The Great Montana Cowboy Auction

by Anne McAllister

  She'd found solace in books and movies. She'd found reliable men in her dreams. And that was precisely where she wanted to keep Sloan Gallagher.

  When she went to bed at night, she had him there. She could crush her pillow in her arms and feel cozy and warm and loved. That was what she wanted. And it was what her two-dimensional Sloan had given her.

  Now when she went to bed, she didn't feel cozy and warm at all. She couldn't imagine murmuring to her pillow Sloan, telling him about her day, teasing him about the story she'd just read in the latest issue of a magazine or imagining what it would be like to do the things with him that she saw him do in films.

  Tonight when she went to bed she thought about what it would be like to actually have Sloan Gallagher in her bed. The real Sloan Gallagher.

  And instead of feeling that eager anticipation she always felt when she opened a magazine with Sloan's picture in it or watched a video of Sloan saving the day or charming a woman, or even better, sat in a darkened theater and relished his larger-than-life presence on the screen, then came home and imagined what it would be like to share her nights with Sloan, she had felt a cold clammy hand of panic grip her midsection.

  She felt positively ill.

  Of course it wouldn't happen. Polly had certainly been right about that.

  Sloan would never come back to the place where, as far as Celie could figure, he must have been the unhappiest he'd ever been in his whole life.

  Elmer was where he'd come after his mother had been killed in a car accident and something had happened to his father and the family ranch. The magazines never actually said what it was. All she knew was that Sloan, at age fourteen, had had his world turned upside down. She'd felt a rush of sympathy for the motherless boy, certain that he must have felt even more hurt and alone than she had felt after Matt had jilted her.

  Reading of his early pain, she had identified with him. Learning that he'd lived in Elmer, aware that he knew some of the same people she did, Celie had felt an even closer kinship. She liked what she knew about him. She loved the characters he portrayed—men of honor even when they were battle-weary and in pain. She took those characters and what little she knew of Sloan, and she created the perfect man.

  In her mind and in her dreams, Sloan was the embodiment of everything that Matt Williams hadn't been. Sloan had never hurt her. He'd never disappointed her. He'd never turned his back on her.

  The last thing she wanted to do was meet the hero of her heart.

  Either everyone in Elmer was suddenly writing more letters and buying more stamps and mailing more packages and checking two or three times a day for mail that was only delivered once before eight-thirty every morning—or they all wanted to see if Polly had heard from Sloan Gallagher.

  Polly had assumed she'd be able to figure out the logistics of the auction during her slow times in the afternoons. But she didn't have any slow times the rest of that week.

  A steady stream of stamp buyers and postal box checkers and people deciding that they might as well write their Christmas cards and mail them even if it was well into January appeared constantly. And, incidentally, every one of them asked if she'd heard from Sloan Gallagher.

  Polly thought she ought to get cards printed. Instead she said, "Nope, haven't heard from him."

  Gee whiz, what a shame.

  "Guess he won't be able to make it. Can't say I'm surprised, busy man that he is. Hope you aren't too busy to help out. I sure could use a cowboy or two."

  She shamed, cajoled and persuaded most of the town into participating that way. Things were working out perfectly. She had plenty of volunteer cowboys—and no Sloan Gallagher.

  No one else gave up hope.

  "I'm sure he's just busy," Alice Benn said when Celie was washing her hair that week. "He'll call. You'll see."

  "No," Celie said for what seemed like the thousandth time that week. "He won't. You're dreaming."

  But Alice was stubborn. "I can hope, can't I?"

  Other women said the same thing.

  "Sloan Gallagher's coming," they insisted. "He won't let us down."

  Celie resolutely ignored them. So did Polly, even though the topic of conversation at the hair salon and the post office remained the same.

  "He won't come, will he?" Celie asked Polly every night.

  And every night Polly said, "Of course not." And they smiled at each other and went to bed, relieved.

  Then, on Thursday afternoon Polly marched into the salon when she got off work from the post office and announced, "Sloan Gallagher has arrived."

  Celie gasped.

  Everyone in the shop looked up—even Cloris Stedman whose gray hair Celie was highlighting and who suddenly had blue dye running down her face.

  At their startled expressions, Polly grinned.

  "Gotcha!" She waved the weekly shipment of new videos in front of their faces.

  Celie dropped the hair dye and snatched the box out of her sister's hands. It was indicative of her agitated state of mind that she had forgotten that today was the day Sloan's latest film was being released on video.

  Now with eager fingers she opened the parcel. She knew what was in it: two kung-fu action flicks and an Arnold S. movie for the guys, a couple of kiddie cartoons and the latest Disney, the new Tom Hanks film, and—yes, it was here!—Whistle Up the Wind starring Sloan Gallagher.

  "See," Polly said. "Sloan Gallagher. I told you so." Giving the box one dismissive glance, she went into the kitchen and didn't look back.

  Celie, on the other hand, studied the box reverently. There were gorgeous photos of Sloan in roughneck-cowboy mode and tender-lover mode. It was all she could do to hand the box over to Cloris while she finished the older woman's hair. She kept sneaking glances at Sloan on the box, and Cloris's hair was perhaps a little more blue than gray when she left that afternoon.

  Whistle Up the Wind went with her, as two months ago she and Alice had put in first dibs. Everyone else in the shop looked longingly after Cloris as she left with it.

  "You should've ordered two," Kitzy Miller complained.

  Celie didn't mention that she had. Now she picked up the pace, washing and cutting Carol Ferguson's hair as quickly as she could, then combing out Evelyn Setsma, and declining to give Kitzy Miller a massage tonight.

  "Sorry, I have a commitment this evening," she said. She could hardly wait until she could close up shop, go eat dinner, then disappear into her room and spend two hours with Sloan.

  Unfortunately, Jack pounced the minute she came into the kitchen. "Ma says you got Sloan Gallagher's new movie!"

  "Cloris took it home."

  "You always get two!" Jack was no fool. "So we can watch it after supper."

  "It's a school night," Celie reminded him.

  "Then let's hurry up an' eat!"

  Celie gave in to the inevitable. After dinner she would watch it with Jack and her mother and whoever else happened to turn up in the living room. But later, after everyone else had gone to bed, she would take it to her room and watch it again. Alone.

  Or rather, just the two of them—she and Sloan.

  But until then it was a free-for-all, and chaos reigned supreme. Joyce was conjugating Spanish verbs out loud. Lizzie was reciting lines for the witches' part in MacBeth. Jack was pretending to be Sloan battling the bad guys. And above them all, Polly was reeling off a list of everyone who had volunteered for the auction.

  "Otis Jamison is willing to do his old cowboy stories. Spence Atkins said he'd do the auction if anybody wanted to buy a deputy. And there were a couple of others. Maddie even came in and volunteered Logan Reese. He's her new hired hand."

  Joyce's brows lifted. "She hired Logan Reese? And she volunteered him for the auction?"

  "She said everyone had to do their part—and that meant her and Logan."

  "Well, now…" Joyce shook her head. "Logan's going to be a bit of a challenge."

  Celie couldn't imagine Logan coming back any more than she could imagine Sloan coming—f
or entirely different reasons. Sloan had gone off and become a tremendous success. Three years ago Logan had got thrown into prison.

  "I don't believe for a minute he did it," Polly said stoutly.

  "The jury did," Joyce reminded her.

  "Even so. How many do we have?" Polly asked, brushing speculation aside.

  Joyce stopped speculating and pulled out her own notes. "Let's see. We're doing very well. We've got art and photos and trail rides and cookouts and fence mending and branding and doctoring and the bachelors."

  She started to count the bachelors, at the same time giving Celie a significant look that said, See, you can have your pick of one of these.

  Celie pretended she didn't notice. The telephone rang.

  To avoid her mother's gaze, Celie reached over and picked it up.

  Lizzie stopped proclaiming and said, "If that's Louise, tell her I still need a witch's hat."

  "If it's Frankie tell him I'll call him soon as we eat," said Jack.

  "If that's Mabel, no, I can't work for her tonight," Joyce said.

  "If it's Gus tell him his hot-shot superstar hero never called," Polly said loudly.

  Celie waved a hand to shush them all. "Hello?"

  There was a split second's pause. Then a rough-velvet voice said in her ear, "Tell Polly that Gus's hot-shot superstar hero would like to talk to her."

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  "What's wrong?" Polly took one look at Celie, white-faced, trembling and thrusting the phone at her, and thought someone had died. "What's wrong?"

  Celie opened her mouth, but still no sound came out. She looked halfway between stunned and panic-stricken.

  "It's not Sara?" Polly's eyes were scanning the room as fast as her brain was moving. Only Sara was missing. Everyone else was accounted for.

  Numbly Celie shook her head no.

  "Well, for goodness' sake." Polly snatched the phone out of her sister's hand. "Who is this and what have you done to my sister?"

  "Nothing," said an amused masculine voice. "Yet."

  Oh, dear God.

  Now Polly knew why Celie was white-faced and gibbering. And she had to admit she wasn't far behind—though not at all for the same reasons.

  She squeezed suddenly damp fingers into a death grip on the receiver and said sternly, "Listen, here, mister, if you think you're going to get me to buy a vacuum cleaner by giving me a hard sell while I'm trying to eat my dinner, you've got another think coming."

  Celie gasped and dropped the spoon in the spaghetti sauce. Everyone else looked mystified.

  Sloan Gallagher laughed. "You really don't want me to do it, do you?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Polly stonewalled.

  "Gus said you didn't," he went on, still amused. "I wonder why."

  Polly wished she was using the cordless phone so she could take Sloan Gallagher upstairs and deal with him there. Instead she was tethered to within ten feet of the kitchen wall while everyone in her immediate family eavesdropped.

  Celie, still trembling, was shooting her desperate glances as she burned her fingers trying to fish the spoon out of the spaghetti sauce.

  "What'sa matter with you?" Jack was asking Celie.

  Joyce frowned. "If it's vacuum cleaners, just hang up, dear," she said impatiently.

  Wouldn't I love to? But Polly held up a hand to forestall her. "Sorry. Just a bit of quirkiness on my part, no doubt," she answered Sloan Gallagher's query. "Personal taste and all that."

  Polly was never snippy. At least not with anyone else. But Sloan Gallagher's lazy, teasing drawl seemed to bring out the awkward naked teenager in her. Deliberately she shut her eyes and started to count to ten.

  She'd only got to four when he said, "Guess I'll just have to change your mind, won't I?"

  "No! I mean, no." She made an effort to moderate her tone after the first squeak. She was an adult now. A mother of four. Mayor of Elmer, for heaven's sake!

  "Who is that?" Joyce mouthed.

  Deliberately Polly shook her head and turned away. Time to stop acting like an idiot. She focused resolutely on the kitchen cupboard and did her best to sound like the sane, intelligent well-brought-up woman of thirty-seven mature years that most of the time she was.

  "I'm sure how I feel is immaterial," she said, consummately professional at last. "Does this mean you'll be joining us?"

  "It means Gus twisted my arm." She could hear the smile in his voice.

  "You mustn't do it, then. Participation is entirely voluntary."

  Although she was pretty sure Maddie herself had been doing a little arm-twisting this afternoon, before she'd turned up in the post office with Logan in tow. Still, that was irrelevant.

  "So if you'd rather not…" she offered.

  "I'm doing it," Sloan Gallagher said. "Gus said the Sunday before Valentine's Day?"

  So much for graciously letting him off the hook.

  "At one in the afternoon. First the auction, then a potluck supper for the volunteers. I'm sure everyone will be just delighted to see you." The understatement of the year. "Everyone is staying for that. So if it's not convenient…"

  "It's fine. I'll manage. Where?"

  Damn. "The Elmer town hall."

  "Great. It's a date."

  "Wait!" she yelped when she realized he was about to hang up.

  "Yes, Polly?" His voice was a purr in her ear.

  How could one skinny fourteen-year-old grow up to have that much sex appeal? It wasn't fair. "Er, um, what are we, uh … auctioning?"

  "I thought you were auctioning me."

  "Well, yes, but I mean … what?" A night in the sack? A dinner at McDonald's?

  "What's everybody else auctioning?"

  "Trail rides. Bull-riding school scholarships. A day's worth of riding fence. And dates, of course. Various kinds. Dinner. A movie."

  "Well, I'd rather give you a day's worth of riding fence," he said, and he sounded as if he meant it. "But I suppose you want a date."

  "Not me," Polly said quickly. "I mean, I won't be bidding."

  "What a shame," Sloan said, his tone dry, "since I can tell how you'd just run up the price."

  Polly felt her face warm. "Sorry," she muttered.

  "Okay, let's do this," he said after a moment's consideration. "We'll offer a date for the following weekend. Crossroads opens that Saturday. My new film," he explained, as if she hadn't been seeing trailers for it on prime time television for the past month. "Whoever bids highest can be my date at the premiere."

  "Are you serious?" Polly's jaw sagged.

  "Why? Won't that work?" He sounded concerned that it might not. "The premiere's in Hollywood, but I'll spring for the airline ticket so that won't be a problem. Put her up in a nice place for the weekend. We'll do dinner first and party after. How's that sound?"

  "Bidding will go through the roof."

  "All the better for Maddie."

  "It's not a vacuum cleaner salesman, dear … is it?" Joyce said, cottoning on at last.

  "So are we all set, then?" Sloan asked.

  "Er, actually, yes. Thank you. It really is very kind of you," Polly said, which was only the truth, little as she wanted to admit it.

  "That's me. Kindness personified." He laughed. "You really didn't think I'd do it?"

  Mortified, Polly muttered, "Gus has a big mouth."

  "Always did. Why didn't you?"

  "Because you're a busy man, and we're a very small place," she lied irritably. "You weren't with Maddie and Ward all that long."

  "Two years is a long time at that age. And I remember it well," he added a second later in the soft whiskey drawl that made his bedroom scenes famous. It almost peeled the clothes right off you.

  Polly willed herself not to react and definitely not to think about peeling clothes off. He wasn't talking about remembering her—and thank God for that.

  "Well that's very nice," she said briskly. "I'm sure Maddie will be pleased. I know she'll be loo
king forward to seeing you."

  "I'll look forward to seeing her," he said. Another pause, then once more that soft whiskey drawl tickled her ear. "I'm looking forward to seeing you again, too, Pol'."

  Celie barely slept all night.

  She held her pillow as if it were a stranger in her arms. She tried to recapture the easy quiet intimacy she usually escaped to when she made believe it was Sloan lying next to her. She tried to tell him about her day, to ask about his.

  But she felt frozen in anticipation—and in fear.

  Sloan was coming here. She had actually spoken to him this evening. Really spoken to him. Had heard his soft gruff voice speaking directly to her.

  Talking about Polly!

  Tell Polly that Gus's hot-shot superstar hero would like to talk to her. God, how embarrassing.

  Why did Polly always have to smart off that way? And in front of Sloan Gallagher, for heaven's sake! Of course, to be fair, Polly had no way of knowing it was him on the phone. Chances had been a lot greater that it would have been a vacuum cleaner salesman.

  But still…!

  "She didn't mean it," Celie whispered to her pillow.

  But somehow she couldn't fall into the fantasy she was usually able to conjure. There was no imagined murmur in return. There was only the echo in her mind of Sloan Gallagher's words on the phone, and Polly's announcement after she'd hung up.

  Sloan was coming to Elmer.

  He was going to be part of the auction. The highest bidder would get a weekend with him in Hollywood and she'd go as his date to his latest premiere.

  It was the stuff of dreams.

  But what did you do when they brushed so close to your real life that it was positively scary?

  Celie thought about it most of the night. She tossed and turned and got up red-eyed and tired. She went to work at the hardware store still distracted, blinking and saying, "What?" to Artie Gilliam every time he spoke to her.

  Celie worked at Gilliam's Hardware every morning. She opened the boxes, stocked the new merchandise and did the inventory, waited on customers and dusted the shelves. The locals knew if they wanted something in a hurry, to come during the morning when Celie was there. In the afternoons Artie worked alone. At ninety he still got around, but he was a little slower than he used to be, a little deafer and he couldn't lift quite as much. Still, he was damned if he was going to retire.