Somewhere in the recesses of her mind and quite illogically Trisha registered an eight-second time frame for Marguerite to walk to and from the window. Maybe those automatic sunscreens were worth it after all.
“What’s Brent Heywood got on you?” Marguerite angled her head to one side, her eyes gleaming with sharp interest as she looked at Trisha.
Tears pricked Trisha’s eyes. However much she wanted to put her past behind her, here it was yet again staring in her in the face. For how much longer could she run from the truth of a day she wished she could forget? She put her hand over her mouth to choke a sob. She was so sick and tired of feeling weak and afraid yet still could not find the words to explain herself.
“Something happened to me a couple of years ago. Something I’m still trying to get past. I’m sorry but I really don’t want to talk about it.” Trisha turned away, misery pulling her mouth down.
“And it’s plain eating her up, that’s why she’s so skinny,” Samantha cut in. “But if a smarm like Brent Heywood could uncover information about you, Trisha, then so could anyone with a computer and half a brain.”
“If he’s really being that much of a pest we’ll just find grounds to disqualify him,” Marguerite snorted.
“You can’t do that, Marguerite,” Trisha warned. “Forgive the analogy but he’s got a loaded gun here. Either I give him what he wants, which is to win the prize pot, the cover shoot and the contract deal, or he will bad mouth me to everyone who will listen. It would be totally unfair to the other competitors for me to give in to his demands and Samantha’s and your integrity will be compromised if I do. Both of you have too much to lose for me to allow that to happen.”
“But if you back out now, what’s to stop him talking anyway? He could put his own spin on it just to get back at you. I can see it now.” Samantha held her hands up as if framing a tabloid headline. “‘Judge walks out on top publishing house’. You think the fallout from that wouldn’t have some effect?”
“Has he tried to contact you again?” Marguerite asked.
“No, thank goodness,” Trisha admitted. “But this is only Sunday. We’ve still got six days to go before the winner is announced. I can’t think of anything we could do to make this right.”
“I can.” Marguerite grinned suddenly. “Honey, if you’re up for this we can absolutely turn it around. But it might mean an uncomfortable week for you.”
Fear of what Brent Heywood might do and what solution Marguerite may have vied in Trisha’s mind.
“What could you do?” she asked finally.
In answer Marguerite reached into her voluminous designer bag, sifted through its contents and retrieved a piece of paper. “This is our Pick-a-Dinner-Date draw form. This is what we were going to run with in the first place, and then Samantha thought we’d get more exposure with you judging the finals. You do have the credentials, you know. I checked that much.”
Trisha took the draw form and quickly scanned it. The only information asked for was the entrant’s name, email address and with which model they would most like to have dinner.
“So you really didn’t need me anyway.” Trisha glared at Samantha.
“You give the event that professional edge we needed.” Samantha did not look at all repentant. “All the draw forms will have to be processed anyway. Marguerite has a team of Purple Plain readers ready to start work on them, if they haven’t already.”
“That begins tomorrow morning at nine,” Marguerite added. “We didn’t know what the response would be like but it’s already astronomical. I guess everyone wants a date with a winning male model, and a few of them are real cowboys. Now we have our work cut out to get everything counted by four o’clock on Saturday afternoon ready for the evening announcement. Our part of the exhibition is over at midnight Friday when our photo display comes down.”
Trisha waved the draw form under Marguerite’s nose. “There will be thousands of these. How can you possibly process them all in less than a week?”
“Never underestimate the power of our readers,” Marguerite chuckled. “If you don’t have plans tomorrow, meet me at my office and I’ll show you what I mean.”
Intrigued in spite of her initial doubt, Trisha agreed. “So what should I do about Brent?”
“He’s not stalking you, is he?” Marguerite asked with friendly concern. “He hasn’t actually threatened you with physical harm?”
“No.” Trisha shivered at the thought. His bumping into her at the Stampede grounds was nothing more than a coincidence. It couldn’t be anything else, could it?
“If he approaches you again just let him think he’s convinced you to pick him. What do you think, Samantha?”
Samantha tapped a nail against her cheek as she considered. “I think we need to find out more about him. I’ll have Dee look into his background. She has ways and means I don’t even want to think about.”
“The stage manager from Friday night didn’t have a very good opinion of him either,” Trisha said. “I’ll see if I can track him down and ask him what he meant. I was too upset to think straight then. I just wanted to leave.”
“I can understand that.” Samantha threw her arm around Trisha’s shoulders and gave her a quick, comforting squeeze. “I’ll have Dee call him first; she liaised with him for the reception and awards night at the Palliser so she’ll have his number.”
Trisha covered her face with her hands and shook her head. “I thought coming here would be a bit of a vacation along with my assignment. Instead, my past is catching up with me almost faster than I can breathe.”
“What could have been so bad?” Marguerite wanted to know.
“Stampede and horses go together. Cowboys and horses go together. Your judge and a dead horse don’t, but that’s what will come out of this if I don’t give in to Brent Heywood’s demands.”
“I think you should tell us what happened,” Marguerite advised. “Whatever it is, let us help you deal with it.”
Trisha looked at both women but heard her counselor’s voice.
There will come a time, Trisha, when you become so tired of the burden of guilt you’ve chosen to carry. Then your only options will be to either sink under its weight or swim away from it. Sink or swim. It’s up to you.
Trisha straightened her back and shoulders, lifted her chin. She’d carried that guilt for two years. She’d lain down with it at night, an uncomfortable and unforgiving bed-fellow and gotten up with it in the morning after dream-disturbed sleep. It sapped her energy and drained all emotion leaving her living a half-life.
Sink or swim. More of what she had suffered in the last two years? No.
Trisha looked at Samantha and Marguerite, saw the tension in their faces and the questions in their eyes. Where should she begin? With her parents who had her on a horse before she could walk? With Delacourt, the horse bred by her mother and trained by her father? With her own soul-deep passion for horses? Simply with herself? It all seemed too much. She sank into the nearest chair.
“Before I became Trisha Watts, photographer, I was Patricia Somerville, three-day event rider. In our last event in the run up for the European championships, my horse stumbled and I ignored it and pushed him on over a jump. He was dead when he hit the ground and we finished up crashing into another fence. I hit my head and was in a coma for eight weeks.” Trisha reached up and pushed back her bangs, revealing the scar on her forehead.
“Ouch,” muttered Samantha.
“Ouch is right, on so many levels,” Trisha continued. “When the hospital finally discharged me and I went home, I found I’d not only lost my sense of balance and some depth perception, but also my nerve. I couldn’t get on a horse without breaking out in a cold sweat and having nightmares afterwards. My parents thought I just needed to persist but it simply got worse until I had a huge argument with my father and left home to stay with a friend. I couldn’t get on a horse but I could still photograph them so made photography my career.”
On the edge o
f tears, Trisha’s voice quavered and she stopped.
“Did you know any of this?” Marguerite asked Samantha.
“Some of it,” Samantha admitted, “but I thought it best for Trish to tell you herself.”
“All Samantha knew of me when we met in Toronto,” Trisha continued, “was that a designer had asked me to be one of his models. He knew that I rode in top level competition and thought my name might help advertise his riding inspired fashions. When I refused to model he asked me to shoot at fashion week instead because he’d also seen an exhibition of my photographs in a London art gallery.”
“So the name Watts is a pseudonym?” Marguerite wanted to know.
“No, that’s my mother’s maiden name.”
“Well, your story could be a novel all on its own,” Marguerite mused.
“So now you know the truth, do you really want to risk all that coming out in the press right now?” Trisha worried at her lower lip.
“Actually, yes.” Samantha suddenly smiled and held up her hand as Trisha began to protest. “I know several journalists and one in particular would be very sympathetic. Trisha, think about it. It gives you an opportunity to show how brave you are in admitting the problem you had and why you turned to photography. How many other people might be out there suffering the way you do? Your story might help them and stop Brent Heywood in his tracks too.”
“That could work.” Marguerite looked thoughtful while she considered Samantha’s proposal. “What do you think, Trisha? Are you up for it?”
Trisha looked at the women who were for now her closest colleagues. Having gone this far, it would be impossible for her to not help make their event a success. And did she really want the man who made her skin crawl just to think of him gain the upper hand? She slowly nodded her assent.
“Okay, set up the interview. Let’s get it over with.”
Chapter Fifteen
It took no time at all for Brent Heywood to discover the location of Samantha Monroe’s home address. Checking out her condo this morning, he’d watched her and Patricia—he couldn’t think of her as Trisha—emerge onto the sidewalk. He kept his distance but knew they were too busy talking to notice him. As soon as they turned onto Fourth Avenue he thought they must be heading for Samantha’s office. They entered her tower building and he pushed through the entrance in time to see the elevator doors close behind them.
He checked the directory to make sure he knew what floor they were on. He’d need it soon anyway as he’d probably be going there himself to sign a contract. As he turned away from it he came face to face with a security guard hovering on the edge of suspicion. Narrowed eyes, lips pressed firmly together, arms crossed over his chest. Brent knew the signs well
“Can I help you?” the guard asked.
Brent smiled easily. He couldn’t think what he’d done to attract the guard’s attention but refused to be intimidated. “Just checking out an address for an appointment tomorrow. I don’t want to be late.”
“Hm.” The guard didn’t sound convinced.
Spotting a convenience kiosk Brent offered to get him a coffee but the guard shook his head. Brent had no idea how long he would have to wait before Samantha and Patricia showed up again. He didn’t want the guard hanging around him nor did he want to leave yet so bought a coffee and a Sunday newspaper. He might just as well make himself comfortable and soon found a seat from where he could see both the entrance and the elevator.
When Marguerite DeVries arrived he guessed they must be having a meeting about the competition. A second coffee went cold before the elevator doors opened and the three women came out together. As they left the building he went to stand by the lobby window and watched them pile into a taxi waiting at the curb.
They were probably going to the Stampede grounds. He thought of the hundred dollar bill folded in his wallet. Nope. No point even thinking of following them. Discovering Patricia’s skeleton in the closet had been more than a stroke of luck, it assured him of a $25,000 payday come Saturday. He could feel the check in his hand and see the dates for modelling shoots filling his calendar. Once he’d got a cover or two under his belt he’d turn himself into his own business.
Thoughts of how he’d manage that occupied him as he made his way back to the motel. There’d be no more messing around with trains, taxis and buses. Oh, no. He knew exactly which vehicle would suit him and then he’d travel in style.
When he got back to the motel he stripped to the waist for comfort and sat on the bed. The room was marginally better than his usual accommodation. At least it had air conditioning and the beer he’d pulled out of the fridge chilled his hand.
He opened up his laptop and reviewed the information he’d found earlier that day, considering how best to use it. What did Patricia really know about Carter? He didn’t think they could have had much time together as she’d only been in town such a short time, but judging from what he’d seen so far he figured they didn’t get much talking done.
Did she know that Cameron Carter had a brother? That they had competed in rodeo as partners since their early teens? He thought not but couldn’t be sure. Taking another pull on his beer, he tapped a key and brought up a picture of Cameron and Mackenzie Carter.
“Hot damn,” he muttered as he scrutinized the picture. Then he began to chuckle. “Well, well. This could be mighty useful.”
Setting the beer on the nightstand, he began to type in earnest. On a whim he brought up the online telephone directory for Calgary, just in case either brother had a land-line listed. Disappointed but not surprised when he didn’t find one, he went back to scrolling through the Canadian rodeo listings. The brothers’ names cropped up consistently then suddenly disappeared. What happened?
He carried on searching and then found Cameron’s name again, but not Mackenzie’s. Maybe they’d argued, not an unheard of occurrence between competitive brothers, or so he understood. Having no siblings of his own, he had no first-hand experience. He typed Mackenzie Carter in the search bar and groaned as both male and female listings appeared on the screen with not a rodeo performer amongst them.
He finished his beer and stared at the bottle in moody silence. He’d like another but thought of what he didn’t have in his pocket and knew he’d have to make this six-pack last a few days. His last job had been managing a gym. It had paid more than just his bi-weekly pay check. The thought of flirting with cute young women as he took or renewed their memberships put a grin on his face but he’d gone much further than flirting with several of the hard-bodied, bored businessmen’s wives he’d met. A photograph here and a quiet word there had cash pouring into his pockets. This he’d stashed in a small storage unit. He’d rented to hide things he hadn’t wanted his mother to see but gave it up when she passed away.
For once it didn’t irritate him that his only inheritance from her was the good looks he’d been born with. He’d made the most of working at the gym and kept himself fit. It had been one of his interests who had suggested he enter the cover model competition. He’d paid a small fortune for his portfolio of photographs but didn’t regret it now that he had something to look forward to.
He’d never be like his mother who’d worked two and sometimes three jobs to keep a roof over their heads. In between those jobs there’d been a succession of ‘uncles’, mostly itinerant workers who made use of her and their home for a month or two and then were gone. Some taught him useful tricks, like stacking a deck of cards in his favor or the easiest way to lift a wallet.
He sighed and heaved himself off the bed. Once he’d showered and freshened up he’d head out for the evening.
*.*.*
The sun sat low in the dusk-hazed sky, a mere beat away from sliding behind the backdrop of the shadow darkened mountains. Despite the late hour, heat still drilled down on rooftops, bathed tall buildings in a rosy glow and drove people into the bars along Seventeenth Avenue which drew Brent like beacons.
Timing is everything, one of his uncles once advised him
. Go into a bar too early when the crowd is thin and people are likely to remember you. Wait until later when it’s noisy and folks are buzzed then you just become a blur in the crowd.
He considered the wisdom of that advice as he scanned a party crowd. They spilled out from a pub’s dim interior onto the sidewalk patio. Ignoring the partiers, he looked instead for a single lady or pairs of women who might be out for a night on the town. But then he spotted something infinitely better and elbowed his way to the bar.
His eyes fixed on the sweet curve of the girl’s Daisy-Dukes clad butt as she leaned across the bar to speak to a barman. Her shapely bare legs ended in a pair of pink, tooled leather cowboy boots. Cute. He moved closer as she flicked her long blonde hair over her shoulder, saw the barman place two glasses of beer in front of her. Shit. Did that mean she had a date?
He hit the bar at the same time she turned to leave it. He smiled but knew he barely registered on her radar as her blue eyes lit up at something behind him. He half turned, saw who she met and quickly faced the bar again.
“Hey, buddy.” The barman watched him with ill-disguised impatience. “Are you droolin’ or drinkin’?”
Brent ordered his usual beer and whiskey chaser and made his way to the edge of the party crowd but before he got there someone plucked at his sleeve. He looked down at the turquoise-tipped fingers on his arm, then at their owner.
“We have room at our table if you’d like to join us,” she offered, batting her eyelashes at him.
He looked at her and her two companions as if considering, but an image of his mother attaching false eyelashes before a night on the town crowded into his mind. The recollection made him falter but he quickly recovered himself and smiled, recognizing the faint hope in this woman’s eyes. At the very least she’d likely buy him a drink, possibly supper. He nodded and sat in the chair beside her while she introduced herself as Connie and her companions as Joyce and Diane.
Loving That Cowboy Page 15
