“With pleasure, ladies.” He tipped his hat to them, aware that Diane studied him carefully.
“You’re one of those cover models,” she suddenly announced. “I saw your picture in the Exhibition Centre at the Stampede.”
Connie and Joyce looked at him as closely as had Diane. Then they started to chuckle. For a moment Brent felt unusually uncomfortable but then he grinned and swept off his hat.
“You got me pegged right, ladies.” He smiled at them while he held the hat over his heart before settling it on his head again.
“Are we talking to the winner?” Connie asked coyly.
Brent shook his head. “I have it on the best authority that the judge has until the end of the week to make her decision. The winner will be announced Saturday night. I’m hopeful, but it’s a tough line up.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want to be that judge,” Diane chimed in. “How could anyone make a decision from all those gorgeous men?”
Brent leaned in to her and lowered his voice. “Are you calling me gorgeous?”
“Well, you are.” Connie’s giggle told him that she’d had more than a few drinks.
“Well, thank you, ma’am.” He raised his hat to her and sat back in his chair as Diane beckoned the waitress over and ordered drinks for them all.
“Now, hang on a minute Diane.” Brent motioned the waitress to wait. “I can’t accept your hospitality without—”
“Don’t be silly. Of course you can,” Diane said. The waitress scurried away before anyone could change their mind.
Connie stared at him for so long he was certain she was trying to focus her vision.
“So do you get your good looks from your mom or your dad?” she asked.
He blew out a breath and arranged his features to look grim. “Never knew who my father was, I’m sad to say. My mom was the looker.”
“Was?” Connie stroked the back of his hand as if to commiserate.
“She passed away last year.” Brent bowed his head. Respect for his mother was sure to raise him in these ladies’ esteem.
“That must have been tough for you. Have you any brothers or sisters?”
Brent shook his head, pressed his lips together and closed his eyes as if the subject was too painful for him. “None.”
“That is so sad.” Connie grabbed his hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. Brent retrieved it and gave her a shy smile.
Joyce leaned towards him then, raising her voice to make sure he could hear her above the din in the pub. “Tell us what it’s like being a model.”
Brent sat back in his chair, a warm glow of well-being spreading in his stomach. He had the ladies in the palms of his hands. He entertained them with tales of photo shoots, both real and imagined, and had them almost crying in their drinks as he described his first attempts at waxing his chest.
Between the booze and the laughter he hadn’t failed to keep an eye on Carter and the blonde girl. When it looked as if they were making a move to leave, he got to his feet.
“Come on ladies,” he coaxed. “Time for a group photo. Connie, move in closer to Diane and Joyce. Just one photo to celebrate a good night out. That’s it. Lovely.”
He had to grit his teeth when Connie snatched his hat and put it on her head. He smiled anyway and purposely focused his phone slightly above them. He took two shots and quickly viewed them, then held his hand over his face and groaned.
“Ladies, I am so bad. I’ve got nothing but the tops of your lovely heads. Let me take one more.” He snapped the photograph he could have taken in the first place and showed it to them, promising he’d send it to them as they pressed a napkin covered with their email addresses into his hand. ‘Well, ladies, sad to say I’m going to have to leave you. It’s not just the girls who need their beauty sleep you know.”
He went around the table and thanked each of them for a fun and entertaining evening. They giggled like schoolgirls when he kissed their cheeks and Connie goosed him when he retrieved his hat. He wagged his finger at her but by then he doubted she could even see it. In the pool of light outside the door he stopped and quickly looked at the photos he’d just taken.
They were clean, clear shots and no one could mistake the couple in the pictures because there, front and center, were Carter and his girlfriend.
Chapter Sixteen
How could it be Monday already?
Trisha glared at the clock then turned on her back and stared at the ceiling, irritated with herself for missing the warm weight of Cameron’s body curled around hers and the soft rasp of his breathing in her ear. She turned her face into the pillow with a groan. She’d known Cameron Carter for all of a week. No, make that six days. The skin on her shoulder where he’d touched her that first day still seemed to burn, as if he’d branded her. Whether it was a hot or a cold brand, to her either denoted ownership. She didn’t want to be owned, but she did want to be with Cameron.
Was that why she’d tumbled into bed with him at the earliest opportunity? And if so, what did that make her? Never mind that he’d kicked her libido into overdrive, leaving her floating on a cloud that she didn’t want to get off. It had to be lust because the alternative was unthinkable. He was an almighty itch that she wanted to scratch and she’d done just that so might be over him already. But, from the way her body surged into demanding life just thinking about him, she knew that was one big, fat lie.
Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by Samantha banging on her door.
“We’re due at Marguerite’s in an hour,” she yelled.
Trisha wriggled out of bed. “I’m not deaf.”
“Didn’t think you were,” Samantha shouted back. “Just wanted to make sure you were up.”
“In more ways than you can imagine,” Trisha muttered angrily as she walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Cameron still filled her mind as she and Samantha entered Purple Plain’s premises an hour and a half later. Marguerite stood at the reception desk sorting through a bundle of mail. She pulled out a large manila envelope with a smile.
“I’ve got some more photographs for you Trisha,” Marguerite handed her the envelope. “Have you looked at the last lot?”
Trisha nodded. “They are very good. I take it you made your final selection from your original entries and then set up those models with your photographer?”
“Exactly right. Some took direction better than others and I think it shows, but would you like to come and see how we’re getting on with tallying the draw tickets? We’re in temporary accommodation down the hall.” Marguerite took them out of her office and along the main hallway to the next suite.
Even from outside the door Trisha could hear the hum of conversation broken by frequent bursts of laughter. When Marguerite took them inside the din almost deafened her and she looked in astonishment at all the activity. The same poster-size photographs as those on display at the Stampede but with the contestants names clearly printed on the bottom of each of them decorated the walls. A boardroom-sized table, its top covered with neat stacks of draw tickets, had been set up down the center of the room. At each of the twelve workstations around it, sorters with flying fingers worked their way through the tickets.
“If it’s any consolation to you Trisha,” Marguerite said with a grin, “Brent Heywood is not the most popular pick. So far he’s lying in about seventh place.”
“And the week has only just begun,” added Samantha. “He could come in last by the time we are done. When do entries close?”
“Eleven o’clock on Friday night.” Marguerite told them. “We offered the ladies either a night shift or an early start Saturday morning. Several have opted for the night shift so I think our count will be done well before lunch. Then we’ll have plenty of time before the reveal and presentations at the Palliser at four.”
“I’m impressed.” How the sorters could converse and laugh together and not lose track of which pile belonged to which entrant amazed Trisha.
“I told yo
u our readers are awesome.” Marguerite nodded towards the table. “They each have a box of tickets and sort them into name order on the table. The four ladies walking around pick up the sorted names and then count them into bundles of one hundred which is easier for the ladies doing the data entry.”
“And the majority wins.” Trisha said.
Marguerite nodded. “Have you heard any more from Heywood?”
“No, he doesn’t have my cell number thank goodness, but that doesn’t mean he won’t show up beside me when I least expect him,” Trisha replied with a shudder. “Even just looking at his picture here makes me uncomfortable.”
She looked up at the poster again, as if drawn to it. Brent’s straight nose and high cheek bones above a lean jaw were certainly photogenic, but she remembered the coldness in his pale blue eyes and shivered. That icy disregard seemed to follow every move she made yet it could be nothing more than her over-active imagination.
Having seen enough of Marguerite’s enterprise, Trisha relaxed a little when they all returned to the main office. She picked up the envelope of photographs she’d been given, opened it and laid them out on Marguerite’s desk top.
All the photographs were in black and white, the models mostly bare-chested or wearing unbuttoned shirts. They all had impressive, muscular bodies. In each picture the subject had his head tilted just enough to peer out from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. Some of them looked a little uncomfortable and Trisha decided these were probably the real cowboys that Marguerite had mentioned. The rest of them showed some degree of comfort with the camera. She couldn’t even deny the total confidence she saw in Brent’s photograph but looking at it still unsettled her.
Picking all the photographs up in no particular order she shuffled them like a pack of large cards then laid them one by one face down on the table. She picked them up one at a time, looking at each one now as an individual. When all twelve were face up again, she stepped back from the desk but looked up when Marguerite chuckled.
“What?” Trisha tried to look bewildered.
Marguerite stabbed a finger at one particular photo. “From the look on your face and the fact that you’ve concentrated on that particular photograph twice now, I think you’ve made your choice.”
“My, my.” Samantha looked where Marguerite pointed. “That’s no surprise. Number Five, Jason Creevey. Why him?”
“I didn’t say it was him.” Trisha gathered up the photos and replaced them in the envelope. “But I do wonder how he managed to be the only naked guy amongst them. It would seem to give him an unfair advantage.”
“We didn’t stipulate any dress code in the entry forms,” Marguerite said. “I don’t think any of us even thought someone would submit a nude photo of themselves. But I don’t blame you in the least for picking him. He’s definitely book cover material.”
“You both told me I had until the end of the week to make a decision so you’ll just have to wait and see who I do pick,” Trisha said with a grin. “But now you’ll have to excuse me. I have to get down to the grounds to start my interviews. I made some contacts before I arrived, but Cameron helped me with some introductions and I’m meeting a stock contractor and a couple of wagon drivers this afternoon.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Samantha asked.
Trisha looked at the stricken expression on her friend’s face and laughed. “I don’t think so. I just need to go back to the condo to get my gear because I’ll be staying for the wagon races tonight.”
“And I probably won’t see you for days,” Samantha grumbled. Her cell phone warbled in her pocket and she pulled it out. “It’s Dee,” she mouthed as she listened to her assistant. When the call ended she smiled at Trisha. “Your interview is set up for Thursday afternoon at my office. Think you’re ready for it?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” Trisha caught her lip and turned away.
Darn it, why did the tears have to spring so easily? She couldn’t complain even though the mere thought of unburdening herself to a fellow journalist, however sympathetic, terrified her. She had only agreed to the interview to foil Brent Heywood’s demands and to change her mind now would simply be playing into his hands.
She must have had a real moment of weakness in agreeing to tell her story. After holding so much so close for so long she could not turn back now.
* * *
“There’s the horrrnn annnnnnd theeeeeey’re off!”
Drivers yelled and whistled at their horses and the wagons shot forward off their starting barrels. The outriders tossed barrels representing old cook stoves along with two tent poles, into their wagon beds then vaulted on to their own mounts. They sped after the wagons as they made their figure of eight turns around the second marker barrels and out onto the racetrack.
Breathless, Trisha watched the four wagons race round the first bend, their outriders spread across the track behind them. She’d had the finer points of chuck wagon racing explained to her that afternoon by the driver she’d interviewed, but had not been prepared for the noise and speed of it, the rush of adrenaline that surged through her as the horses hit their stride.
A stride that could be twenty feet in length with up to one hundred and fifty strides per minute. An acceleration speed of almost forty-two miles per hour in two-point-five seconds, powered by a heart as big as a basketball and capable of pumping seventy-five gallons of blood every minute. Those facts were ingrained in her by her father from the moment she had sat on her first thoroughbred.
She watched the teams now, all straining into their collars, surging around the track with their hooves pounding the dirt like pistons. The jingle of their harness, the rattle of the wagons and the rumble of the wheels filled her ears as they rounded the final turn. The drivers leaned forward from their seats, slapping the lines on the horses’ backs, all of them yelling encouragement to their teams to find that final turn of speed down the homestretch.
“An-n-n-nd Riley Bachmann is at the front of the pack leading the dash for cash, ladies and gentleman. Here he comes now heading to the wire with his wheels on fire. Riley is first across the line with Bart Coleman a horse length behind him in second place.”
Some twenty thousand voices erupted in cheers and applause, a wall of noise which blasted Trisha’s ears. She watched the teams slowing down to a lope then a trot, all under the control of their drivers again.
Her heart still pounded as she opened her camera bag.
“If you’ve never seen chuck wagon racing before,” another photographer had advised her, “Be sure to watch the first race.”
Now she appreciated that advice. Without knowing what to expect she would have had no clear idea of what shots she wanted. She set herself up amongst other photographers at the first then the last turns before crossing to the backstretch so she could catch the action there. From time to time she checked her shots, pleased with her results in capturing the grace and athleticism of the thoroughbreds, the speed and color of the event that ran every day of the Stampede. But the final choice of what would appear in the magazine would be her editor’s choice, not hers. It would certainly not be an easy task for him.
With all the race heats run and the teams heading to their barns, she made her way back up into the grandstand to find a suitable place to take pictures of the late night show. Dust clung to her face and clothes and beneath her shirt her cotton tee stuck to her back. Right now she considered it fortunate she should be alone. Sweaty, dusty, she’d hardly make anyone’s girlfriend of the year list.
She took several shots of the show stage being set up in front of the grandstand but pictures of the chuck wagons played across her mind. The thrill of those surging bay, brown, grey, black bodies hurtling around that track excited her beyond anything she’d expected. Adrenaline had pumped through her veins as she watched heat after heat, leaving her as breathless as if she’d been up there on the box with a driver or on the back of one of the horses.
Wait.
On the back of one of those horses?
Shocked that she could even have thought it, she let out a slow controlled breath. She’d vowed never to get on a horse again, to never be in the position of risking another horse’s life. Yet today, for the first time since her accident, she wanted to feel the wind on her face and in her hair, wanted to experience again that speed and strength beneath her. Riding for her had so often been both a solution to a problem and an escape from situations she didn’t want to face. On the back of a horse she couldn’t let her attention wander. She had to focus on every footfall, be aware of every muscle in order to achieve that soaring sense of freedom that filled her very being. She wanted that freedom again.
Freedom from fear.
Freedom from witnessing her life instead of living it.
This sudden clarity in the muddied waters of her brain knocked her backwards into the nearest seat. Sink or swim her counselor had said. Just yesterday, when Samantha suggested the interview, she’d hesitated but seen no option but to agree. Was making that decision really all it took to turn her life around? Could she dare to hope for some understanding that would help her forgive herself?
Cameron, she had to call Cameron. Searching in her bag for her cell phone, she suddenly realized there was too much going on around her to make any sense of a telephone conversation. Reluctantly she left her phone where it was. She’d call him in the morning and arrange to see him so that she could explain everything before her story hit the news. If it even made a blip on that particular horizon anyway.
He’d treated her with care and respect. He’d been patient with her fears. He’d loved her into oblivion, whether he’d felt as much as she or not. For that at the very least she owed him an explanation.
Frustrated that it would have to wait, she tried instead to concentrate on the show, watching the performers through a haze of her own recollections. Memories that she had tried to block came tumbling back into her mind faster than she could process them, a kaleidoscope of color and confusion. Greybird, her first pony. The red and white pole of the first fence they ever jumped. Show jackets, hard hats. Dressage lessons. Her father instructing her in a voice like thunder to get her heels down.
Loving That Cowboy Page 16
