"He can have my heart," offered Kitzy Miller who had stopped in on her way to her job at the Mini-mart on the highway. She batted her sooty black eyelashes and smiled her best come-hither smile.
"Prob'ly ain't your heart he's after," chortled one of the cowboys from the Jones spread, then flushed at the glare Polly gave him. "Sorry," he muttered, and headed for the door, but not before he'd snagged a cookie off Alice's plate.
The furor would die down, Polly was sure.
But instead it grew. The small article on page six of Wednesday's edition of the Livingston Enterprise became a page-three half column on Thursday, and on Friday it was above the fold on page one complete with picture.
"We're going to have the whole damn valley here now," Polly muttered when the paper arrived that afternoon.
Alice rubbed her hands together gleefully. "Just what we want," she said. "Lots of bidders."
What they got were lots of volunteers. There was no shortage of women willing to help out. Every female for twenty miles called or dropped by to say she'd bring a hot dish to the potluck supper. Those who had husbands, brothers, sons or nephews volunteered them, too. No one was going to sit home when they could be a part of the auction that was bringing Sloan Gallagher to Elmer.
It was like a party every day at the post office. Polly began to look forward to the moment she could take down the flag, put out the mail to be picked up on the evening run and bolt the door behind her.
"It's insane," she said Friday afternoon when she huffed in the door. "Simply crazy! Thirty-seven women have stopped by this week to offer to help. Can you imagine?" She said to her mother.
Joyce didn't answer. She just turned and looked toward the Spa where someone shrieked, "She's here!" and a dozen women surged into the kitchen from the salon where Celie was cutting hair.
"Polly, I just came by to say I'd help—"
"Polly, I thought maybe that green bean casserole—"
"Polly, I can make mama's Dutch doughnuts!"
"Polly, just thought you might need someone to keep the cowboys in line during the auction—"
Polly took a step back toward the door—and bumped into Becky Jones and Susannah Tanner who went to school with Daisy and Lizzie.
"My dad said you might need a little help," Susannah said eagerly.
"We'd behave," Becky vowed. "We wouldn't get in the way, honest. Gus said he'd vouch for us."
Trapped between the oncoming women and the girls looking so earnestly at her, Polly gave up.
"Fine," she said to the girls. "You're hired. Make a list. Write down everyone's name, find out how they think they can help—realistically. I don't want a bunch of women willing to volunteer their services warming Sloan Gallagher's bed. Then tell them when we know what we need, we'll be in touch. And get them out of here."
"Right!" They beamed and headed off to do just that.
Wearily Polly sank down on one of the kitchen chairs.
Joyce set down her book on parachuting.
Polly stared—first at it, then at her mother. "You're not…?"
"Probably not," Joyce agreed mildly. "I'm not that keen on heights. You look tired."
"I'm exhausted," Polly admitted, which wasn't something she said very often. "What you just saw, I've had all day long. Everyone in the valley wants to volunteer. Who's going to bid if everyone is helping?"
"Oh, I think there will be a few bidders." There was something in her tone that made Polly look at her mother more closely.
Joyce smiled. "A reporter from the Chronicle called today."
So the Bozeman paper had got hold of the story.
"And another from the Gazette and—"
"The Billings Gazette?"
Joyce nodded. "—and the Post."
Polly wrinkled her nose. "The Clark Fork Post?" That was a surprise.
"No. The Denver Post."
"What!"
Joyce smiled. "News travels fast."
"The Denver Post is doing an article on Sloan Gallagher coming to our auction?"
"So they say. This might actually put Elmer on the map."
"And me in an early grave," Polly muttered. She leaped up again and started pacing the room.
"I think it will be fine. Better too many volunteers than too few. Besides it's just an auction. Calvin calls them every week."
"Calvin does livestock!"
Joyce shrugged. There was a twinkle in her eye. "And your point would be?"
Reluctantly Polly laughed. "It is turning into that, isn't it? The Great Montana Livestock Auction. Beefcake on the hoof."
"Well, I'm sure I'm going to enjoy it," Joyce said with considerable relish. She fixed her gaze on her eldest daughter. "And you should, too."
If anyone else were doing the work—no, if anyone else was the beefcake on the hoof—she would be.
But not Sloan Gallagher!
If only he hadn't said it would be good to see her again! Polly had been feeling waves of mortification ever since.
"It's all a matter of attitude, dear," Joyce said complacently. "That's what my zen book says."
Her zen book.
Polly took a deep breath. "You're right. Of course you're right. We'll just take this cowboy by cowboy, volunteer by volunteer."
"And enjoy it."
"And enjoy it," Polly echoed, wishing she believed it.
"Here." Joyce held out a small piece of paper with a number scrawled on it.
"What's this?"
"Sloan Gallagher's cell phone number. He wants you to call him."
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
She didn't call.
There was no way Polly was going to call Sloan Gallagher—not even to discuss morning talk shows, which was what Joyce said he wanted to talk to her about.
Morning talk shows!
As if she knew anything about them. As if she ever had time to watch them. She didn't, so she no opinion about them and, thus, no reason to call him back. Besides, she was busy.
And if she was lucky, in time she would forget.
But she hadn't yet. The number had been burning a hole in her pocket and her consciousness for twenty-four hours when, at supper Saturday night her mother asked, "What did Sloan Gallagher have to say?"
All conversation stopped.
All eyes turned to Polly, then, when she didn't reply, to her mother.
Joyce lifted her shoulders. "He called and left a message yesterday."
Polly shrugged. "I didn't call him back."
Celie gaped. "You didn't call him back?"
"I was busy," Polly said defensively, then took a bite of her mother's best stewed chicken so she wouldn't have to say anything else.
"He'll think you're rude!" Celie said.
"Disrespectful," said Daisy.
"Inconsiderate," said Lizzie.
"Ill-mannered," said Sara. "Or forgetful."
Jack looked up from shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth. "Naw. He'll just think she's chicken."
"Chicken!" Polly was outraged.
"Well, he's a big star 'n' all. An' you're just a mom."
Just a mom.
And a chicken.
Jack was right. Wherever he was, Sloan Gallagher would be sitting there laughing at her right now because he believed she was chicken.
"I'm not chicken," she said firmly.
Dutifully her children nodded. But Polly saw them roll their eyes.
"Fine," she said, shoving away from the table. "I'll call him right now."
Teach by example, wasn't that what the parenting manuals all said?
Actually hoist by her own petard was the aphorism that sprang to mind as, glaring at the scrap of paper on the kitchen table, she punched in Sloan Gallagher's number.
It rang once, twice, three times. She breathed a sigh of relief. Of course he wouldn't be picking up his phone. She began composing a proper answering machine message to prove she'd called back.
"Hello?"
God, the man had velvet vocal
chords.
Polly cleared her throat frantically. "Er, hello. It's Polly. Polly McMaster. From Elmer?" In case he couldn't remember. "My mother said you called."
That sounded all right. Calm. Adult. Professional. Well, all except the "my mother said you called" bit. That sounded like she was in junior high.
"Hey, Polly McMaster. From Elmer," Sloan Gallagher added, a teasing note in his voice.
Polly flushed. "I would have returned your call earlier," she said, "but I've been busy."
"I was betting you'd be chicken."
"What!"
He laughed. "Just kidding. So how're things in Montana?"
"Insane. We've created a monster. I have a list half a mile long of women who desperately want to volunteer to help out at the auction. Every female in the county, I think. And the newspapers have picked it up." She told him about the Enterprise article and about the Chronicle the next day and the Gazette and now the Post.
"The Denver Post! Can you imagine?"
"For my sins, yes," he said wearily.
And Polly supposed he could. His every move was probably noted and recorded by journalists whose job it was to trail him around.
The price of fame.
"I'd hate it," she said, feeling her first flicker of sympathy for Sloan Gallagher.
"It's not always fun. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. It's going to get worse. I'm doing two morning talk shows next week."
"About your film. I know that." Celie had already programmed the VCR.
"Not only about the film. The auction will come up, too."
"Not if you don't say anything." Please, don't!
"They already know."
"How can they?" Did everyone read the Enterprise, for goodness' sake?
He sighed. "My agent told them. She believes in publicity. It's her job," he said, cutting off any protest Polly might have made. "And it will be good for Maddie. More money to pay off the loan."
"Maddie will hate it. She won't want people pitying her."
"They won't. I'll see to it." He was emphatic. "And you'll have to do the same."
"Me? What are you talking about?"
"They're sending crews out to interview you."
"Don't be ridiculous!"
"I'm not. I'm just warning you."
"They can't interview me!"
"Why not?" She could hear the amusement in his voice. But it wasn't funny to her. "Because … because—I don't do things like that!"
"Always a first time."
"No."
"It's painless. They'll love you."
"They'll think I'm an idiot. They'll think we're all idiots! A bunch of presumptuous hicks!" Imagining how the world would perceive their tiny town and its rough-edged, hardworking citizens made her cringe. She loved Elmer and she didn't want it turned into fodder for jokes by some smart-aleck, big-city folks.
"They won't do that. They'll be in awe."
"Oh, right."
"They will. They eat up stuff like this. They admire it."
Polly couldn't imagine. "Fine. You do it and leave me out of it."
"Can't. Once the word is out you can't stuff it back in. They wanted a local contact person, and Gus said that was you."
"Well then, I'll just tell them no." But as she said it, she knew it wasn't the brightest idea she'd ever had. Just because she didn't want to do it didn't mean the media would go away. They would just make a fool of her.
She sighed and faced the inevitable. It was just another meeting she hadn't attended and had been drafted to do all the work. So what else was new?
"When are they coming? What do I have to do?"
For the first time since Gil's death, Joyce was actually looking forward to getting up in the morning. Life, which had been pretty much shades of gray for the past two years, seemed to be taking on a little color at last.
The auction was the first real creative idea she'd had in ages, and the fact that it had been embraced by the community—and that Sloan Gallagher was coming back to Elmer because of it—gave Joyce a little tingle of satisfaction.
"Who'd have thought it?" she murmured aloud, talking to Gil as she always did when no one was around.
She'd talked to him less this week because she had rarely been alone. Everyone wanted to be involved. Everyone wanted to help.
"Everyone wants to get in the way," was how Polly put it.
But Joyce was grateful for the excitement—and intrigued by Sloan's return—even if it did seem a little like setting a wolf among the chickens.
"That's what you'd say," she told Gil as she mopped and dusted the Spa.
She wasn't crazy. She knew she wouldn't turn around and see him sitting there with his coffee mug balanced on his knee, that teasing little half smile on his face.
She knew she wouldn't hear his wry chuckle again. Not in this lifetime.
God knew she'd wished often enough. She dreamed. But she wasn't going to get Gil back—not the way she'd had him.
Still, as time went by she realized she hadn't really lost him, either. After nearly forty years together, he was such a part of her that even death couldn't completely come between them. She knew what he'd think, knew what he'd feel, knew what he'd say.
So sometimes when they were alone, she talked to him.
Now she talked to him about Sloan Gallagher.
"He's a looker. He's got charisma. Sex appeal. And you know I have an eye for a handsome man."
She could almost hear Gil chuckle knowingly at that.
"Celie is a nervous wreck," Joyce went on. "You know she thinks he's the perfect man."
Perfect man? She could almost hear Gil snort. Ain't no such thing.
Joyce smiled. How well she knew.
But a woman learned to put up with her man's little odd habits if she loved him. Lord knew she'd learned to put up with Gil's forgetting where he put his truck keys and never remembering to buy eggs when he went to the store for her.
Gil's mother had raised chickens and he'd been suspicious of any eggs he hadn't first met in a hen house. She remembered when they'd gone to Las Vegas on the one vacation they'd ever taken. The morning after they'd arrived, Gil had ordered eggs and bacon. He'd taken one bite and left the eggs. They tasted phony, he'd told her.
"Like everything else there," he'd said three days later on their way back to Elmer.
That was the only time they'd left home.
"Ah, Gil." Joyce leaned on the mop and smiled wistfully at the memory. Gil had loved his wife, his kids, his ranch, his home, his cattle. He couldn't understand why Lew had wanted to go from rodeo to rodeo or why Polly didn't mind going with him.
"Ain't no place on earth better'n right here," he'd often said.
And Joyce thought that was probably true. Still, she wouldn't have minded doing a little firsthand checking. That was why she'd bought that Spanish book and those tapes in Bozeman two months ago. Maybe she'd be brave enough to go to Mexico someday. Once upon a time traveling was something she'd wanted to do.
Beyond that one trip to Vegas, she and Gil never had.
There had been no time. No money. No inclination on Gil's part at least. You made choices, Gil said. And that was true.
Joyce didn't regret the ones they'd made. But now it was just her. She could travel now if she wanted to.
If she dared.
In her mind's eye she could see Gil again, looking at her with his little teasing smile, daring her. It was that smile that had got her to go out and get a job after his death. She hadn't worked outside the ranch since she'd got a job at Artie's store when she was seventeen.
At fifty-nine she'd been terrified at the thought of going out and looking for a job. But with the ranch sold, she'd had too much time on her hands and not enough money in the bank. She'd had to do something.
She'd thought about going back to Artie's. He'd even offered her a job if she wanted one. Artie had always looked out for her.
But Celie was working there. And Joyce knew she needed to d
o something on her own for once. But none of the other half dozen businesses in town needed her help.
Then Tess Tanner had mentioned that Ruby Truscott, the night receptionist at the hospital in Livingston, was retiring.
Joyce hadn't said anything about it that night. She hadn't wanted to make a big deal of it, just in case she didn't follow through.
Or, let's be honest, in case they didn't want her.
But she'd called and enquired. And a week later she had put on her best skirt and blouse, fixed her own hair, even though she knew Celie could have done it better, and had applied for the job as Ruby's replacement.
She'd been there now almost eighteen months.
It was the best thing she could have done. The job gave her focus. It gave her someplace to go and people who needed her. It had got her over the purposeless days following Gil's death.
But it wasn't enough. She was still lonely. She still felt hollow. She needed to fill that emptiness. She needed challenges.
That's what the macramé was.
And the finance class.
And the Spanish tapes.
If she got up the gumption, she might actually use her Spanish. She might get on an airplane and go somewhere far away. Somewhere foreign. Somewhere she never ever expected to be.
Mexico, maybe.
Or Argentina.
Or Spain.
Of course she never said that either. Like the hospital job she hadn't been sure she'd go after, traveling was a little scary. She didn't know if she'd ever get up the courage to do it. And she didn't want Polly pushing her to go on one hand, while Celie wrung her hands with worry on the other.
She had to do things in her own time.
"I'll do it," she said aloud now, "when I'm ready."
Behind her eyelids she could see Gil's grin widen just a little. He even winked.
"Ah, Gil."
She might cry if she kept on thinking about him. So she stuck one of the Spanish tapes in the player that Sara had lent her and began mopping with renewed vigor.
"¿Donde está un buen restaurante?" The native speaker prompted.
"¿Donde está…?" Joyce dutifully repeated.
She mopped her way through the part about it being two streets down and left at the corner. She learned how to say she didn't have reservations, how to order huevos rancheros and chiles rellenos.
The Great Montana Cowboy Auction Page 7
