Betting on Hope

by Debra Clopton

  “But—”

  “Hold on, I’m not finished. You’ll also continue to do the ‘Gotta Have Hope’ column, answering four letters a week. It’ll be good, Maggie. And at the end of the two months Amanda will come out, film you competing in a cutting completion, and do an interview with you and Tru. Then the network will air it as a TV special. Maggie, I’m giving you a major shot here. You’ll do this or your column is done.”

  Maggie’s breath evaporated, and she coughed, “Excuse me? You can’t be serious?”

  Had she really said that to her boss?

  Ms. Davenport’s gaze turned to darts pinning Maggie to her chair. “Perfectly serious.”

  “But my readership is growing. They’re comfortable with how things are.”

  “Your numbers are stagnant, Maggie. We need something to shake them up. Draw more in.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Maggie. This is done, so you are either on board or out the door.”

  Maggie’s mouth dropped open. Out the door? But what about Tru? He didn’t strike her as the type who would take being put in a corner well.

  She could not lose her column. She just couldn’t.

  It was all she had.

  No one knew how important that column was to her. There had been a time when she’d felt so hopeless, so alone . . . and now she felt that same desperation in some of the letters she received from readers. She gave them advice. She gave them a sounding board.

  She gave them a place to not feel so alone.

  She could not abandon them . . . the very idea had her feeling . . . lost.

  She—she could not lose her column.

  Swallowing the cotton clogging her throat, she met her boss’s stare. Slowly Maggie nodded. “What do I have to do?”

  It was clear. She was going to go back to Wishing Springs and make a fool out of herself learning to ride a horse that could turn on a dime and toss her in so many directions it wasn’t going to be funny. And somehow she was supposed to be able to compete in some kind of cutting trial at the end of two months. Sure she would—and she would do it because her job depended on it.

  “So you have to go along with this crazy setup?” Jarrod Monahan studied Tru from across the desk in Tru’s office. “Your agent actually said you had to go along with this?”

  Setup was the accurate word, Tru thought, meeting his older brother’s skeptical eyes. “Frank said my sponsors see me taking this challenge as a good thing. They’ve been in talks all evening and morning with the paper and TV conglomerate. They’re going to build this up in print and do lead-ins about it on Good Morning with Amanda Jones or Wake Up with Amanda or whatever the name of that show is. Then I’ll pick a competition for Maggie to compete in and they’ll film it for a TV special.”

  “Is that all?” Bo hooted with laughter. Tru ignored him.

  “And how long do you have?” Jarrod continued, not laughing.

  “Two months. The sponsors are going to spend a lot of money advertising on that time slot.”

  “You can’t get out of your contract?” Bo asked, having reined in his laughter. He was sprawled in the thick leather armchair across the desk from Tru, his long legs stretched before him, his dusty boots crossed at the ankles. He’d been the one who’d called Tru earlier and told him to turn on the TV. His agent had called a few minutes later.

  “Ironclad on this. Basically, I’m theirs.” Tru’s gut twisted and he stared out the window at the barn and riding arena of the Four of Hearts. Frank knew, as well as he and his brothers did, that Tru couldn’t walk away even if he could get out of his contract. “They’d take me to court. They wouldn’t want to, but this is business and they see dollar signs. Dollars trump everything.”

  Jarrod had a shoulder propped against the thick mantel and his arms crossed as he studied Tru from across the room. Tru could almost see the wheels churning behind his blue-black eyes while he contemplated the situation—much like he would judge the quality of a herd of cattle before hauling them to market.

  “What a mess,” Jarrod said at last, his jaw tensing as if he’d found no solution but knew precisely what the future held.

  Tru pushed himself to be more optimistic. “I got myself into it. I let my guard down.”

  Jarrod jerked away from the mantel. “Dad put us in this spot. If he hadn’t tried to gamble this ranch away and everything we and Pops have worked for, then you wouldn’t be forced to be on the road so much. So don’t kid yourself.” Of the three of them, Jarrod had viewed the fix their dad had left them in as an unforgivable betrayal, but mostly to their Pops. Tru and Bo hated it too, but Jarrod had hardened like tempered steel.

  His brother was right. They hadn’t known the mess they were in until their parents died in a small plane crash—only then did they learn their dad had leveraged their heritage to the max and then added on more debt, leaving them on the verge of losing everything.

  How a man could lose that much and still get loans for more had made Tru and his brothers furious.

  Even with some fast thinking and then hard work, it had taken them over a year to make a dent in the debt and get the banks off their backs. But if he hadn’t already been doing well, and if Bo hadn’t already started making a name for the ranch with the stirrups, and if Jarrod hadn’t been so savvy in cattle and ranch management, then Tru doubted if the bank would have given them a chance to save the ranch.

  As it was, it took all three of them working to pay the debts in order to save this ranch from being foreclosed on and sold off to the highest bidders.

  “Thanks to dear old Dad’s irresponsibility,” Bo said, sarcastically, “you’re going to have to sacrifice yourself as a TV star.” Always the joker, he winced in mock horror. “If I were you I’d start watching out for those photo jerks hiding in the bushes,” he added, hitting too close to home. Tru recalled the night he had found some jerk doing exactly that, trying to get a picture of him and Felicity. She’d loved it. Lucky for Tru, the low-life had gotten his photo and run before Tru had really messed up and punched him in the jaw.

  “You’re a barrel of laughs, little brother,” Tru said.

  “Hey, I’m just glad it’s you and not me tied to those suits.”

  “Look, I’m not happy about it. But we all know we need the sponsor money. Thankfully it’s not that bad.” He’d lived through cancer as a six-year-old boy. A rare cancer that had taken two of his uncles before he’d been born, so he knew in the realm of bad things that this really wasn’t earth shattering. “Bottom line is I shouldn’t have let my guard down with Maggie Hope. I’ve learned better than most that a reporter will do whatever it takes to get a story. I shouldn’t have been taken in by her naive act.”

  Tru rubbed the back of his neck. He’d been a fool to think just because she looked so innocent and sweet with those big eyes and that “break her neck” act that she wasn’t a reporter with the skill set to get a good story, much less a decent interview. The reality was she’d set him up like a pro.

  And he’d taken the bait.

  And that was what bothered him the most about this entire deal. But nothing could be done about it. He’d dug this hole for himself. His agent had hinted that they’d especially liked the chemistry between the two on camera.

  Chemistry—he’d felt it like a lightning strike. That chemistry had gotten him into this fix. It had also jumped from that TV screen so vividly that he could almost feel it, and she was all the way back in Houston when the show aired. Of course there was the YouTube video that had mysteriously appeared—the cut portion of tape of Maggie’s fall after being scared by Crimson. While it had been omitted from the actual interview, those flashing eyes and her refusal of his help to get on her feet and the ensuing sparks had caused a viral sensation. One that he wasn’t happy about and he felt pretty certain she hated more than him.

  “The sponsors want you to play that up—tastefully of course,” Frank had said. “No Bachelor reenactments or anything, but . . .” Frank had left it at
that.

  “But what?” Tru had shot back. He had to draw the line somewhere or the sponsors would dictate his life.

  It was a hard place for a man like him to be. But for his Pops he’d do anything.

  But he didn’t have to like it.

  “So how long before it starts?” Jarrod asked, drawing him back from his thoughts.

  He met his brother’s gaze. “Two days.”

  He had two days before this fiasco started. Two days before his life was turned into a sixty-day circus.

  5

  Clara Lyn squirted the steel blue, temporary hair rinse on Greta Hogan’s wet kinky perm, then began massaging the color into the woman’s thinning hair. The blue rinse made Greta’s hair about as blue as her lips had been the day she’d choked on a bite of Reba’s maple-cured ham. Boy, had that been a day—Clara Lyn had used her Heimlich maneuver.

  Yes, indeed she had. After practicing that life-saving move for years, she’d been proud to say it had worked like a gem. Well, after the initial tense moments of getting Greta out of the styling chair. Greta, no small girl, had been wedged into the chair tight. Clara Lyn had finally gotten her out and her arms wrapped around Greta’s middle and started squeezing—just like she’d watched that teacher on the computer show her. One good yank and that piece of ham squirted out of Greta’s throat, sailed across the room, and hit Reba square in the face.

  Now, Clara Lyn looked at Greta in the mirror, swiped a dribble of blue rinse off her client’s forehead, and shot her a knowing look. “We saw it in person. I tell you, that televised version didn’t even begin to compare to what we witnessed with our own eyes. It was like the Fourth of July in there when Tru put his hand on Maggie Hope’s. The sparks couldn’t be disguised.”

  “True,” Reba said. “But she didn’t act like she was glad she reacted to all that testosterone that boy emits. She practically couldn’t get out of Wishing Springs fast enough.”

  Clara Lyn rolled Greta’s short blue hair on the small blue rollers, her fingers flying as she snagged up a section of hair with her rattail comb, smoothed it, and slapped a roller under it. “Maybe so, but Tru was so sweet. That’s our boy. Always the gentleman.”

  Greta gave a knowing look. “There were those tabloid stories, though.”

  “Pure trash,” Clara Lyn harrumphed. “They didn’t know what they were talkin’ about. Yes, he and that glamour girl were dating, but everyone is entitled to a few mistakes.”

  “Absolutely,” Reba added. “It’s so exciting that Maggie Hope is coming here to learn to ride. And she looked so sweet and scared that day. I can’t imagine her getting on a cutting horse. Especially after, well . . . she landed on her tush. Those rocks had to hurt.”

  “Poor girl, had bruises, I imagine,” Greta chimed in.

  “Just shows she’s got spunk.” Clara Lyn paused her rolling. “If she can get up after that and make a few jokes she’s all right in my book.”

  Greta nodded. “It’ll be entertaining, that’s for sure.”

  Reba didn’t look so confident. “She was a little clumsy. That can’t work too well with a Quarter Horse.”

  “Bah, could have just been those cute shoes,” Clara Lyn waved off the remark.

  “Still, Tru will have his work cut out for him,” Reba persisted, then beamed. “But that will mean he will just have to help her all the more. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if . . .”

  “They fell in love,” Clara Lyn finished for her.

  “Yes,” Reba said quickly. “They did look so good on camera, and he was so sweet trying to help her not make a fool out of herself.”

  “Could be a romance brewing,” Greta offered.

  Clara wrapped the last curl, giving both Reba and Greta her best mark-my-words look. “I recognized the chemistry right away. It’s going to be interesting.”

  “And well-deserved. Tru Monahan has done nothing but work his bones weary since his father and mother died,” Reba looked sad. “He has a lot on his plate that would weigh a lesser man down, though Tru seems to handle it well. But I worry about him on the road so much. He needs a good woman in his life.”

  “You’re right, Reba,” Clara Lyn scowled. “That Felicity loved creating drama for the paparazzi more than she did Tru.”

  “Exactly,” Reba agreed. “I think he got mixed up with her just because he was lonesome.”

  “I think so too. Him and those brothers of his are all too young to be slaving away like they do,” Clara said, leading Greta to the dryer. She placed the bubble hood over her head, still thinking of Tru and his brothers. There had been a lot of sorrow in their family, yet those boys had held on. She’d heard rumors that their dad had had a very bad gambling problem. Rumors, but no one knew for certain.

  “We sure could use a little romance around here.” Reba sighed. “It would sure liven things up, don’t you think?”

  “I totally agree.”

  Just like her, Reba was a sucker for Hallmark movies and her DVR was set to record every upcoming mushy movie there was. Watching this newest development play out before them would be absolutely divine.

  Maggie felt as if her editor and the powers that be had taken hold of the steering wheel of her Volkswagen Bug and driven her full throttle into the tangled underbrush of the Amazon. She once again had no idea what she was doing.

  And a week after having her life hijacked, she was still miffed, embarrassed, and confused as she drove through the gates of the Four of Hearts Ranch. The sun blazed vividly in a pale blue Monday sky filled with feathery transparent clouds. She sighed and tried to be positive. Have a little hope.

  This was a career booster.

  A shot in the arm.

  Who was she kidding—obviously it was a career saver, or at least a shot at saving her column. She’d had no idea the paper was thinking of dropping her column. She had a loyal and diverse audience, but when they’d talked, Amanda had reiterated what Helen Davenport had said. She had to increase her audience. Newspapers were all fighting for their lives, and their world had turned just as cutthroat as the television industry.

  So, even Amanda was rooting for this to all work out. Her ratings were great but every opportunity was a boost that helped her maintain that status.

  Maggie had taken that to heart and tried to be positive while giving the continual negative thoughts a swift kick to the curb.

  The ranch was impressive—like the cowboy.

  She kicked that thought to the curb even harder. But Tru Monahan was hard to forget. Hard not to think about. He was also the reason she was now not only on television looking like an idiot but also a YouTube sensation. It was awful—and good for readership.

  Driving between the massive black pipe entrance of the Four of Hearts Ranch, its name wrought in large letters of metal above her, she focused on the details of the sign. The ranch’s brand bracketed the name—a large number four with a narrow heart connected to the straight side of the number.

  She’d learned through her research that Tru’s grandmother had actually been the designer of the brand.

  It was . . . pretty. She thought that said something nice about Tru’s grandfather that he would let the slightly feminine logo stand. He must have cared for and valued his wife. That gesture spoke volumes to Maggie.

  She wondered what it would feel like to have a man, a husband, who valued and cared for her. Maggie craved a loving husband and a house full of kids, but knew that the odds were against her ever having either.

  Her family background, the emotional fears, and the subconscious scars she carried all too clearly made that seem like a hopeless dream. Though Maggie refused to let it define her. Her column was about holding out hope that one day those like herself, who were seeking true love and devotion would find it. “Gotta Have Hope” embodied the spirit of hope and believing that true love existed. That there was someone out there for everyone. Maggie just had no trust where men were concerned—she hoped she could open her heart up to the right man when he came along.

>   Her thoughts flew straight back to the moment in that interview when she’d felt . . . a connection between her and Tru, and she pushed that out of the way again. He was not that man.

  Parking in front of the house, she pushed her door open—not giving herself time to even think about not getting out. She stepped out onto the red gravel. Her jogging shoes were much more suited to country life than the notorious red heels. Those were in her closet in Houston and would stay there, indefinitely.

  She headed toward the front door. She could see a barn out behind the house and past that was a smaller house—a rambling single story of cedar and brick. The main house was white with a large front porch and a solid black door with a heavy brass knocker. The mournful cry of a dog echoed from inside. The wails grew more intense as she crossed the porch and knocked, turning into a frantic mixture of barks and very loud howls. What was going on? This was more than a hysterical pet announcing someone was at the door.

  Maggie knocked again, harder. A crash sounded inside. Maggie stiffened. Okay, something was seriously wrong.

  She was still trying to figure out what to do when she heard shuffling on the other side of the door and then it swung open and Maggie came face to face with a wide-eyed, lanky older man, in his early- to mid seventies. She hadn’t known what she was expecting but this was not it.

  His angular face, thin and weathered, appeared very much the face of a cowboy. The resemblance to Tru was unmistakable, though this man’s dark brown hair was peppered with gray. Was this his grandfather? Was this “Pops” as Tru had called him affectionately? Not only did he resemble Tru, he was almost six feet tall and it was easy to see that he’d probably carried himself with the same straight-backed posture.