Christmas Cowboy Duet

by Marie Ferrarella

  She answered his question. “The town’s name is Forever.”

  Wilson snorted dismissively. “Never heard of it.” It was impossible to miss the superior tone in his voice.

  “The town’s name isn’t important, Will,” she insisted, beginning to lose patience with her brother. “Just watch the video.”

  She was surprised that Wilson’s sigh didn’t blow her away, it was that deep, that put-upon.

  “Okay, okay, just as long as I’m not listening to a country-western band,” he said. When she made no comment—or offered any reassurances—she heard her brother groan audibly. “Oh, God, please tell me that you didn’t send me a video of a country-western group.”

  “Would you please just watch the video—and keep an open mind,” she ordered.

  He didn’t seem to have heard her, but was marching to his own inner tune. “It is, isn’t it?” Wilson demanded. “It’s some two-bit country-western band made up of three dimwits who have trouble remembering which end of the guitar to play and some guy who yodels, right? Whit, you know damn well that we don’t have any crying-in-your-beer groups under contract. We never have and we never will.”

  “Never say never,” Whitney countered. “You just might have to eat your own words. Besides,” she continued in defense of the group she’d been instantly impressed with, “they’re not crying into their beer or into anything else. Now watch the damn video. I’ve got a feeling that if we don’t sign these people, we’re really going to regret it—and that’s not how this business works.”

  Wilson’s voice took on an edge—she knew he didn’t like her lecturing him, but she was out of options. “I’m already filled with regret,” Wilson grumbled.

  “Wilson...” she began, a warning note in her voice, although, quite honestly, she wasn’t sure what more she could threaten her brother with if he decided to stand firm.

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. And then, in a far less adversarial tone, Wilson asked, “You’re really serious about this band, aren’t you, Whitney?”

  Finally, he was getting the message, she thought, relieved. “Yes.”

  “And you want to sign this band even if we’ve never put country singers under contract, not even so much as once.”

  “Yes, I do,” she replied unwaveringly.

  “Well, if you’re that gung ho about it, the least I can do is give this video of yours a look-see,” he agreed, relenting. “Stand by,” he instructed. “I’ll get back to you when it’s over.” He proceeded to put her on hold, this time successfully.

  The video she had sent him included three songs, bringing the playing time in at just a shade over ten minutes. She marked that down on her watch and proceeded to wait.

  They were, she judged, quite possibly the longest ten minutes of her life.

  Her shoulder and arm slowly began to ache from holding the cell phone by her head. Even so, she didn’t dare put the phone down. She could very well miss her brother’s feedback when he returned to the call. She knew the way Wilson operated. If she didn’t answer immediately, he would just hang up and move on to something else. This was already hard enough. Convincing her brother to give her—and Liam’s band—a second chance was in the same category as walking on water: it was done just once in history and was not about to happen again.

  She was beginning to think that Wilson had decided to leave her on hold when she finally heard sounds on the other end of the line. The next second, she heard her brother’s voice.

  “You filmed this?”

  “With my own little hands,” she cracked, then became serious. “The band’s good, isn’t it?” she asked with a certain amount of pride.

  Rather than agree with her, her brother allowed, “The singer’s got some potential.”

  “Some?” Whitney echoed incredulously. Was Wilson kidding? Or was it just hard for her brother to give her any credit for finding a really good band? “Pretend it’s not me you’re talking to. Pretend the video came from one of your other talent scouts.”

  Again she heard Wilson sigh. She held her breath, waiting. “Okay, more than some. How soon can you get this guy out here? I want to hear him for myself.”

  She had her doubts about Liam and his band dropping everything and flying out to Los Angeles at a moment’s notice. From what she’d observed, that wasn’t the way things seemed to operate around here.

  “Well, if you want the full Forever Band experience, I think you’re going to have to come out here and listen to them play in surroundings they’re comfortable with.”

  Wilson snorted, clearly insulted. “In what scenario does the mountain come to Mohammed?”

  “In the scenario where the mountain wants to make money,” she replied calmly.

  There was silence again on the other end and she knew Wilson was weighing his options—his pride versus his business acumen. When he spoke again, she had a feeling that the acumen had gotten the upper hand. “I’ll look at my schedule and get back to you later today,” Wilson told her. “How about you? You leaving this hole-in-the-wall anytime soon?” he asked. “Or do they have you chained in someone’s basement?”

  “No chains,” she said simply. “My car’s not ready yet. The mechanic’s having trouble getting the parts that are needed.”

  “Take it to another mechanic,” he advised.

  “There is no other mechanic in this town,” she told him.

  “Huh.” The sound was exceedingly dismissive and pregnant with covert meaning. “You ask me, you’re being played.”

  Ah, but I didn’t ask you, did I?

  Whitney knew better than to say that out loud. It would only get Wilson’s back up and send him off on yet another round of lectures.

  “Thanks for the input, Will. Call me back later about your schedule. The band sounds even better in person than they do on that video,” she promised.

  “We’ll see,” he responded evasively.

  This time when the dead air against her ears registered, she took it as a natural progression of things. Wilson never said hello or goodbye. He was of the opinion that actions always spoke louder than any words he could possibly use.

  Pushing back her chair, Whitney rose from the small desk. She was mildly surprised that exhaustion hadn’t caught up with her yet. After all, she hadn’t slept except to rest her eyes a couple of times during the night when she’d put her head down on the desk. However she’d hardly closed her eyes for more than a few minutes at a time and no self-respecting feline would even allow what she’d done to be called a catnap.

  She paused for a moment, wondering if she should try to get at least an hour or so of sleep before heading out to the diner for some breakfast. After all, it wasn’t as if she was exactly facing a full agenda.

  For the first time in years, she was actually at loose ends. She could, of course, ask the owner of Murphy’s—the head owner, she amended—if any other bands played at his saloon or if that was strictly Liam’s spot. But after she received her answer—and she had a strong suspicion that Liam and his band were the sole occupants of that position—there was nothing left for her to actually do...unless, of course, her car was ready. However, she had a strong suspicion that it wouldn’t be.

  Now what? You always keep talking about what you’d do if you had some downtime. Well, congratulations, Whit. This is officially downtime. Now what? the voice in her head repeated.

  She had no answer. Some people, she concluded, weren’t built for inactivity—and she most definitely was one of them.

  She didn’t do “nothing” well.

  Walking up to the door of her suite, she pulled it open just as Liam was about to knock on the other side. Her forward momentum caused her to lose her balance and all but fall into him.

  To keep her from stumbling, Liam instinctively made a grab for her. He woun
d up pulling her against his hard torso.

  Rather than act surprised, he merely smiled at her and said, “Hi. I came to take you to breakfast.”

  She congratulated herself for not yelping like an idiot. Instead, she had pulled herself together and calmly said, “Sounds like a plan.” Then, when Liam continued standing where he was, his arms still very much around her, Whitney asked, “Doesn’t your plan involve walking out of here?”

  He smiled into her eyes, bringing her body temperature up by five degrees.

  “It does,” he answered.

  Her breath was just about solidifying in her lungs. She managed to push out a single word. “Today?”

  His smile only grew wider as Liam assured her, “Absolutely.”

  Keep talking, Whit. Keep talking. He can’t kiss a moving target—no matter how much you really want him to, she upbraided herself.

  “Then what seems to be the problem?” she asked him after a beat.

  “No problem,” he said easily, then went on to tell her honestly, “I just like the way it feels to have my arms around you so I thought—if you don’t have any objections—that I’d just absorb that feeling a little bit longer.”

  Okay, there went her heart, she thought, going into double time. She had to get this under control, get out in front of it before she just gave in to the desires that were beginning to blossom—big-time—inside of her.

  “How much is ‘a little bit longer’?” she asked.

  The end of her question was punctuated not just with an implied question mark, but her stomach made a gurgling sound, the kind of sound that went along with someone missing a meal—or two.

  “I believe time has been called,” Liam said, instantly raising his hands in an upward position, dramatically releasing her.

  Just in time, she thought with relief. She’d been inches away from giving in to the overwhelming desire she had to kiss him.

  Clearing her throat, she asked, “Where are we going for breakfast?”

  “Same place we’d go for lunch and dinner,” Liam replied. “Miss Joan’s diner.”

  “There really is no other place to eat in town?” Because of where she came from, she was having a great deal of trouble wrapping her mind around the concept.

  “Not unless someone invites you over to their home for a meal,” he said.

  “So Miss Joan has a monopoly,” Whitney concluded. “That doesn’t exactly encourage the woman to put her best foot forward and make sure the meals are fresh, satisfying and inexpensive.”

  “If you think that,” Liam told her, “then you really don’t know Miss Joan. That lady is always making sure her cooks use the freshest cuts, the best selections, and looking for bargains is second nature to her.

  “It might just look like another greasy spoon,” he continued, growing a shade more defensive of the woman who was dear to them all, “but nothing could be further from the truth. Angel Rodriguez is in charge of the kitchen and she’s always trying out new recipes as well as keeping some of the older favorites on the menu.

  “It’s probably the closest think to home cooking my brothers and I have had in years,” he said.

  Whitney laughed and shook her head. “You make Miss Joan’s diner sound like it’s a slice of heaven.”

  “If heaven came in slices,” he said, using her analogy, “then Miss Joan’s would certainly be a top contender.” They were outside now and despite the slight chill in the air, the sun was out and it promised to be a perfect day. Liam debated walking to the diner rather than taking his truck. Walking won out. “You got any plans for this morning and early afternoon?” he asked her.

  Plans were something she could make once she was mobile again. Lengthening her stride, Whitney kept up with him. “That all depends on if my car’s ready or not.”

  Liam was way ahead of her when it came to a status report on her car. He had made it a point to swing by the mechanic’s corner shop on his way over to the hotel.

  “I just checked with Mick,” he told her as gently as he could, sensing the news might upset her. “I think you might have to go with ‘or not’ for the time being.”

  “Then I guess I have no plans,” Whitney said as they walked into the diner. “Why?”

  “Good, because you have plans now,” Miss Joan informed her in the same cadence a drill sergeant might use if he were trying to soften his approach to shouting out orders on a regular basis.

  “Excuse me?” Whitney asked. She cocked her head as if that would make her hear better—or at least absorb what was being said better. She was certain that she couldn’t have heard Miss Joan correctly. The woman wasn’t ordering her around—was she?

  “You’ll be helping the rest of us finish decorating the tree,” Miss Joan told her in no uncertain terms. “Can’t have it standing there like that, half-done, now can we?”

  The question was pointedly directed at her.

  “Not if I can help it.” Whitney meant it as a joke, saying the sentence tongue in cheek. However, judging by the look on Miss Joan’s thin face, the woman seemed to accept her statement at face value.

  “Glad to have you join us,” Miss Joan continued, her face softening just a tad as her eyes swept over Liam and then back to the stranger in their midst.

  Something akin to approval had the old woman’s mouth curving in just the smallest of smiles.

  Now what was all that about? Whitney couldn’t help wondering. She strongly doubted that her mere presence was enough to get the owner of the diner to appear so pleased. It had to be something else.

  But, looking around, she saw nothing out of the ordinary—except that all the stools at the counter were filled and it looked as if no one had ordered anything yet.

  That could only mean one thing. This had to be Miss Joan’s work crew, Whitney thought. These were Miss Joan’s dedicated Christmas Elves.

  The label had Whitney smiling to herself.

  Liam leaned over and asked in a hushed voice, “What’s so funny?”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Whitney whispered back.

  “At the beginning would be my first suggestion, but anywhere you feel comfortable would be my next one. In the meantime,” he continued when she didn’t say anything, “why don’t we order you some breakfast?”

  Not waiting for her to agree, Liam raised his hand to catch the attention of any of the waitresses currently working in the diner.

  Less than thirty seconds later, a dark-haired young woman with deep brown eyes was heading their way. She looked to be no older than about nineteen. “Can I get you anything?” she asked.

  Liam turned toward Whitney and asked, “What would you like?”

  A repeat of last night’s kiss were the first words that streaked across Whitney’s brain. Startled, she quickly banked them down. “How about just coffee and toast?”

  Liam nodded, but when he placed the order with the waitress, it had somehow managed to expand. “The lady will have coffee, toast and an order of scrambled eggs, sausage and hash browns. And so will I,” he added, flashing a smile at Whitney.

  “Is someone else joining us?” Whitney asked him the moment the waitress withdrew. “Because that wasn’t my order.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But I thought you might need your strength. You can always leave whatever you don’t want to eat on your plate,” Liam told her, then added, “You look a little tired. Rough night?”

  “No night,” she answered. “That is, I didn’t get any sleep. I was too busy editing the video.”

  “Video?” he repeated, confused. She hadn’t mentioned anything like that last night when he’d dropped her off at the hotel. “What video?”

  She looked at him. Hadn’t he seen her taping him and his band last night? “One I took of you and the band performing at the saloon. Didn’t you se
e me recording?” she asked in surprise.

  “All I saw was you.”

  Now, why did a simple phrase like that suddenly send waves of heat all through her body, taking her from a nice, stable 98.6 to practically 100 plus in less time than it took to scramble those eggs that he had ordered for her breakfast?

  Don’t dwell on it, she commanded herself. There were no answers that way, only more questions. Questions and a whole nest of desires that could not be addressed at this time—if ever.

  Clearing her throat, she went back to the subject under discussion. “Well, I had my smartphone in my hand and I was filming you and your band. I got a handful of your songs and then I stayed up editing and tweaking the footage until it popped.”

  The term seemed out of place where she used it. “It broke?” he asked her.

  “No, it popped,” she repeated, then realized that he had heard her. He just didn’t understand what she meant. “That means it was perfect,” she explained.

  “Oh.” He grinned at the compliment. “Then why didn’t you say so?”

  “I thought I did,” Whitney countered. She had to remember that they were rather out of the loop here—or maybe she was just from a place where pretentiousness abounded, she amended. In that case, she needed to watch that and rein herself in.

  A beat later, Liam lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “Guess I need to brush up my language skills. Anyway, Miss Joan said that everyone’s to come and finish working on the tree today. Personally, I think it’s going to take an extra day—if not two, before we’re finished.” He wrapped his hands around the coffee mug, absorbing its heat. “This is some monster we brought off the mountain,” he quipped. “It’s enough to give a guy a complex. Couldn’t even finish decorating a simple little Christmas tree.”

  Her basic instincts had always been protective and now were no different. “It’s neither little nor simple,” she told him.

  “When you two are finished,” Miss Joan said, delivering their breakfasts to them personally, “get yourselves on down to the town square and get started.” The woman began to leave, then remembered something. Turning around, she said, “Oh, by the way, your breakfasts are on me.”