Sweet-Talking Cowboy

by Vicki Lewis Thompson, Stephanie Bond

  “I haven’t. Six months ago, my answer would have been different.”

  “Oh?”

  “We couldn’t agree on our goals. She hates my long-range plan to breed horses. She thinks it’s too dicey. I can’t argue with that. It’s not a sure thing. We’re still friends, but she’s dating someone else.”

  “Clearly she wasn’t swept away by the fantasy.”

  He laughed. “No, ma’am, she was not.” He slowed the truck as they reached the outskirts of Apple Grove. A giant sign in the shape of an apple read APPLE GROVE, A Johnny Appleseed Success Story!

  “I won’t be picking apples this trip.”

  “Afraid not, but Henri and Kate froze packages of sliced apples so you’ll still get apple pie.”

  “Who’s Kate?”

  “Our new cook. You didn’t hear about—”

  “Helen. Yes, my folks told me she’d passed away, which is sad. She was my folks’ age, so way too young. How’s her son doing?”

  “Seth? He was in bad shape for that first year, but that changed after he spent this past Christmas in a little town called Eagles Nest. Ever hear of it?”

  “My parents spent a day there last summer. They said it was charming.”

  “Well, Seth’s been charmed. Seems he’s related to a prominent family—McGavin is their name—and he’s moved down there. Not only that, but he met a great gal. We all went down for his wedding last month.”

  “And he only met her at Christmas? That’s fast.”

  “Extenuating circumstances. But there’s no doubt he and Zoe are perfect for each other. We could all see it.”

  “That’s great for Seth, but wasn’t he your best friend at the ranch?”

  “Good memory.”

  “I’ve been told that.” She’d never admit how much she remembered about Matt. Too revealing. He’d occupied a rock star position in her life for five years. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll miss having Seth around.”

  “I will, but I’m happy for the guy.” He turned right at the square. “Want to head on out to the ranch or take a turn around the square?”

  “Go around, please. I want to see if anything looks different. The gazebo’s in good shape.”

  “It went through a major repair last spring.”

  “I heard about that. Oh, the Choosy Moose! I can finally order their hard apple cider.”

  “I sense an alcoholic theme developing.”

  “Is that surprising? But this is me we’re talking about. I’m not the type to get drunk and disorderly.” She sighed. “Or maybe I am. I’m also not the type to scream Don’t follow me to a gathering of friends and family in a sweet little church.”

  “You were provoked.”

  “Yes, yes, I was. Ha! Tres Beau’s in the same place. I’ve never been in there, but it would be fun to book an appointment and get a new cut.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Exactly. New life, new haircut. I let mine grow out so my stylist could create an up-do, but I’m done with that garbage.” She glanced at his dark brown hair, slightly curly and nearly touching his collar. “Do you still go to the barbershop?”

  “Yes, and speaking of that, I desperately need—”

  “Could I make a teeny-tiny suggestion?”

  “Like what?”

  “Have you ever tried Tres Beau?”

  “Why would I go there?”

  “Because you have beautiful hair. I’d love to see what kind of job they could do with it.”

  He shook his head. “The barbershop is fine with me.”

  “But they cut it so short.”

  “Because I ask them to. Then I don’t have to go back for a while.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess if you’re trying to save money…”

  “It’s not about the money. It’s the time.”

  “Then this would be the perfect opportunity to see what Tres Beau could do with your hair. I’m guessing the Buckskin is slower this time of year.”

  “The stables are, for sure. We don’t have as many riders when it’s this cold. On the other hand, I’m not interested in—”

  “Just let me check and see if Tres Beau has an online booking option.” She pulled out her phone.

  “For you, right?”

  “For me, yes, but for you if you’re willing. We could go together, say around eleven, after the stalls are mucked and the horses turned out.”

  “Lucy, no offense, but I don’t want to do this.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not my thing. I’ll head to the Fast Clip tomorrow. All the wranglers go there. We wear hats every day, so we don’t need—”

  “Okay…” She tapped on her phone. “But they don’t have anybody booked at eleven. There are only two operators, so we could sit side-by-side.” She glanced at him. “Like old times.”

  “Like old times? In a ladies’ hair salon?”

  “I mean, like old times on a trail ride, side-by-side, talking about life. Remember that?”

  “This is nothing like that.”

  “It’s something like that. We’ll both be sitting down. Not in a saddle, but—”

  “Which is the critical point. Cowboys sit in saddles. We do not sit in comfy salon chairs while someone cuts and styles our curly locks. This wouldn’t play well in the bunkhouse.”

  “You’ll be ridiculed?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t factor that in.”

  “Then please do.”

  “All right.” He’d go to the barbershop and come back looking like a shorn sheep because that was how the other guys did it. Her artistic nature rebelled. “What if you agreed to a salon cut to win a bet?”

  “What bet?”

  “I’ve got five bucks that says you won’t risk trying the salon.”

  “You really want me to do this, don’t you?”

  “I really do. You have amazing hair. If I had more skill, I’d offer to try cutting it myself.”

  “I’d be okay with that.”

  “I wouldn’t. I could butcher the job. Not my talent.”

  “All right, what the heck? If it means that much, I’ll go with you tomorrow.”

  “You can tell the guys it was to win a bet.”

  “I don’t need to do that. When you get right down to it, I don’t give a damn if they make fun or not.”

  “That’s great news. Mark my words, next week they’ll all be flocking to Tres Beau for a cut and style.”

  He laughed. “No, they won’t.”

  “You might be surprised. By the way, if you have this week’s Apple Grove Gazette lying around, there’s probably a coupon for Tres Beau in it. They run specials all the time.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m a subscriber.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep. Reading it calms me. When the only crime on the police blotter is a bicycle stolen from a front lawn, that’s a safe community. Then, bingo, in the next issue the bike’s been returned.”

  “With a population this small, folks notice a bike missing and usually spot where it ends up, too.”

  “A little different from L.A.”

  “But a city that size must energize you.”

  “It does. And Apple Grove wouldn’t support an ad agency. The Gazette is all you need around here.”

  “Pretty much. Most business in Apple Grove comes from conversations over the back fence.” He gestured to the general store as they passed it. “Or around the pot-belly stove in the Apple Barrel.”

  “I used to love going there. I’d always get a caramel apple.”

  “You still can.”

  “Even though apples are out of season?”

  “Here’s a deep, dark secret. They weren’t local apples in July, either. The local ones usually don’t ripen until September. Hiram imports them from other places.”

  “No.”

  “Gotta have those caramel apples. They’re an Apple Barrel staple. But keep Hiram’s secret to yourself.”

 
; “I’m a vault.” She gazed at the windows decorated with hearts for Valentine’s Day. “Is that sweet old guy Orville still hanging out by the stove dispensing advice on maintaining an orchard?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It isn’t exactly easy to grow them here, but he’s done it successfully for fifty years.”

  “I know. I read the profile on him that came out this past summer. But he was vague on when the apples are ripe and how long the season lasts, probably to protect Hiram’s secret.”

  He laughed. “You probably keep up better than I do. Hey, listen, the shops are open. Want to stop and pick up a change of clothes while we’re here?”

  “No, thanks. I’m not going shopping dressed like this.”

  “Good point.” He put on the brakes at a stop sign on the corner. “The sportswear place is right here. You could stay in the truck while I buy you a pair of sweats and maybe a long-sleeved T-shirt.”

  She glanced at him. “That’s a really good idea. And socks. Socks would be terrific. Eventually I’ll need a coat, but—”

  “For sure Henri can loan you a coat until you have a chance to shop, but sweats and a T-shirt would be a no-brainer for me to pick out.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll be happy with whatever you can find.”

  “Then let’s do it.” He swung the truck into a diagonal parking space. “I’ll leave the engine running so it’ll stay warm in here.”

  “I won’t object. Living in SoCal is turning me into a wimp.” She reached under the blanket and fished in her sweatshirt pocket for her wallet, the only thing she’d brought from Seattle besides her phone.

  “If I have a choice of colors, what do you want?” He picked up his hat.

  “I’ll take whatever, but my choice would be gray sweats and a blue or green T-shirt.” She handed him some money. “Is that enough?”

  “That’s plenty.” Tucking it in the pocket of his shearling jacket, he reached for the door handle.

  “Don’t you need to know my size?”

  He glanced back. “I figured women’s small for the sweats and women’s medium for the shirt.”

  “That’s right. You’re observant.”

  “Lucky guess.” He quickly exited the truck, but not without letting in a blast of frigid air.

  Shivering, she pulled the blanket closer. Guessing what size she wore in casual clothes wasn’t rocket science, but Kurt hadn’t been able to do it. He’d bought her a holiday T-shirt that hung on her. She’d used it as a nightshirt.

  Did Matt have a talent for judging clothing sizes? Or had he focused on her body way more than he’d let on? What if he secretly… no, dammit! Hadn’t she learned anything six years ago? No more weaving fantasies about Matt Ramsey.

  Chapter Three

  Matt chose the softest sweats and T-shirt in the store. If he couldn’t comfort Lucy with a warm hug, at least he could choose clothes that would feel good. He found a package of socks in rainbow colors. She’d had brightly colored ones as a teenager and had usually worn a different one on each foot.

  That had been Lucy—unconventional, creative, bubbling over with life. Not so much, now, which was understandable. Physically she hadn’t changed much. Her smile was the same, and thank God it had reappeared.

  She’d become downright cheerful the closer they’d come to Apple Grove. She was likely putting on a brave face for him, though, distracting herself with hair appointments and such. The wariness in her eyes made his heart hurt.

  With luck, it was temporary. When she’d stumbled over her girlfriend’s name, that was a clue. The color had left her face for a few seconds. Clearly she’d bottled up her misery in self-defense. What had she said? That she was frozen solid? Maybe over a couple of beers, she’d thaw out.

  But all that aside, whenever he looked at her, something vital was missing, something he always associated with Lucy. What could it… oh, yeah. Her sketchpad. During her two weeks at the ranch every summer, she’d never been without it.

  He paid for the clothes, walked out the door and scanned the square. Aha. The new stationery store was on the other side of the square. He’d never been in it, but maybe they’d have art supplies.

  Moving to the passenger side of his truck, he opened the door and handed Lucy her stuff. “Your change is in the bag. I need to check on one other thing. Be right back.” He touched the brim of his hat, and closed the door.

  Lengthening his stride, he cut across the snowy square toward the stationery store. As he approached, a woman flipped a sign in the window from Open to Closed. He jogged the rest of the way and tapped on the door.

  She unlocked it and opened it a crack, peering out. She was both young and earnest. “I’m sorry, but we’re—”

  “Yes, ma’am, I can see that, but I need to make an extremely important purchase for someone who’s in a bad way.”

  “In the hospital?”

  “A hospital won’t do her any good at this stage. But she desperately needs these two items to keep her from going downhill.”

  “Come in, then.” She stepped back to let him pass. “But I’m locking it after you.”

  “That’s fine, ma’am. I’ll be quick. I need a sketchpad and a box of colored pencils.”

  “For someone who’s dying?”

  He decided not to correct her. Lucy might be dying inside, so the assumption wasn’t completely wrong. “Believe me, this is just what she needs. I’m hoping you stock those things.”

  “I do.” She hurried over to a display and plucked a sketchpad from the rack.

  “Not that one.” He followed her and grabbed one that looked exactly like what Lucy had carried around last time he’d seen her. “This one.”

  “That’s way more expensive paper. Not to be indelicate, but if this person won’t be with us much longer, are you sure that—”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay. The pencils are over here.” She moved to a shelf and picked up a small box. “These should do the trick.”

  “Not enough colors.” He reached for a larger packet that reminded him of what she’d had before. “These.”

  “You’re looking at a sizable investment.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I’ll ring them up for you, then.” She set the pencils on top of the pad and carried them to the counter. “You must care a lot about this person.”

  “I do.” He pulled out his wallet and gave her his plastic. Made sense that Lucy had used professional-quality materials. He’d loved everything he’d seen her draw.

  She’d offered him one of her sketches the summer before that fateful one. He’d intended to get it framed, but had temporarily tacked it to the wall beside his bunk. A leak in the roof had ruined it. He’d never told her.

  He signed the credit card slip and took the bag she handed him. “Thank you so much for letting me come in after hours.”

  “You’re welcome.” She went to the door and unlocked it.

  He tipped his hat and slipped out.

  This time he opened the driver’s door and handed the package to Lucy before he climbed in. “This is on me.”

  “What the heck?” She pulled the pencils out first. “Matt! These aren’t cheap!”

  “So what?”

  “And the sketchpad isn’t, either! I can’t let you buy me these.”

  “Yes, you can. You can repay me with a picture. The one you gave me before got messed up. I need another one.” He buckled his seatbelt.

  “Um, okay.” Her voice sounded funny. Then she gulped.

  “Lucy?”

  “Don’t… don’t mind me.” She tucked the sketchpad and pencils back in the bag and set it on the floor. Then she pulled the blanket over her head. “I’m just… I’m…” And she started to cry.

  He quickly unbuckled his seat belt. “Oh, hey. Hey, now.” To hell with keeping his distance. Unsnapping her seatbelt, he tugged the blanket down. “You’ll smother under there.” He drew her as close as the damned console would allow. “You’re gonna be okay, Lucy. You’re
tough. You’ll be okay.”

  “I know!” She sobbed against his shoulder. “But what a bastard!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He tightened his grip. “Lucky for him he didn’t follow you.” He laid his cheek against the top of her head. “I would be kicking his butt all around this square.”

  “So would I! And Brianna’s butt, too!” Slowly her sobs trailed off and she stopped shaking. “Need… a tissue. Do you have—”

  “Right here.” Maintaining his hold with his right arm, he reached in his back pocket and pulled out his bandana. “Use this.” He put it in her hand.

  “Thanks.”

  “Brianna and your fiancé?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She eased away from him and blew her nose. “I walked in on them going at it in a storage room ten minutes before the ceremony was scheduled to start. Ten minutes.”

  “God. No wonder you ran.”

  “You asked if my fiancé had followed me.” She wiped her eyes and blew her nose again. “He couldn’t. His pants were around his ankles.”

  Rage tightened his chest. “So ugly, so effing ugly.”

  Balling up the bandana, she shoved it in her sweatshirt pocket and took a shaky breath. “As opposed to what you just did, buying me pencils and a sketchpad. That was…” She took another breath. “That was beautiful.”

  “It seemed… I don’t know. Right. When I think of you, it’s with those two things, either in your hands because you’re drawing or in a knapsack or saddlebag because eventually you will be drawing.”

  “They were a part of me for so long.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “I got out of the habit. My work is creative, but not… not like that.”

  Sadness gripped him. Maybe he was the one holding onto a fantasy. “Then this was a pointless gesture.”

  “No.” She gazed at him. “Not pointless. Lately I’ve felt as if I was losing my spark. Since I’ll be job-hunting soon, I need to get it back.”

  “And a sketchpad would help?”

  She nodded. “A sketchpad and colored pencils is never a bad idea. Thank you, Matt.”

  “Anytime.” And that was that. He’d done what he could for now.