The Great Montana Cowboy Auction

by Anne McAllister

  "Might as well put me in a pine box and nail the lid shut," he said nearly every day. "That'd be the next thing that'd happen if I closed my store."

  Celie didn't doubt it. Artie had been a cowboy years ago, working on spreads in Oregon and Washington and Idaho before coming back to take over the store that had been in his family for three generations.

  "Got my wandering done," he said. He'd married Maudie, a local girl and his high school sweetheart, and had settled down to town life. The two of them had been pillars of the community for over fifty years when Maudie died three years ago. Artie had even been mayor a few times and still worked hard to keep Elmer going. But they hadn't had any children, and since his only nephew had moved away years ago, no one knew what would become of the hardware store when Artie retired. It really didn't bear thinking about. Gilliam's was an institution and a necessity in Elmer. Everyone knew that when Artie retired, they'd all have to go clear to Livingston for a roll of baling wire or a half a pound of nails.

  No one wanted that to happen. And no one wanted Artie nailed into a pine box. So they all encouraged him to keep coming to work. Tuck McCall came in once a week and helped hoist the heavy stuff around. The rest of the time Celie kept things going.

  "If," Artie said now with just a hint of exasperation, "you can keep your mind on business, young lady."

  "What?" Celie—in the midst of a stomach-churning fantasy of what it would be like to see Sloan Gallagher face-to-face, speak to him, smile at him, be smiled at in return—looked up from where she was absentmindedly stowing the new furnace filters on the bottom shelf. "Did you say something?"

  "I did," Artie huffed. "I said we got us a customer." He jerked his head toward the counter where the cash register sat.

  Jace Tucker was leaning against the counter, a weird sort of brace on his leg, a pair of crutches under his arms.

  The smile Celie had automatically begun to form faded away.

  She didn't smile at Jace Tucker. Ever.

  As far as she was concerned Jace Tucker was the devil incarnate. Certainly he was handsome as sin with his thick unruly dark hair and vivid blue eyes, but Celie wanted nothing to do with him.

  As far as she was concerned it was Jace's fault that Matt had jilted her.

  Oh, he might not have tied Matt up and prevented him from getting to the wedding, but Celie knew Jace had exerted plenty of influence—wild influence, devil-may-care influence—exactly the sort of influence that makes life miserable for a guy thinking about settling down.

  Jace and Matt had been traveling partners the year Celie and Matt had been going to get married. That meant they spent more time together in a few months racing around the west in Jace's rattly old pickup with the topper than most married couples spent together in five years. They rode together, talked together, drank together, caroused together. They made mischief together, no doubt about it.

  Jace had grown up in the valley, too, on a ranch north of town. His sister, Jodie, still lived there with her husband and three kids. But Jace had taken off right after high school. He'd never been interested in settling down or in ranching. He'd been a hell-raiser from day one. Even Celie, who'd been three years behind him in school, had heard about escapades Jace Tucker had got up to.

  To a "good girl" like Celie, he had always seemed terrifying.

  She had not been happy when Matt had told her he wanted to spend a little time going down the road with Jace Tucker. If ever anyone in Elmer could have been named Least Likely To Succeed, in Celie's view, it would have been Jace. In college. In business. In life.

  But not in rodeo, Matt had been quick to point out.

  In rodeo Jace had been one of the best.

  He'd made it to the National Finals Rodeo in bronc riding twice before he was twenty. He'd finished second in the world the year Matt graduated from high school.

  The only other two local boys who'd made good, Taggart Jones and Shane Nichols, had both been bull riders. But Jace rode broncs, same as Matt.

  He'd become Matt's hero. Matt had patterned his rides on Jace's. He'd chewed tobacco like Jace. He'd raised hell like Jace. Not when he was around Celie, of course. Around Celie he'd stayed pretty much a gentleman.

  But on the road, things began to change. Matt began to change.

  He'd brought Jace home with him once and introduced them. "My best friend and my best girl," he'd said, beaming at them as if that would make them friends.

  Celie had tried to smile and be polite. But Jace had only watched her from beneath heavy-lidded eyes and barely said a word.

  "Charming, isn't he?" she'd said irritably to Matt later.

  "You scare him." Matt had grinned.

  "Oh, sure."

  But if he hadn't talked to her, he apparently had said plenty to Matt. From then on, every time they talked on the phone, Celie heard, "Jace says…" and "Jace thinks…" and "Jace knows…"

  Jace said big weddings were stupid. Jace thought bridesmaids and ushers were a pain. Jace knew a lot more about what went on in the real world than anybody … at least to hear Matt tell it.

  And then one day he called and said that Jace didn't want to be his best man. Matt had been crushed. He'd thought it would be terrific to have his hero and best buddy stand up for him at the wedding. But Jace had declined.

  Celie had been delighted.

  She'd had a craw full of Jace Tucker by then. If he didn't want to be their best man, that was the best news she'd ever had.

  "Lew can do it," she'd told Matt.

  "Maybe," Matt had said over the static-ridden telephone connection. "I dunno. I'll talk to Jace."

  She never found out what Jace had had to say, but the next thing Celie knew, Matt told her they might not make it home the week before the wedding. Later he called and said he might not make it in time for the rehearsal dinner. She should have realized then that something was seriously wrong. But she had been too caught up in the planning, too caught up in the moment.

  "Try," she'd urged him. "How'll we know what to do on our wedding day if you're not here?"

  "Oh, I reckon we'll figure it out," Matt had muttered, "when the time comes."

  Only when the time came, Matt hadn't.

  At first she'd just thought he'd got tied up in some emergency, that he was coming, that he'd just be late.

  But then just before the wedding, the phone had rung. She'd felt a combined surge of panic and relief.

  But that was before she'd heard the voice on the other end of the line.

  "Call it off," he'd said. "Matt's not coming home."

  After ten years Celie still felt like shooting the messenger.

  Intellectually she knew it wasn't entirely Jace Tucker's fault, that Jace hadn't held a gun to his head, that Jace hadn't kidnapped him.

  But he'd been there. He'd provided the inspiration, the role model. He had ruined her hopes, her dreams, her life.

  She hated him for that.

  But mostly she hated him because she was sure he thought she was a loser.

  She'd lost her fiancé, hadn't she?

  What kind of woman couldn't hang on to her man?

  She was sure a lot of people in Elmer wondered the same thing. How could they not? She'd been jilted. Dumped. Left at the altar. Celie O'Meara had been branded as a girl not worth marrying. She was certain every guy in Elmer thought so.

  And Jace Tucker headed the list.

  Now she rang up his purchase without even looking at him, without asking about the leg she knew he'd broken last month at the NFR. Everyone in the valley knew, and plenty of them had talked about it. But Celie didn't care. She did her best not to make conversation or eye contact at all.

  The trouble with not lifting her gaze above the counter was that she ended up staring in the general vicinity of his belt buckle. It was the gold one he'd won in Cheyenne a month after Matt had jilted her.

  She looked away.

  "How you been, Celie?"

  She wished he wouldn't talk to her. It would be so much
easier if he didn't. But in the dozen or so times she'd seen him in the past ten years, he'd always spoken to her—as if they were somehow old friends.

  Ha.

  She didn't want to have to be polite to him. And, broken leg or not, she didn't care how he'd been. She put the nails and screws in a bag, rang up the chit for the lumber, then dropped his change into his palm. "Fine, thank you."

  "Still cuttin' hair?" Jace made no move to leave.

  "Yes." She would have turned away and gone back to stacking the furnace filters, but Artie was watching and she knew he would get upset if she was rude to a customer. It didn't matter that he sometimes fell asleep waiting on them, but she couldn't be rude to them.

  "Reckon maybe I could use a trim." Jace said. It was almost a question, as in, Did she think he needed a trim?

  "Ask Jodie to do it."

  "You think I'd let my kid sister near me with a pair of scissors?" Jace laughed and pulled off his hat. "What do you think?"

  Direct confrontation. With Artie watching. Celie had to look at him after all.

  And yes, he was still damn handsome. No Sloan Gallagher, but there was a rugged appeal about Jace Tucker that—if you didn't know him—would make a woman stop and stare.

  He wasn't as tall as Sloan. Or as classically good-looking. They were about the same age, and she knew both had seen their share of hard knocks. But she'd seen Sloan's face light with boyish mischief and soften with tender emotion.

  She couldn't imagine Jace's doing that. His lean, rugged face and his oft-broken nose spoke of nothing but toughness and danger. If there was a gentle side to Jace Tucker, Celie had never seen it. She didn't believe it existed. He was hard and wild, and some women probably thought they could tame him.

  The more fool they, Celie thought.

  And why would anyone want to?

  Looking at him now, she was surprised to see flecks of gray in his sideburns. Most of it, though, was still a thick dark brown, worn a little shaggier than most cowboys wore theirs. All the better for his bevy of buckle bunnies to run their fingers through, Celie thought sourly.

  "It's fine," she said shortly, and turned away.

  "You don't want to cut it?" He was smiling, teasing her almost.

  Celie's fingers curled into fists.

  I'm surprised you'd let me anywhere near you with a pair of scissors, she thought. But she just shook her head and said, "Excuse me, I have to get back to work."

  She could feel his gaze still on her as she knelt down and went back to stowing the furnace filters under the counter. But she didn't turn around again, and finally she heard him limp away.

  Celie breathed a sigh of relief.

  Moments later Artie shuffled in from the warehouse. "Come give 'im a hand with that lumber."

  Celie jerked up. "What?"

  "Jace is buildin' a corral out on his sister's place. That was all that lumber you rung up. But he can't load it hisself, you know. Not on them crutches."

  "He didn't say he needed help."

  "Don't reckon he would. Do you?" Artie raised thin white eyebrows. "You bein' so warm and friendly like an' all."

  Celie colored and pressed her lips together. "I was perfectly polite."

  "Oh, yeah, you was. Mmm-hmm." Artie bobbed his head. "Regular Emily Pope, that's you."

  "Post. Emily Post," Celie corrected irritably. But he just looked at her expectantly, and finally she yanked on her jacket and headed out the door.

  Jace had his brother-in-law's pickup backed up to the doors of the warehouse part of the store. He'd pulled what he needed from Artie's stock, but he hadn't loaded it yet. When Celie emerged he was struggling to pick up the rails, his crutches abandoned against the side of the truck. He wasn't having much success.

  Celie stalked over and grasped the rails he was holding. "Let me."

  His gaze jerked up and he looked at her, startled, and for a moment she thought they might get into a tug-of-war. But after several seconds of seesawing during which they each hung on, finally Jace relinquished his hold and jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  "Go for it," he muttered. He didn't sound all that grateful.

  Celie didn't want his gratitude, anyway. "Open the tail gate. I'll slide them in."

  He hobbled over and opened the tail gate, then stood back as Celie carried the lumber over and slid it into the back of the truck. It took her half a dozen trips to load it all while Jace stood watching her, scowling and looking uncomfortable.

  Celie felt a perverse satisfaction doing something he couldn't do, even though, of course, had he been off crutches and not had one leg injured, he could have coped easily. She also felt annoyingly aware of his scrutiny, certain that, in his eyes she was a less-than-desirable woman.

  To take her mind off it, she thought of Sloan. She made herself think about the way he'd been in the video last night. She focused on the love scenes, determinedly imagined herself in them. Imagined Sloan's mouth touching hers. Imagined his callused hands stroking her soft, heated skin. In her mind she'd touched him, too. She'd brushed her lips against the sunburned backs of his hands, had even nibbled a little. She'd run her hand up his arm, had caressed his—

  "Ow!" Furious and embarrassed, Celie dropped the lumber and popped her fingers into her mouth, trying in vain to use her teeth to remove the splinter she'd just got from stroking a piece of wood.

  Jace pushed away from the truck. "What happened? Let's see."

  "Nothing! It's all right. I just—got a splinter."

  "Let me see."

  But she backed away, shaking her head. God, she was an idiot! "It's fine. It's all right." She examined her hand. She'd got out the biggest one. There were a couple of smaller ones still in there. She'd get them out later. Her hand stung, and she gave it a shake.

  "I can get them out," Jace offered.

  "No! It's okay. I just wasn't watching what I was doing." Turning away, she picked up the fallen wood and loaded it into the truck. Then she brushed past him and hurried back to get the last armful. Swinging it around as she hauled it out, she managed to make Jace take a quick step back. In fact she almost knocked him over.

  He stumbled back and nearly fell. Thank heavens he didn't. She didn't want to have to give him a hand up—or feel guilty for knocking him down. She stowed the last of the lumber, then lifted the tailgate and slammed it shut. "There you go."

  He nodded "Thanks." She turned to go back into the store when he said, "How 'bout a cup of coffee?"

  The invitation stunned—and confused—her. Why was Jace Tucker inviting her for a cup of coffee? Because he owed her for loading his lumber?

  If it was payback time, he owed her for a damn sight more than that!

  "No," she said coolly. "Thanks."

  Jace looked at her speculatively. But Celie lifted her chin and looked away. He shrugged. "Another time then."

  Sure, Celie thought. Like never.

  This wasn't how Jace had planned to spend the winter.

  He'd had close to a ten-thousand-dollar lead on the rest of the field when he'd gone to Vegas in early December to compete in the bronc riding at the National Finals Rodeo. He only had to hang on for ten rounds, stick on a few broncs and by God, come mid-December he'd finally be champion of the world.

  This was his year.

  All year long he'd been convinced of it. Everything had gone perfect since last January. He'd made money at Denver and Houston. He'd hit plenty of rodeos and had picked up steady money all spring.

  He'd even won big during the Fourth of July rodeos, commonly called "the cowboys' Christmas," though they rarely had been for him. And even though he got stepped on in Dodge City in early August and had slowed down for a couple of weeks, he'd been going full bore again before Pendleton rolled around. All fall he'd hung in, finishing up with a third place at the Cow Palace and a good lead in the standings. He'd actually had time to rest up and shed his normal aches and pains. He'd gone to Vegas, believing that he was going to win.

  And t
hen the bottom had fallen out.

  He'd been slammed into the chute gate by his first horse, cracking his knee so hard he'd seen stars. He'd got a reride for it. But in a field of fifteen of the best riders in the world, a 72 wasn't in the money. Not even close.

  The next round he'd bucked off and landed on his bad knee. His lead was shrinking, but he was determined. He wasn't gonna give up. He'd always been a hardheaded son-of-a-gun.

  But not hard enough. Sonny's Delight, his round-three draw, cracked his skull and broke his leg in two places.

  So much for the world championship. There was no competing after that.

  There was just surgery. And more surgery. There were screws and plates and pins. There was that big fat zero after his name in the Finals' winnings column. There was the misery of seeing his name fall from first in the standings to fifteenth.

  Worst of all, there was the rest of his life.

  "I'm not telling you that you can't ever go back to rodeoing," the doc had said to him just last week. "I'm just telling you that you're a damned fool if you do."

  The doc politely didn't say, "But I reckon you're already that."

  There wasn't much mischief Jace Tucker hadn't got into. For thirty-four years he hadn't led the most sensible life. But he'd always figured it was his life to screw up—or not—as long as he didn't hurt anybody else.

  And he hadn't—so far as he knew—hurt anyone. He'd had a lot of fun. He'd made a lot of friends. And he wasn't the sort of guy to look back with regrets.

  But at thirty-four he wasn't the fool he'd been at twenty-four.

  It was a month after his wreck at the finals and he was still getting headaches from the concussion. His leg was taking its own sweet time healing up. The breaks had been nasty. His knee was already hamburger. He faced a long rehab. The doc told him he wouldn't be riding competitively until summer—if that.