Polly had fallen asleep on the sofa wondering how she was going to tell her family that Sloan Gallagher was sleeping in her bed.
A thousand scenarios had passed through her mind. None of them had worked. She'd tossed and turned, fretted and worried. What would Celie do? What would Joyce think? What about the kids? She didn't like any of the answers she came up with. Finally, somewhere near four in the morning, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
By the time she woke up, she didn't have to figure out how to tell them.
Everyone knew.
"Hi," Jack said cheerfully when she staggered into the kitchen feeling like death and, she was sure, resembling it, as well. "Want some pancakes?"
Polly shook her head, shutting her eyes against the sight of Jack's cheery face. "No. Just coffee. Give me coffee." A mug miraculously touched her hand. She grasped it gratefully, brought it up to her lips and breathed deeply. "Ahhhh. Thanks."
"You're welcome." The voice was gruff, masculine, entirely out of place and way too familiar at the same time.
Polly's eyes snapped open as Sloan's hand wrapped hers, steadying the mug before she dropped it.
He smiled a little wryly. "Been there, done that."
"What?"
"Your sister already dropped hers this morning."
So he'd met Celie already. Polly groaned. "Oh, dear."
"Your mother dropped her toast. One of your daughters dropped her day planner."
Guess which, Polly thought.
"Another one dropped her backpack."
"Lizzie," Jack chipped in.
"I thought she said her name was Artemis." Sloan shrugged as if he'd misunderstood, then grinned. "The youngest one didn't drop anything—other than her jaw."
"Neither did I," Jack said. He held out his plate to Sloan. "Can I have some more pancakes?"
"May I," Polly corrected automatically.
"Sure," Sloan said. "Pull up a chair and sit down."
"No, I mean—" Dazed, Polly just stared at him. Where was her family—besides Jack? And why was Sloan Gallagher cooking breakfast in her kitchen? She had way too many questions. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost nine.
"Yikes!" She had to meet Calvin, the auctioneer, at nine-thirty to go over the final list of cowboys and other items.
"Sit," Sloan said from where he was supervising another griddleful of pancakes. "These are almost ready."
Polly shook her head. "No. I've got—I'll just go get dressed." She turned and bolted up the stairs.
The view that met her in the bathroom mirror wasn't encouraging. Ginger hair stood out like a haystack all over her head. Her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. And she had "couch face" from pressing her face into the upholstered pillows. She had no time to wash her hair, so she took a quick shower, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a hunter-green sweater. Quickly she braided her hair into one long plait—the only way, under the circumstances, to show it who was boss—and dabbed on a bit of lipstick in hopes of convincing people she hadn't died during the night.
Finally she stared at herself in the mirror for signs of improvement.
They weren't as great as she had hoped.
But she'd done all she could for herself. Now she had to figure out what to do with Sloan. Not about how to make him presentable. God knew there was no improving on that.
But how was she going to keep him under wraps for twenty-four hours? How was she going to get her family to keep its collective mouth shut about their house guest that long?
For all she knew they had already spread the news far and wide.
It turned out she didn't have to figure anything out. Sloan had a plan of his own.
"You're just going to march out there and take them all on?" Polly was agog when he blithely announced that he would come with her when she went to meet Calvin. "Do you have any idea what it's like?" she demanded.
"As a matter of fact, I do," he said, amused, putting a plate of pancakes in front of her.
She flushed. Of course he did. He put up with it every day of his life. Which meant that he knew how to handle it far better than she did.
"Fine," she said. "Do what you want to do." She finished up the pancakes, then rinsed off the plate, put it in the dishwasher and went to get her jacket. Sloan grabbed his and stood waiting for her by the door.
"You behave," she warned Jack. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"That's no fun," Jack grumbled.
"I bet it could be," Sloan murmured just loud enough for Polly to hear him as he put on his own coat. Polly stepped back hard on his foot. "Ouch!"
She turned and gave him a guileless smile. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"
His own smile was wry as they stepped out onto the porch. "Not as much as Lew did when he pounded me into the dirt."
"You deserved it."
"No doubt," Sloan said unrepentantly. "But if you think I'm going to apologize, you're out of your mind. That day was the highlight of my life."
Polly wanted to sink through the steps. Every time she recalled that day—at least the part Sloan had played in it—she wanted to crawl under a rock.
"Not mine," she said firmly. "And I wish you'd quit talking about it."
"Afraid I might mention it at the wrong time?"
As far as Polly was concerned any time was the wrong time. But all she managed to say was, "Yes," before someone in the street called out, "Look! It's Sloan!"
"There's Sloan Gallagher!"
"It's Sloan!" shrieked a lurking groupie.
The stampede was on.
The last thing Joyce needed that Saturday morning was to drive to Livingston to visit Artie.
She'd taken the day off when they'd picked the date of the auction, sure that Polly would need her help—and that had been before Sloan Gallagher had signed on and Elmer had become the hub of the Western Cultural World.
But Artie had wanted her to come. When she'd tried to leave last night about eleven-thirty, he hadn't wanted to let go of her hand. "You only just got here," he complained.
"I know," she'd said. "But it's snowing, and it's a long drive."
Reluctantly he'd released her, rubbing her fingers between his old rough, gnarled ones before finally relinquishing his hold completely. "You be careful. Drive slow."
Joyce had smiled. "Couldn't possibly do anything else. It's coming down hard."
"Mebbe you oughta stay here." Artie had brightened at the notion.
"I can't. I've got to help Polly tomorrow."
Artie sighed. "Wisht I weren't missin' it. Don't reckon they'll let me out by Sunday."
"No." Joyce had been around the hospital long enough to know how patients with serious heart attacks were handled.
"You get plenty of rest, and I'll give you the whole story on Monday."
"What about tomorrow?"
And so, whether she was helping Polly or not, she had to drive down to see Artie. If she didn't, he would have no one. Everyone else was completely preoccupied with the auction. And since Maudie had died, no one was closer to Artie than her.
"I'll come early," she had told him, so she could get home in time to help. But in fact she didn't feel as badly about abandoning Polly as she had last night—not since she'd turned around in the kitchen this morning and thrown her toast up in the air at the sight of Sloan Gallagher.
That was the first thing she told Artie when she arrived. "Sloan Gallagher's here."
"In the hospital?"
"At our house. In the kitchen." Joyce laughed now as she remembered how he'd managed to catch both pieces of toast in midair and had gravely handed them back to her before he'd said, "Hi. I'm Sloan Gallagher. And you're Polly's mother. I've seen you on television."
She'd told him she'd seen him there, too. "And in movies," she'd said. "We've seen all your movies." But as she'd said it, she hadn't felt as if she were kissing up to him. For America's sexiest heart throb, he seemed surprisingly easy to talk to. She'd asked if he wanted toast or if she coul
d fix him pancakes, and he'd said he would kill for some pancakes, but that he'd be happy to make them himself.
She'd thought he was joking, but when she'd got out the ingredients, he'd stepped in and taken over.
"So he cooked breakfast," she told Artie, grinning, still marveling about it.
"I'll bet Celie liked that." Artie grinned, too.
Joyce frowned. "Celie didn't eat."
"Prob'ly not," Artie said. "Reckon all she did was sit an' stare."
"She didn't do that, either. She came down while he was mixing up the pancakes, and he told her he'd be happy to make her a plateful, but she just shook her head and scooted out the door. Said she had work to do."
Artie sighed. "Damn fool girl."
"Maybe not," Joyce said. "Maybe she's realized she needs to think about a man she can have, not dream her life away about the one she wants but doesn't dare go after."
Artie was silent for a long moment. He was looking at her, but she didn't think he was really seeing her. Then he seemed to come back from wherever he had been and he reached out and he patted her hand. "That's what I thought, too."
Friday night Sara wrote "Flynn Murray" in her day planner under "appointments" for Saturday lunch.
"I don't see how you could have made a mistake like that," Gregg complained when he called to see what time she was going to meet him at the biology lab. "You know we work in the lab every Saturday afternoon."
"I guess I didn't write it down because of the auction," Sara said. It was true enough. She hadn't written it down. "I guess I thought my mother would need my help."
"Your mother has to stop depending on you so much," Gregg said. "Your whole family has to stop taking advantage of you. You don't have time to do errands for them or babysit that store just because some old man had a heart attack. You have work to do."
"I know," Sara said.
"If you want to get a place in a good med school you have to have good grades."
"I know."
"And to get a good grade in biology, you need to spend a lot of hours in the lab."
"I know."
"In the long run it's far more important than talking to some reporter. What can a reporter do for your future? Nothing. You have to do it all yourself."
"I know."
"Well then…"
She knew what Gregg expected. He expected her to say she'd call off her lunch date with Flynn and that she'd meet him at the lab to work. It was what she should do.
But somehow, just this once, she couldn't do it. "But I told him I would. And I don't know how to reach him to call it off."
There was a disapproving silence on the other end of the line. And when she didn't offer to try to find out how to contact Flynn Murray, she heard a long-suffering sigh. "You know your grades aren't as good as mine," Gregg said. "It's going to be harder for you to get accepted."
She only had two Bs. "I think I'll be all right."
"Complacency is the enemy of accomplishment," Gregg reminded her.
"I'm not becoming complacent," she said, feeling just a little snappish now. "I'm having one lunch with one man from out of town."
"Suit yourself," Gregg said. "But if you're going to waste your time like this very often, don't expect me to bail you out."
"I wouldn't think of it," Sara said frostily. "Goodbye."
"I'll call you at five," Gregg said. "It's our night to go to the movies." She and Gregg went to a movie the first Saturday of every month. She even had it written in her day planner.
"Suit yourself," she said recklessly. "But I might not be here."
Jace was dead on his feet.
No big surprise. He was beginning to regret he'd ever said those groupies could stay with him at Artie's. They might have come to bid on Sloan, but while they were waiting, they'd apparently decided he was fair game.
He'd gone to the Dew Drop early last evening because their innuendo and calculated touches had done more than suggest that either or both of his house guests wouldn't mind going to bed with him. Singly. Or together.
Jace wasn't a prude. But that sort of thing had never interested him—and lately sex with anyone but Celie interested him less than ever.
So he'd gone to the Dew Drop. And Serena, the redhead, had come with him. She hadn't stayed with him. She'd drunk far too much and made a play for everything in pants. Colly Bishop had been about to take her up on one of her more suggestive comments when Jace, feeling responsible, had stepped in.
"Time to go," he'd said, taking her by the arm.
Colly had looked disconcerted, but not ready to fight over her, thank God.
"Come on, sweetheart," Jace had said, hauling her out the door and down the street, which turned out to be a mistake because when he got her home, she thought he wanted her to go to bed with him!
It didn't seem tactful to say he didn't. So he got her to her room and told her to wait. Then he'd ducked out, crossed his fingers and hoped she'd fall asleep. She did, but no sooner had she, than Kelsey, the blonde groupie, came to his room. That was when he'd beat a retreat to the Dew Drop until closing.
He'd spotted Sloan Gallagher heading toward Celie's and had downed three whiskeys imagining Celie's reaction to having her heart throb right there in her living room. The last one had still been burning in his gut when the bar closed and he'd run into Polly. His offer to move Gallagher's car was a sly way of getting Polly to tell him, "No thanks," that Gallagher had only dropped by to let her know he was in town.
Jace, like Polly—and the press—had expected him to stay with Gus and Mary. Finding out he was staying at Celie's hadn't done a damn thing for his temper.
Going home and hitting the sack only to toss and turn, thinking about Sloan and Celie was bad enough. Kelsey, the blonde, "sleepwalking" her way into his bed, was the last straw.
He'd pulled on his clothes, yanked on his boots and stomped over to the hardware store where he'd spent what was left of the night in the back room on a damned uncomfortable old sofa.
He gave up at 5:00 a.m., made himself a pot of strong black coffee and sat nursing a god-awful headache and cursing Celie O'Meara.
It was all her fault.
If it weren't for her he wouldn't care who he slept with. If she didn't spring to mind every time he had a sexual thought, he'd be a whole lot happier. He thought of a hundred nasty things to say to her when she came to work, scathing things about her and her dearly beloved Sloan Gallagher. He was on his second hundred when he opened the store and waited for her to turn up.
She was always early, looking annoyed and smug when he turned up.
Today she didn't even come.
Sloan was as good as his word.
He'd said he'd "take care of it," by which he'd meant all the reporters poking their noses into hers and her kids' lives, and he did. The minute they spotted him, they forgot she and the kids existed. The only person who mattered was Sloan.
They surrounded him even before he got to the street, asking questions and demanding attention. The groupies swarmed, too, giggling and shrieking, pressing to get close to him, all talking at once, grabbing at his jacket, reaching out to touch him.
Polly was shoved aside, and all she could think was Thank God.
She was surprised he even noticed, but all of a sudden he stopped shaking hands and smiling and began scanning the crowd anxiously. Only when he spotted her, did a rueful smile flicker across his face. He lifted his shoulders, as if to say, This is the way it is.
Polly understood.
She took advantage of it, smiling and waggling her fingers to say goodbye, good luck and all that. Then she headed toward the town hall and Calvin, and left Sloan to deal with his fame.
She and Calvin went over the list. She made notes for him about each item—or cowboy. He listened and grinned and shook his head.
"Ain't never sold no fellers on the hoof before," he said. "Pretty amazin'."
"This whole thing has been pretty amazing," Polly agreed.
"This al
l then?" Calvin looked over the list one last time.
"I think so. They're a pretty good group."
"Most," Calvin agreed. "Except Logan Reese."
Maddie's hired hand. "Maddie bullied him into it," Polly said. "I think she thought it would help him get reestablished in the community."
Calvin snorted. "Don't even know why he come back. Ain't gonna be no bidders for the likes of him."
Polly was afraid of that, too. Logan had come back to the valley only two months ago after having served time in Deer Lodge for setting fire to Mill Chamberlain's horse barn.
"He's paid his debt," she said. "Besides he told Maddie he came back to prove his innocence."
"Tell that to the jury," Calvin said gruffly. The jury that had convicted him. They'd heard testimony about motive and proximity, both of which existed. Most damning of all, they'd seen the cigarette lighter found at the scene, a lighter that Logan's best friend, Deputy Spence Adkins had testified belonged to Logan and had been his father's before him.
"Don't bring it up," Polly said. "Don't bring any of it up. He's a cowboy up for auction, that's all. He's a hard worker, you know that. He always has been." Logan had worked for her dad for a couple of years.
"Mebbe so. But won't none of 'em have 'im," Calvin said flatly.
"Maybe one of the groupies will buy him," Polly suggested a little desperately.
Calvin folded his arms across his chest. "And good luck to 'er."
And to Logan, Polly thought. She, personally, believed Maddie was being overly optimistic, pushing Logan into this, hoping to get someone to take a chance on him.
"Well, let's hope," she said now.
He left and Polly stayed where she was. She took one last look at the list, then folded it and put it away. Then she sighed and stretched and basked in the silence.
There was no one else in the town hall. Just her. It was wonderful. She got up and went to the window. There seemed to be a horde of people moving toward the Busy Bee. That must be where Sloan was. Poor Sloan.
Jack didn't take his mother seriously when she said, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
The Great Montana Cowboy Auction Page 16
