Betting on Hope

by Debra Clopton

“Um, no,” Maggie said, startled by his question, only then realizing he had no idea who she was. “I’m here for the interview.”

  “Oh. You’re getting interviewed too? I am, but to be honest, I’d rather be home riding my horse.”

  A laugh bubbled from her. Of course he didn’t know who she was. He was expecting Amanda, and everyone knew what she looked like. “As odd as it is to believe, I’m here to interview you, Mr. Monahan.” She held out her hand and tried to look more professional than she felt. Tried to ignore the way her gaze kept wanting to stick to him like a stamp to an envelope. “Maggie Hope, filling in for Amanda Jones—she’s ill, I’m sorry to say.”

  She lifted her chin, hoping to convey confidence. Of course there was an upside to the entire fiasco in the parking lot. She’d caught her skirt just in the nick of time. Otherwise, she’d have climbed back into her car and hit the road to Houston out of mortification.

  At least at this point she could still look the cowboy in the eye.

  Tru was losing his touch. He found himself staring into the spearmint-green eyes of the gorgeous blonde with the dimples—and a very nice set of legs. Normally he could pick a reporter out of a crowd at fifty feet—there was a certain aggression in their eyes.

  Not vulnerability like he’d thought he’d seen in Maggie Hope’s eyes. He’d never seen this one coming.

  This woman had none of that, and in her own words, two left feet. She’d been a mess out there. A cute mess, but a mess nonetheless.

  It was hard to believe a popular show would send a reporter who looked as unprepared as this woman did to tape an interview that would be viewed by thousands. Was it an act to get him off his guard? He didn’t consider himself a big deal, but he had won the National Quarter Horse Finals again, and when you added in his unfortunate tabloid debacle, he knew he was news right now. As bad as he hated it.

  And the station could send out whomever they wanted to do the interview.

  “Hey, Tru.” Big Shorty, the owner of the Bull Barn, approached from the back of the diner, sauntering over with a grin on his weathered face. An old cowboy himself, there was no mistaking the teasing light in his eyes. “Any later and you’d have missed your own interview.”

  Tru shook his hand. “I got held up for a moment.” He glanced at Maggie. “Besides, there’s no need getting here early for the setup. Wouldn’t want them to think I had nothing better to do.”

  “We all know that ain’t the case. Just like they asked, I got folks run off till eleven o’clock, but then they’re gonna be bustin’ in here to find out about the interview.” He leaned in close. “Of course I got a couple who won’t take no for an answer, and they’re stuffed back there in the kitchen pretending they ain’t here.” He winked.

  “I expected as much.” Tru was pretty sure he knew who would be eavesdropping on the interview. Clara Lyn and Reba from the Cut Up and Roll hair salon were likely doin’ a little snoopin’ for the scoop. They were lovable, but did tend to go overboard when it came to getting things firsthand. “It’s okay,” he chuckled. “I don’t care one way or the other—I’ve had snoopier people trailin’ my steps.” His sponsors had set this up and wanted him to do the interview in a local hangout. They thought it would be good PR. Besides that, the Bull Barn just sounded catchy to them. Tru hadn’t minded that at all.

  Shorty was a good friend. All their lives Tru and his brothers had hung out here, listening to their granddad and his buddies tell rodeo stories.

  He was more than happy to throw some good PR Shorty’s way by having the interview at his place.

  “Mr. Monahan, sir,” a guy with a mike stepped from the group across the way and motioned to him. “We’re ready for you. I need to get this set up, if you don’t mind.”

  Tru hiked a brow at Shorty. “Talk to you later.”

  “Don’t be looking all put out over this. I see that beautiful little gal about to interview you. Maybe you should invite her to lunch when this is over.”

  Five minutes ago that had been an enticing possibility, however, now that Tru knew Maggie Hope was a journalist, not a chance. His life was public enough without asking for more trouble. Been there done that.

  He enjoyed his privacy and had given it up only because as a co-owner of the Four of Hearts Ranch with his two brothers, Bo and Jarrod, he needed good publicity for the business. When the trainer of the ranch’s horses was also a champion on a champion horse—’nuff said. A cowboy did what a cowboy had to do to bring in the business. Especially with the debt that had been owed on the place after his dad’s death.

  Tru didn’t let his thoughts linger there too long; it wasn’t a good place to be before he sat down for an interview. There were a lot of folks ’round town who knew what his dad had done. Tru’s jaw tensed thinking about it. Almost two years had passed and his anger was still as hot as it had been the day he’d learned how bad his dad’s gambling had been. Two years since he’d seen the hurt in his granddad’s eyes. Pops had worked his fingers to the bone to build this ranch and watched all of his sons but one die while he was doing it. All but Joe, Tru’s dad, and he’d very nearly destroyed everything Pops had lived for anyway.

  Truth was, it took the united effort of Tru and his two brothers to dig the ranch out of the hole it was in—and they were still digging but had managed some success while paying the debt down. Tru’s part in that equation was the Quarter Horse business and the sponsorship his success had brought to the table. Endorsement money paid bills, and while he wasn’t George Strait, the money he made from his sponsors was a big part of the equation.

  But sometimes . . . like now, he was just weary of the whole thing and wished he could—what? Disappear? Be his own boss and not have so much of his life dictated by his sponsors?

  Or maybe find a wife . . . start a family. His future wasn’t his own right now. His dad had made sure of that.

  Pops’s dreams were in his and his brothers’ hands.

  He pushed the bitter thoughts of his dad from his mind. Now was not the time to let himself be hijacked by things that couldn’t be changed.

  He focused instead on the pretty reporter across the room. Though his insides had warmed at the touch of her hand and the sparkle in her eyes, that was as far as it went. She was a journalist, a profession he just didn’t trust—there was no way on this green earth that he was letting his boots shuffle her way any time other than this interview.

  As if hearing his thoughts, she turned and those soft green eyes shot sparks all the way to the tips of his Tony Lamas.

  Trouble. Tru recognized it like he anticipated his horse’s misstep in going after a calf. He tugged his hat low, met those amazing eyes, and knew straight up he was going to have to fight for focus or he might just forget Maggie Hope was a reporter.

  2

  “Back off, bucko,” Jenna Olson warned. Clutching the toilet plunger in her hands like a baseball bat, she willed herself not to puke as she glared at the hefty drunk blocking the exit of the truck stop restroom. Jenna might be short, sixteen, and pregnant—big time pregnant—but she was nobody’s pushover.

  “I’m not afraid to use this plunger, mister,” she said fiercely, true enough but she sure wished it was a bat, or better yet, a steel pipe.

  As if giving her a pep punch, her baby kicked her in the kidney. Jenna didn’t know if she was having a girl or a boy, but the baby kicked like a linebacker. Resolve filled her. Clutching the plunger tighter, she nodded agreement with her little fighter. Jenna’s eyes never wavered from the bloodshot ones that were making her skin crawl as they studied her. This wasn’t going to be pretty; she just had no plans to be the victim.

  Most girls her age would have been terrified, but if Jenna had ever been afraid of anything, it had been beat out of her a long time ago by her dad—until she threatened him just like she was threatening this foul-smelling piece of junk with his tobacco-stained smirk.

  When he took a swaying step forward, Jenna’s heart skipped a beat or two and her adrenaline
kicked up a notch, thrumming through her veins like an Amtrak. She had more to protect than herself now, and she couldn’t fail.

  She had a precious baby inside of her and no man was laying another hand on her or her baby ever.

  “C’mon, lil’ girly. You—”

  “I’ll scream and hit you so hard you’ll see stars,” she yelled, as he lunged. Thankfully he was so drunk, he staggered. Jenna might look like a small whale, but she could still move, and she sidestepped him. When his greasy hands grabbed for her, she swung the plunger with all her might. It whacked him in the face and the dull reverberation shimmied up her arms. If it had been a bat, he’d have been knocked out cold. Instead he stumbled back, slipped in a puddle of water on the tile floor, and slammed his head on the grimy sink.

  At first Jenna stood frozen to the spot as he started to fall like a tree in the middle of the woods, but she didn’t stay to see him hit the ground. She spun and ran, grateful when the cool air of the morning hit her heated skin.

  She scanned the parking lot for a cattle trailer. Boy, was this place full. Two cowboys in the truck stop diner had been discussing the cattle they were carrying down the road to Wishing Springs. Her luck seemed good today, because that was where she was trying to get. She’d slipped out back to the women’s restroom, figuring since her bladder had a baby sitting on it she better prepare for the journey.

  She’d been trying to leave when the drunk had come in. He’d been watching her and had obviously followed her out.

  Yet, her good luck returned, and she finally spied the dusty silver Dodge hitched to a long cattle trailer filled to the hilt with bawling cattle. Relief washed through her so sweet it made her breathless. Though maybe the breathless part came from the fact that she was seven months pregnant. Moving as quickly as she could, she faltered when a stabbing pain stole her breath. Had she strained something with the force of her swing?

  By the time she reached the trailer, she hadn’t come up with any great ideas on how she could get inside. Whew, cattle did not travel politely—she had to hold her nose at the stench. It was a mess in there, but if she had to, inside was where she would get. Easing to the back of the truck, instead, she peeked into the bed. Yes. There was a tarp spread out over something lumpy. Whatever it was filled the back end and large sacks of feed secured the tarp.

  Ignoring the pain radiating through her, Jenna hiked her short leg up to the high bumper then hoisted herself over the tailgate and into the bed. Just as she made it, she spotted the two cowboys crossing the lot toward her. She wasted no time crawling under the tarp and burrowing as deeply as she could beneath it. Curling around her baby, she bit back a cry of pain and prayed the cowboys didn’t need to look under the tarp.

  Maggie stared at the camera that would film everything she did from the moment they said roll, or whatever it was the cameraman would say. Was it action? He’d shout it then snap that chalkboard thingy. No, that was movies—there were no “do overs” on this interview. They could cut and splice, but they only had what she could give them.

  Her mouth went dry and she pressed a hand to her stomach. No pressure—and no throwing up, Maggie.

  Her stomach rolled as if taunting her. This would not be a repeat of her seventh grade play disaster. She’d finished that fiasco off by knocking over the castle set—it crashed to the ground like a row of dominoes and she tossed her cookies right there on the knight in shining armor’s feet . . . she’d done it again when she’d arrived home. Threw up on the policeman’s shoes. She glanced at Tru Monahan’s shiny boots and was glad that this interview would be done sitting down.

  Taking a deep breath, she watched as he took the seat across from her in the booth. Behind him sat a swarm of rodeo photos, many of them signed. The cafe even had light fixtures made out of galvanized feed buckets, branding irons bent and welded together to form lamp shades, and sought-after stirrups that just happened to come from the Four of Hearts Ranch stirrup business run by Tru’s brother Bo—Amanda had given her a little background. The Monahan brothers had a lot going on.

  Tru met her gaze across the scarred wooden table, seeming to shut out the signed photos of him filling the wall beside them. The camera crew had clearly chosen this booth on purpose.

  “Are you ready?” the cameraman asked from behind the heavy camera sitting on the tripod just a couple of feet away from them.

  Tru tipped his head toward her. “Shoot away when you’re ready.”

  Sighing inwardly, Maggie gave her best smile to the camera guy and hoped it didn’t look as puny as it felt. She met Tru’s waiting gaze once more—ignoring the tickling sensation in the pit of her stomach. She glanced at Amanda’s list of questions, thankful she hadn’t had to come up with her own.

  She looked up just as the camera guy gave her the signal and they were on . . .

  “What’s she sayin’?” Clara Lyn Conway asked, elbowing Reba Moorsby in the ribs in her attempt to get a peek out the kitchen door at the interview. “It isn’t every day we get television people in Wishing Springs, and I don’t aim to miss a minute of it.”

  Reba bumped Clara with her ample hip and shot her a perturbed look. “You’re shorter than me, bend down a bit and we can both see what’s going on.”

  “For cryin’ out loud,” Clara harrumphed, hunching down to squint through the crack. “The poor girl looks jumpy.”

  “That’s what I think. But what young woman wouldn’t be looking into the eyes of that hunk of burnin’ love? It is an undeniable fact that our little town can produce some great stock when it comes to cattle, horses, and fine-lookin’ cowboys.”

  “It’s the water,” Clara Lyn whispered, straining to hear the questions.

  “Agreed. Did you ever think Tru Monahan would grow up to put us on the map?” Reba asked.

  Clara Lyn chuckled. “There was a time I wasn’t sure that boy would grow up. After his cancer, reckless was his middle name.”

  “I don’t blame him for having a live-like-you-were-dying attitude. I’m just glad he got over it. Or lived through it.”

  “That’s the truth,” Clara Lyn said. “Look, that poor reporter is practically sweating bullets.”

  “I know. She’s having to look at those papers more than she is looking at him. Oh, shhh, here she goes again. I think.”

  “About time too.”

  As they watched, the reporter finally found her place and started reading the question.

  Her voice shook at first. “You have had a fantastic year repeating your reign as champion,” she said. “To what do you owe your success?”

  Shorty was standing in the dining room with his arms crossed, watching the private interview. Suddenly he moved over into Clara Lyn and Reba’s line of vision, his big bulky form totally blocking everything.

  Clara Lyn couldn’t believe it.

  “Get out of the way, Shorty,” she and Reba hissed in unison, shoving the door wider and sticking their heads out the opening just in time to see Tru give the reporter a crooked grin.

  “Hard work and a great horse.”

  “Oh, goodness,” Clara fanned herself. “That drawl, grin, and twinkle together should be outlawed.”

  The reporter’s gaze locked with Tru’s.

  “You,” she faltered, biting her lip for a moment, obviously overwhelmed by their hometown cowboy. “You trained your horse, didn’t you?”

  “I can’t believe it,” Clara whispered excitedly. “She didn’t look at her blasted notes for that question.”

  “It’s about time,” Reba snorted.

  “I did,” Tru answered, with ease. “I’m a trainer before I’m a rider. A good horse makes any cowboy look better than he is.”

  “Ha,” Clara exclaimed in a hushed exclamation.

  “Shhh, Clara. They’ll hear us.”

  “That boy was born in the saddle—”

  Shorty turned and glared at them, Clara and Reba yanked their heads back into the kitchen, the door swung closed and Reba hit a metal pan with her elbow, send
ing it flying. It clattered on the wood floor like cymbals.

  Shorty came barreling through the door. “What is going on? Y’all are supposed to be quiet. They’ll hear you. Now, if you two can’t hold it down, then you’re going to have to leave.”

  Clara Lyn scowled up at the lumbering man. “Okay, our lips are zipped. Now get out there and let us get back to the interview. And stay out of our way.”

  Looking skeptical, Shorty obeyed, backing out of the door with his finger to his lips.

  Clara Lyn and Reba took their positions and continued watching—this was the most excitement they, or Wishing Springs, had seen in a decade and they planned on having firsthand knowledge of the event to pass on to their friends and clients over at the Cut Up and Roll hair salon. Why, Pebble Hanover, owner of the Sweet Dreams Motel, whacking that rascal Rand Radcliff on the head with a mop and calling the cops didn’t even come close to this. Not close at all. Drunk as a skunk the old coot had been, and trying to steal a kiss, which he’d been most assuredly sorry about when he woke up behind bars the next morning with a lump the size of Texas on his forehead.

  Nope, this was news, and if they had to be quiet then they’d suffer through. Girls had to have some excitement in their lives and this was about as good as it got in Wishing Springs.

  Yes, indeed, Clara Lyn thought excitedly, things were looking up.

  Maggie’s hands shook as she turned the first page of questions over and stared at the second page while Tru’s last statement rang in her ears. “I’m a trainer before I’m a rider. A good horse makes any cowboy look better than he is.” Nothing could make him look better than he already did.

  The thought only flustered her more. She wondered if he could see how out of her element she was. The pages shook and she closed her eyes knowing that she was flubbing this interview. If the station wasn’t able to use this, then she was doomed. She scanned the questions and laid the papers flat, hoping the camera didn’t catch her shaking hands or the rattle of the pages. Silent moments were ticking by as she tried frantically to find her way among the questions. Where was my place?