowboy Valentine: Chapter 1
“Paige, honey, it’s not healthy for a woman your age to spend all her time inside. You can’t let that blogger turn you into a xenophobe.”
Paige Jackson looked at her mother’s image on her phone’s FaceTime app and smiled—for the first time in days. Or has it been weeks? “I think you mean agoraphobe, Mom. Xenophobes fear people of other nationalities. The blogger-from-hell is a red-blooded American, and I’m not afraid to leave the house, I just don’t want to be part of the media feeding frenzy Miss Zootropia has unleashed.”
Paige wasn’t sure what significance the blogger’s name held, nor did she care. The woman’s anger both fed off and added to the #MeToo furor. Normally, Paige could empathize with the woman’s pain, but naming Paige, “The Facilitator” to Brad’s philandering, when she was dealing with her own loss and anguish only added insult to injury.
“She has no right to blame you for her sister’s suicide. Yes, it’s sad and upsetting that a young woman would take her own life because your ex-husband broke her heart. But who put you in charge of Brad Bryson’s dick?”
Paige reached for her water bottle to hide her cringe. “It was pretty apparent I lost any influence over that body part two girlfriends ago.”
“The low-life scum. I never liked him.”
Not true. “Mom,” Paige said gently. “Brad and I had a pretty good life together for ten years. Fifteen, if you count film school. And think of all the glamorous events you attended as my date when Brad was on location. We went to the Oscars, for heaven’s sake. How many of your friends can say that?”
Her mother’s still-pretty face scrunched up. “Zero. But that doesn’t stop them from whispering behind my back, now. Maybe I’ll join you at Betty’s.”
Betty McFee. The reason for this call. An old friend looking for someone to housesit while she checked something off her bucket list.
Mom had forwarded Betty’s email the day before. The second anniversary of Sophia’s death. Paige hadn’t opened her computer all day.
Paige picked up the phone and moved to her kitchen desk. She opened her laptop, which she’d used that morning to write a letter to her daughter. Her therapist had suggested it. “Tell Sophia what’s going on in your life and how much you wish she were part of it.”
Today’s missive missed that goal by a mile.
She opened her email, scrolling past the hate mail, death threats, and kind words of support from old friends. None of it mattered. “Here it is.”
She read the back and forth between the two friends quickly. Neither woman was verbose. Basically, it came down to: “Can you help me out?”
“No, but my daughter might.”
“Cool.”
“Did you say Betty’s place is off the grid?” Music to my ears.
“Sort of. She’s got power. But she has to go to the Prospect Creek library to use the internet.”
Prospect Creek. Paige had a vague idea where it was located. In the Sierras, close to Yosemite National Park. “Didn’t we stop at Betty’s place on our way to Santa Barbara after Dad died?”
“Yes, we did. Betty and I were best friends in elementary school. She’s got ten or twenty acres just outside the town. We’re Facebook friends, now.”
Paige didn’t remember much from that trip. She’d been a moody, unhappy thirteen-year old who blamed herself for her father’s death. It had taken Mom a year to sell Dad’s business, the house, and her craft shop, but, as she told Paige, “Sometimes you just have to start over from scratch in a place where nobody knows your sad history.”
“Betty always wanted to be a vet, like your dad, but her family was poor and she didn’t really fit in at school. We lost touch for a while after my folks moved to Utah, but we reconnected at a class reunion. She’d done really well for herself in San Francisco. Can’t remember what exactly, but she saved her money, bought some land in the mountains and opened a rescue for animals.”
A cold chill passed down Paige’s spine. Horses?
“That turned into a sanctuary for kids. They all called her Aunt Betty.”
Aunt Betty. Would I have taken Sophia to meet her one day?
“Why does she need a house sitter?”
“She’s signed up to help with a wild mustang roundup in New Mexico. She’ll be gone most of February. I’d go up myself, but I’ve got that hammertoe surgery at the end of the month. No way I’ll be ambulatory by Valentine’s Day.”
Valentine’s Day. Her favorite holiday back when she considered herself in love. Candlelight and romance. The visually demonstrable tradition that confirmed love existed between two people.
Stupid fool.
“Text me her contact info, Mom. You’re right. I need to get out of my rut, and a month in the mountains sounds perfect. Hopefully, the paparazzi will have found other targets by the time I come home.”
Home.
She looked around the house, which was now in escrow. She and Brad had entertained some of the biggest names in Hollywood here. She wouldn’t see a dime from the sale since Brad’s company owned it, and that company was on the brink of bankruptcy. She’d leave their marriage with a car, her jewelry, and enough money in the bank to cover her health insurance and living expenses for five years—half the number they’d been married. Her lawyer had asked for all ten, but according to Brad, only five of those years had been good and he had no intension of paying for the bad.
She’d agreed to the settlement because he was right. From the moment she decided to have a baby, their married life had changed. Two years of fertility treatments, nine months to grow a baby, three to watch her struggle to live, followed by two years in a fog of mourning. Paige grew up; Brad didn’t. And after Sophia died—when Paige needed his love and support the most, Brad turned to work, drugs, and other women.
She looked at the bones protruding from her wrist. She was skinny, pushing forty, and recently divorced, with a career in limbo and a social media target on her back. Housesitting in the mountains—without the constant, judgmental scrutiny of society—might be exactly what she needed to figure out what to do with the rest of her life.
Her phone dinged with a text.
“That was fast, Mom.”
“Call her.”
Paige did.
The phone call didn’t last long.
“I need someone right away.”
“I can do that.”
“I’ll send you directions.”
“I’ll send you my CV.”
Paige attached the one-page outline of her history that she’d just finished updating to send out to prospective employers. She’d even attached her new headshot—a selfie taken in the backyard that morning. No makeup, save for a bit of mascara and lipstick. No glamour photographer with an airbrush for her this go-round. She wasn’t trying to fool anyone. She wanted a new beginning, and this time it would be on her own terms.
♥ ♥ ♥
“It’s settled then. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”
TJ Huey looked up from the repairs he’d been making to Betty’s front door, with Titus and Rocky supervising. The two rescue mutts were his old foster mom’s security team: One barked at the first sign of trouble—or any passing bird, and the other looked intimidating as hell—even though he was a complete pushover for dog treats.
“Who’s coming now?” Knowing Betty as well as he did, the big-hearted woman could have a shipment of evacuated pigs on the way. Or six feral cats ready to give birth. Or even an angry teen this close to giving up on the system—and life.
Betty, who’d been pacing back and forth from one end of the manufactured home’s front porch to the other, stopped abruptly, her gaze still on her phone. “Daughter of a friend of mine. She’s coming up from L.A. to watch the place while I’m in Arizona.”
The wild mustang roundup. Shit. He’d forgotten all about it. He ex
changed a mutual look of concern with Titus. “You’re not really gonna drive to Arizona and spend a month sleeping in the horse trailer while you round up a bunch of wild horses, are you?”
She hacked up a wad of phlegm and spit over the railing before answering. “Three weeks. And they use helicopters to round up the mustangs nowadays. I’m taking Peggy Sue for pleasure rides, and because I can cook and sleep in the trailer.”
He didn’t believe that for a minute. His foster mother was a passionate, belligerent, hands-on advocate for the causes she took up, like abused kids and animals. And since he’d been the recipient of that advocacy, he knew he should keep his mouth shut. But she was the only real family he had, and, damn it, he didn’t want to lose her.
He finished tightening the last screw, then picked up his tools and stood. “Betty, you’re sixty, not thirty-something. Are you sure you have to do this?”
She tugged down the fur-lined flaps of her red-and-black plaid Paul Bunyan cap and glared at him. “Rescuing mustangs has been on my bucket list from Day One. And I’m still tough enough to whip you into shape, mister. I’m doing this…now that I got a full-time replacement.”
She consulted her phone again, angling it in a way that told him she was waiting for something to load because of her sketchy signal strength.
He stepped to the metal table where he’d set his canvas satchel and started loading up his tools. He was a cowboy and a bull rider by trade, but since he retired from the circuit and started building a log house on his property, he’d picked up a whole set of new skills, which Betty was more than happy to call upon.
Not that he’d ever complain about helping her. Betty saved his life. She gave him more than he could repay in a dozen lifetimes. Plus, he worried about her—and her ragtag menagerie. “Does your replacement know what she’s getting into?”
Betty turned her back on him. “According to her mother—my old friend from elementary school, Paige needs this gig every bit as much as I need her.”
A politician's answer.
Her phone dinged.
“She sent me her CV.” The word brought a chuckle. “Do you know what that is? I had to look it up. Apparently, it’s Latin for curriculum vitae.”
She pronounced it “Q…re…dick…u…lum Vi…tae.”
“It means course of life.”
She gave him a surprised look. “Well, la-di-dah. I have a son who knows Latin and a house sitter who used to make movies.” She looked at the dogs. “This is a step up the food chain, boys. Are you still going to love me when I get back?”
Titus—the smart and sensitive one—let out a low, window-rattling woof. Rocky—never one to miss out on a chance to express himself—dashed under Betty’s feet, barking frenetically.
TJ stifled a sigh. A background in film would be about as useful here as a grasp of Latin, but he knew Betty wouldn’t let a lack of practical skills keep her from checking off another item on her bucket list.
He closed up his satchel then held out his hand. “Let me see that CV.”
The head shot was like a punch to the gut.
Holy cripes.
Her Madonna-like face—the Mother of Christ Madonna, not the rock star—made his heart rate shoot from trot to gallop. Sun-kissed golden blond hair framed her beautiful features with soft, natural waves. Flawless skin. Wide hazel eyes that held a hint of mystery—or sadness. Full lips. The kind he’d enjoyed kissing back in the day when buckle bunnies were young and plentiful.
He couldn’t think, much less speak.
Gobsmacked.
TJ had heard the word before but had no clue what it meant. Until this moment.
“Well?” Betty asked, tapping the toe of her muddy cowboy boot impatiently. “Will she do or not?”
Not, the critical thinking part of his brain cried.
He handed her the phone. “Call me the minute she gets here. You can’t tell what’s important about a person from a list of credentials and a picture that could be photoshopped.”
He grabbed his tool bag and started to leave.
“Ahem.”
Betty turned her head and lifted her face, tapping her cheek with her index finger.
TJ bit down on a smile. “Sorry. I almost forgot Aunt Betty’s Refuge Rule Number One: Never leave without saying goodbye and giving Betty a kiss on the cheek.”
He planted a light kiss on Betty’s icy cheek. Their winter hadn’t ended in late-January as usual. He’d even gotten snow at the mine a few days back.
“’Bye.”
“Good-bye, you. Thanks for fixing my door. I’m sure the city girl will feel a lot safer knowing she can lock it.”
He hadn’t realized that was the reason for the fix-it when he rushed down the hill to answer Betty’s call for help, but it made sense. Subtle. Betty always let her wards explore, test, and find their own answers to questions they might have about life and the world to which they’d been assigned.
“Glad to help. Call me. I mean it. You can’t just drop a flatlander into the wilds of mountain life and expect her to take over.”
Betty frowned. “She might need a little help now and then. That’s what I have you for, my boy. Now, be off with you. Didn’t you say Sam’s expecting you today?”
Sam O’Neal, TJ’s old friend—and current, part-time boss—needed help with an ornery bull he was trying to move. “Headed there next. I love you. Stay safe.”
Betty waved from the porch, the way she always did.
A lump formed in his throat. Something about this upcoming bucket-list trip felt off. Desperate, maybe? He didn’t understand why she was so determined to do it now. Was it her health?
As a quietly gay woman—no flags, no coming out because I’ve never been in a closet—she’d always kept her personal life private. Even from him. Bodily functions weren’t discussed. Hell, TJ didn’t hear about her gallbladder surgery until a week later when she showed him her scar.
He couldn’t put his finger on what was worrying him about Betty lately, but if herding wild mustangs would fix it, he’d help any way he could—even if that meant babysitting the house sitter.
Her Cowboy Valentine: Chapter 2
“Paige Jackson. Is that you, my beautiful savior?”
Paige, who barely had both feet out of her low-slung car, turned so quickly to locate the source of the voice calling her name, the hem of her mid-length Burberry trench coat—the closest thing she had to winter apparel—got caught in the door.
“Yes. I made it.” Barely. Paige wasn’t sure the car would ever forgive her for making it cross a brutal two-mile gravel road meant for off-road vehicles, not wannabe sports cars.
She turned to face a spark-plug-shaped woman with steel gray hair, round, ruddy cheeks, and a whiskey-’n’-cigarillos voice standing at the railing of the covered porch that ran the length of the manufactured home.
Above the woman’s head hung a wooden sign with the words: Aunt Betty’s Refuge carved in a youthful hand. Her lips curled in a smile when she noticed the typo—an extra e at the end of the word—that someone had filled in with ink or stain.
“You must be Betty. Mom’s told me so much about you.” Paige kept her tone upbeat even though she was a bit unnerved by the size of the cat tucked under the woman’s left arm. That is a cat, isn’t it? Not a baby mountain lion?
“Come on up. Let’s get acquainted. I promise we don’t bite. Well, most of us. Rex here has been known to take a nip when he’s feeling neglected, but just a love bite, huh, big kitty?”
Said kitty was easily the size of her mother’s basset hound.
Paige’s fingers tightened on her Bottega Venetta oversized clutch. She squared her shoulders and walked with as much grace as possible across the rock-strewn, uneven terrain. The wool slacks, Louis Vuitton sweater, and Mark Jacob boots she’d picked out that morning—to make a good impression—suddenly felt all wrong.
I bet I look like that Gabor sister on the old sit-com Mom loved to watch.
Betty must have b
een thinking the same thing because she set her beer can on the wood railing and said, “I gotta tell you, girl, when that Jag-u-war pulled in and you got out—all beautiful and fancy, I thought maybe your mom was pranking me. Kinda feels like an episode of Green Acres,” she said, slapping her hand to her knee.
That sit-com. “I had an appointment with my lawyer before I left town.”
A lawyer. Not the same family law attorney who took a healthy chunk of her divorce settlement. No, she’d need a shark to represent the defamation of character suit she planned to pursue against the mean blogger when she got back to LA.
“I shoulda told you this isn’t the Ritz. Hell, we aren’t even fancy enough for Ritz crackers. Everything is store brand around here.”
“No worries. I’m here to get away from the city, not bring it with me.” Not even Brad knew where she was going. Not that he gives a damn. Between his young wife, their new baby, and the blogger out to sacrifice Brad and Paige on the altar of public opinion, her ex had his hands full.
Betty paralleled Paige’s progress to the steps. “Hmm. About that car. How’d it handle my road?”
“Umm…okay.” Liar. She’d be in for a lecture from her Melrose Jaguar mechanic when she got home.
Home. The bad taste in her mouth returned. The new owners of the house she’d lived in for the past ten years were probably moving as in they spoke. She had no home. Only a storage locker filled with the mountain of stuff she’d have to deal with at some point.
“Good. Good. You can’t be stranded out here without a vehicle. No, sir. There’s a Jeep in the garage beside the barn. You can use it, if you need to, but something’s causing the motor to overheat about half the time I take her out. Not sure I’d drive it into town unless it’s an emergency.”
With one gloved hand on the square, plain wood newel post, Paige turned to look where the woman was pointing. A weathered reddish gray barn with a corral on one side of it. A cluster of animals milled about in what looked like four inches of heavy mud. The sloped roof on the attached structure opposite the pen didn’t appear large enough to house to lawnmower, let alone a Jeep.
Cupid to the Rescue: A Tail-Wagging Valentine's Day Anthology Page 70
