by Lynn Shurr
“I can’t afford the calories. I’m too fat.”
Clint sidestepped that one. “Hey, Tiger, we are in luck. There’s a beauty shop right down the street, and I am going to treat you to an afternoon at Miss Franny’s Hair Affair. How about that?”
Renee’s mouth dropped open. She clamped her lips shut again and mumbled, “I can wait until we get to Cheyenne.”
“Nope, I can tell you are unhappy. I want to fix that right now. Finish up. Miss Franny is waiting for you. I called ahead. It’s so close we can walk off those chips.”
With the tar bubbles in the deserted road bursting beneath their feet, Clint marched her down the main street until they came to a sign with an eighteenth century lady, hair piled high in silhouette and the words in lurid pink, The Hair Affair.
Full of dread, Renee entered the small shop. The place had only two dryers, two chairs, and one wash bowl. Miss Franny, her hair up in rollers, her chosen tint an I Love Lucy shade of red, greeted her warmly.
“It’s been slow today, so I worked on myself. We can go under the dryers together,” the hairdresser said, friendly as could be. She wore a smock covered with printed pups and kitties over her dumpy body and rocked back and forth on her white SAS shoes as she sized Renee up. “Need a change, do you?”
“No, just a touch up, maybe a small trim, only the ends, and a blow dry. Clint, I really could wait.”
“I heard there’s a truck stop at the next exit where I can use a computer. Be back in a couple of hours. That about right, Miss Franny?”
The hairdresser nodded. “You bet. I know what to do.”
The man had done more than call ahead. He’d left instructions and promised double the usual fee if she did as he asked. Wasn’t like this redheaded woman was one of her regular clients. After today, the two drifters would be gone, and business had been real slow lately what with people cutting back on luxuries like a good cut and curl.
Clint patted Renee’s hand as Miss Franny covered her with a pink plastic cape and lowered her head into the washbowl. Then, he ran.
“Let’s see.” Miss Franny consulted a chart with little tufts of colored hair sticking to it.
“That one.” Renee stabbed a finger at a bright red strand on one end of the chart. “I don’t suppose this place does a bikini wax?”
“You couldn’t pay me enough to fool with a woman’s privates. That’s why all those kind of salons hire foreigners. It ain’t American to mess with yourself down there.”
Having firmly stated her position on the matter, Miss Franny got out her mixing bowl and concocted a dye three shades darker that should just about match those roots and slathered it on. After the dye had set and been rinsed, she combed out Renee’s long hair, still dark from the water, and began to trim.
“Oops, got to straighten that out,” Miss Franny said after every snick of the scissors. “You know what would be great—bangs.”
“No bangs!” Renee ordered.
“You got a face could wear ’em,” Miss Franny assured her as she drew Renee’s hair behind her shoulders and continued to clip. The beautician spun the chair to face her, grabbed a hank of hair, and cut. “Wait till you see how cute this is.”
With that gouge taken out of the front, Renee had no choice but to go with the bangs. Every time she tried to assess how much hair fell to the floor, Miss Franny said, “Hold your head straight, or I’ll never get this right.” That kept Renee still as could be, but there would be no tip.
“A blow dry, right? I could put you under the dryer in curlers and give you a good spray that would last the week.”
“No, no more. Just dry it, and let me call my boyfriend.”
“Whatever you want, hon.”
Miss Franny finished just as Clint arrived. “Ain’t she pretty now?” Miss Franny asked.
“I think so,” Clint answered.
Renee stared at the mirror. All of her siren red waves, gone from her head, lay on the floor. Her hair hung straight, forming a little wedge toward her chin, and a thick row of bangs covered her forehead. The color was a dark auburn, a shade she hadn’t possessed since she turned twelve. She’d gotten highlights in Paris, and let her hair grow because Uncle Dewey said men liked long hair. The cut made her stunned hazel eyes seem even larger, her mouth more vulnerable. In the reflection, she saw Clint pass Miss Franny a wad of money.
Miss Franny whipped off the pink plastic cape and dusted Renee’s shoulders with a soft brush. “There you go, hon. You can get up now.”
Clint helped her from the chair, keeping a firm hand on her elbow, and escorted Renee out and into the Nelle before she could say, “Clinton O. Beck, I’m going to kill you.”
Fortunately, Renee’s way of killing a man involved lots of punishing sex, more than one guy could handle—almost. All he had to do was run his hands through those straight, silky strands, ruffle her bangs with a hot breath, and say, “I really do love you this way,” and she leapt on him again, clawing and biting and riding him hard. Life with Renee was pretty damn near perfect now.
Chapter Ten
“We need to stop at a grocery store, Clint,” Renee informed him.
“We got plenty of food, Tiger, and we’re nearly to Cheyenne. The traffic is getting thicker—tourists coming in for Frontier Days.”
“I want to get a paper bag to put over my head before we get to the big city. Or maybe a plastic one to end my embarrassment forever.”
Clint grinned at her, his deep blue eyes full of mischief. “I keep telling you that new do is sexy. Who would have thought Miss Franny could do a precision cut? And if you did wear a bag over your head, you’d still be sexy.”
He didn’t lie. Many a man would go for that body, face unseen. He told the absolute truth about the new hairstyle, too. It was swingy and sleek, but more wholesome than her usual femme fatale look. If he could get rid of all the skintight clothes, Renee Niles Bouchard Hayes would be fit to take home to anyone’s mama. Now, where had that thought come from? His plan had always been to tame her, help her to see herself in another way, and then to cut her loose to roam free. Might be hard to let her go he began to realize.
Renee slumped down in the shotgun seat of the Nelle as if she were hiding. Clint coped with the traffic and got them to the giant arena without a mishap. A small city of motorhomes and trailers had sprung up around the huge venue, homes for ropers and riders, clowns and bullfighters. They weren’t there an hour when Snuffy Jones showed up to check on the health of The Tin Can and the Belly Nelle. Renee was lowering the awning, but suddenly got very busy setting up the aluminum chairs. She drew her hat down low over her eyes and pretended not to see the clown. Being Snuffy, he got right in her face.
“Miss, is Clint Beck around?”
“He went over to the arena to check in and get his schedule,” she mumbled, turning her back on the clown again.
Snuffy circled her. “I wanted to leave something for him.”
“Sure, put it in the trailer. The door doesn’t lock.” She looked at her boot toes.
“All righty.”
Whatever the clown left, he was pokey about it. Clint came back by the time Snuffy emerged from The Tin Can. Renee excused herself. “I’ll go and make some lunch.”
Snuffy sat down on the saggy webbing of one of his chairs. He spit some of his quid under the trailer. “This is a little awkward. I brought you a picture from Gracie addressed to Mr. Clint and Miss Renee, but looks like you got a new gal along now, so I left it folded up. Did a little inspection tour. Glad to see you’re keeping The Tin Can tidy, but don’t you ever fold up the bed?”
“Not very often. It gets a lot of use.”
“Dumped the man-eater for a sex kitten, huh?”
“No. That is Renee.”
“Well, those bazookas looked familiar, but that woman is all round and soft like a ripe peach. In case you didn’t notice, this one has freckles, hazel eyes, and much shorter dark red hair. Appears that she makes lunches instead of eating in restaurants,
too. You sure you didn’t switch her out, Clint?”
“That’s the reformed Renee. You know how women like to change their hair styles, and those green eyes of hers were contacts.”
“Not real, huh? How about the…” Snuffy made a big circle over his chest.
“Unfortunately, no, but still nice to look at.”
“So, how much longer are you going to want The Tin Can?”
“Oh, maybe until the end of August. She’ll probably be sick of traveling by then.
“Living so soft in that motorcoach is ruining me. Makes me think I might want to retire, too, and take it easy on the ranch.”
“If Ruth Ann can stand to have you around all the time.”
“You might have a point. Take care now. Wild cats have been known to turn on people. See you in the arena.” After releasing another gob of chewed tobacco under the Nelle as if he were marking his territory, Snuffy headed back to Clint’s luxury motorhome.
Clint had some time on his hands before the bull riding events began. He planned to show Renee how to have an innocent good time. They rode the Ferris wheel at night, bumped thighs and locked lips on the Tilt-a-Whirl. He let her win her own prizes on the midway. Without being asked, she put any toys she captured into the bag to be given away. They dined late on chili cheese fries. When Renee upchucked all the greasy food on another spinning thrill ride, Clint got her a cold ginger ale to sip and said everyone should throw up on an amusement park ride at least once in a lifetime. He made a point of tucking her into bed and not asking for sex, but he did gently rub her belly, rising up like a little ball of dough in the oven between those once sharp pelvic bones.
****
Clint rejoiced at getting back into his exercise routine in the great facilities Cheyenne had to offer, but leaving Renee alone for hours wasn’t a good idea. He asked Snuffy to take her around with him since Jones distained working out. The clown preferred to work the crowds with Renee trailing behind carrying the sack of stuffed toys.
Snuffy devised a routine to include her, giving her a horizontally-striped clown shirt that made her breasts look as big as carnival balloons and red suspenders that slipped to each side attached to her Daisy Duke short shorts. Below that, she was all long, smooth tanned leg down to her black cowboy boots. Snuffy made her practice saying, “Oh Snuffy, I’d follow you anywhere,” in a breathy voice.
They walked up and down the grandstands open to the vast Wyoming sky, and stopped to do their routine when they came across families with small children. Snuffy joked with the kids and ended by saying, “And now my lovely assistant will give you a toy from my magic bag.”
Renee rooted in the sack, trying to match the toy to the child—a green plush frog for a rowdy boy, a purple cat with bead eyes for a shy little girl—while Snuffy, pretending to be concerned, asked her if the bag was too heavy.
“Oh, no, Snuffy. I’d follow you anywhere,” she answered, fluttering eyelashes greatly enhanced by his clown kit. Then, the clown told the old joke about always leaving women laughing that Renee first heard in Casper, spun his bow tie, and wiggled his eyebrows up and down—a little something to make the parents chuckle going directly over the heads of the children. Renee found she enjoyed playing the bimbo far more than being one.
While Snuffy did his act in the ring, usually with other clowns, she bought postcards of scenes from Frontier Days, filled them out, and sent them off to Eve and Bodey, her parents, sister, and cousin. In the evenings, Clint took her out for some nice meals and brought her home for some leisurely sex. When he had the time, they enjoyed watching the skill of the steer and calf ropers and the hilarity of the Wild Horse Race as teams tried to saddle and ride unbroken horses around the arena in the right direction—which wasn’t always possible.
Clint introduced her to the Queen of the Barrel-Racers, Norma Jean Scruggs—older than Renee, he said, and still at the top of her game. Obviously, he and the long-legged, big-busted, black-haired and strikingly blue-eyed Norma Jean had shared some “good times”, but as Clint never asked Renee about her past exploits, she gave him the same courtesy. Still she found herself digging her claws into his arm as if he’d ditch her for the barrel-racer any second, and she had to hang onto him. He winced a little and removed her hand.
Norma Jean gifted Clint with a parting squeeze to her ample and probably real bosom, cautioning, “Don’t get yourself killed now. Renee, he’s a good ’un. If you get tired of him, just send him on over to the Cactus Blossom. That’s my rig.”
“Not-a-chance,” Renee answered with great emphasis.
“Didn’t think so. Break a leg, Clint.”
That might have been a show biz term for good luck, but during Frontier Days, the possibility remained very real. The rodeo boasted a slate of forty of the biggest, meanest, toughest bulls to be had. Once the bull riding started, Clint routinely returned to the trailer covered with bruises. On the second day of the event, one bullfighter broke an arm, or had it broken for him by a ton and a half of bull.
Renee sat in the stands whenever Clint worked in the ring. She’d never tell him how often her breath caught when he threw himself at one of the monstrous animals or beat another in a race to the boards by inches. She’d never admit being glad this was his last year of bullfighting. When Frontier Days ended its nine day run, she packed with great relief ready to return to the nice, safe small venues where Clint spent more time signing autographs than he did fighting bulls. They were stowing all the loose items and preparing to go on the road when a man rapped on the door of The Tin Can.
“Clint, glad I caught you. Someone’s on the phone in the office. You got a Renee Hayes traveling with you?”
“I’m Renee,” she answered as she folded up the bed.
“Go in that entrance right there. I’ll be along shortly, ma’am.”
Wondering why anyone bothered to call now after she’d been gone for nearly two months, Renee started off across the vast lot. Clint detained her guide.
“You have any idea what’s going on? Should I go with her?”
“Well, I don’t know, Clint. When a woman’s daddy calls, it usually means trouble.”
Clint finished the packing and moved their vehicles close to the entry where Renee had disappeared. He found the office and Renee with a face turned pale around her freckles. Still on the phone, she took down notes on a piece of paper. “I’ll get there somehow,” she said before hanging up.
“What’s the matter, Tiger?”
“My mother is dead. She drowned in the pool. Probably drunk. The maid found her when she came in this morning. Dad was off at a charity golf tournament all weekend and stayed over to do some fishing. They think she fell in sometime Sunday afternoon. The funeral is on Wednesday. They want me to come.”
“Sorry for your loss,” murmured the office manager.
“Thank you, we weren’t close. Daddy is going to have a ticket waiting at the Cheyenne airport along with a FAX of my passport since my license has gone missing. Clint, would you drive me over there?”
“If I can leave The Tin Can parked here for a while, I’m coming with you. I don’t want you to face this alone, Renee.”
“That would make a nice change, not having to face everything alone. Let’s go.”
Renee pressed her face against the glass of the Nelle’s side window as they drove to the airport. “I wonder if I’ll end up that way—dead over a day and found by a maid or a gardener.”
“You aren’t a drunk like your mother. You aren’t the same.” Clint glanced over, his blue eyes full of pity. She couldn’t stand that.
“Really? I dealt with my problems by using sex. She used liquor. Not much difference. I can’t cry for her, Clint. My mother married for security, not to have kids. When I was a child, she wanted me to be a pretty in pink kind of girl. I wasn’t. I liked to ride and spend time in the barns. I’d get filthy following my Cousin Rusty around. When I didn’t measure up, she gave me to Uncle Dewey. My sister Cathy was worse than me, but she g
rew up to be captain of the Mt. Carmel softball team, state champs. She’s happily married, has kids of her own. Cathy will die surrounded by family.”
“Because you protected her. Does she know?” Clint asked.
“I don’t think so. We were close until I went to Paris. Since then, I’ve felt alone. I had a clique of friends, a new guy every weekend, Bodey Landrum for a while. I guess you knew that.”
Clint nodded.
“Sorority sisters, two husbands, but I was always alone with what I knew.”
“Not now, Tiger. When we get to Rainbow, you be sure to introduce me to your Uncle Dewey.”
Chapter Eleven
Clint took a seat next to Bodey Landrum and Eve, directly behind the family in St. Leo’s church. Bodey wore a black suit, dark gray shirt, a bolo tie held in place with a big chunk of turquoise, a business black Stetson and plain black boots. Eve had chosen a simple dress, also black, and a little tight in the bust because she still nursed her baby. Her only accessories were a sterling silver cross on a silk cord and a velvet bow holding back her white-blonde hair. Clint still marveled after knowing Bodey for years and the kind of women he hung with, that the King of the Bull Riders had ended up with this stunning but quietly religious woman. Renee was more Bodey’s type, or had been. He didn’t like that thought.
As for himself, he had retrieved a tailored suit of deep navy blue and a white dress shirt from Bodey’s closet. Clint’s striped silk tie, a power tie, had been a gift from his father. He wore no hat, and his shoes were shiny black oxfords. Renee turned to stare when he sat down beside her and raised her eyebrows. He guessed she’d expected him to show up in jeans.
Renee looked wonderful, considering the event, with her simple haircut and less makeup than she’d been wearing when they first met. Still, she’d gotten hold of some gunk to cover her freckles, and the deep red silk tank she wore under a tailored dark suit jacket dipped a little low for a church occasion. She, too, wore a cross, but hers was large and golden and a little gaudy with gems, probably real, not costume. The thing, big enough to ward off vampires, filled the space between her neck and cleavage, a very sexy symbol of piety.
