The Great Montana Cowboy Auction

by Anne McAllister

But even though his initial hopes had been thwarted, he still found himself enjoying life at the McMasters'. He liked being a part of the swirl of activity, of being one of the gang.

  He'd liked making pancakes for her kids this morning. He'd gladly braved the reporters and photographers and groupies, not because he enjoyed all the hoopla, but because it meant he was on the team, that he was giving support, helping Polly get the break she so obviously needed. And he'd liked coming back to her place late that afternoon, shutting the world out and just being accepted as one of the family.

  Sloan was used to being welcomed places. Everyone was always glad to see him, to invite him in. It went with being a household name. But it was rare that he—or anyone else—forgot he was a household name while he was there.

  Somehow, though, this afternoon, once they'd shut the door on the groupies and the reporters and all the hoopla from the auction, he had simply fit in.

  It was Polly who had made it happen. She had treated him with an offhand casualness that allowed him to relax. She wasn't in awe of him. In fact, she treated him more like a pesky younger brother than anything else.

  But at least it made her kids and her mother treat him with less reverence and starstruck awe than most people did. Before he knew it, Joyce put him to work, and he sat in the kitchen peeling potatoes and carrots with Daisy, while Polly made a salad and Jack set the table.

  When the daughter who was calling herself Artemis—and whom everyone else was calling Lizzie—came in, she'd been a little tongue-tied with him, slanting him awed glances until her mother said, "Lizzie, close your mouth." Then she'd turned to Sloan. "Would you like to be really helpful?"

  "Sure."

  "Great. Lizzie, get your script and let Sloan go over your lines with you," she'd said to her slack-jawed daughter, and to Sloan she'd said, "You'll do a lot better job than I could."

  And so he'd ended up peeling potatoes and listening to Lizzie say her lines in You Can't Take It With You.

  At first Lizzie had been stiff and awkward, but when he'd challenged her, reading the other parts opposite her, she'd started to get into it, to relax and do a good job.

  That was what they were doing when the oldest daughter, Sara, appeared, bringing with her a dark-haired guy she introduced as Flynn.

  Everyone had seemed surprised to see him. And Polly had said firmly, "No reporters. I told you that."

  "Flynn's not a reporter. He's a friend," Sara had protested.

  But Polly had stepped between Flynn and Sloan like a mother hen defending her chick. "Are you a friend?" she'd asked Flynn sternly.

  He'd grinned. "Oh, yeah."

  Polly hadn't looked as if she believed him. She'd looked from him to Sara and back again. Then she'd stepped forward, got right in Flynn's face and said, "If I read one word about whatever happens here this evening, you will regret it for the rest of your life."

  Sloan thought Flynn might laugh. He was clearly bigger and stronger than Polly McMaster. But he didn't laugh. In fact his grin faded and he nodded quite solemnly.

  "You won't read a word," he vowed.

  "You won't breathe a word," she informed him, eye-to-eye.

  "I won't," he agreed. Sloan thought Flynn might have to slit a wrist and give her blood to prove it as Polly still stared at him, long and hard. Sloan had never had anyone protect his interests so fiercely. He was amazed. Finally Polly seemed satisfied with what she saw in Flynn's face.

  "All right, then," she said. "Jack, set another place."

  They had laughed and talked all evening. While the streets of Elmer grew more congested and the time for The Great Montana Cowboy Auction drew nearer and nearer, while poor beleaguered Spence Adkins and a couple of other deputies kept things under control, inside the McMaster house, Polly, her mother, all her kids, her sister, Flynn and Sloan relaxed and enjoyed themselves.

  Only the sister, Celie, seemed to feel awkward with him. Several times Sloan tried to smile at her, to tease her a little, hoping she would relax and forget what had happened in the bathroom this morning. But no matter what he said or did, she couldn't seem to look him in the eye. And finally he gave up.

  Even so, it turned out to be a great evening. Not the sort he'd originally dreamed of—that had been a marathon of love-making with the Polly of his dreams.

  But he'd enjoyed this enormously. And when, at the end of it, Polly had told him he could have her bed again, that she would bunk in with Jack, he'd said no, he'd sleep in Jack's room.

  And he wasn't even regretting it. Much.

  Lust had never been a part of Sara's vocabulary.

  Sex appeal had always been theoretical—an intriguing, but totally elusive abstract construct.

  She'd never had trouble keeping her hands off Gregg. She'd never missed a plot point in the monthly movie because she was more interested in what Gregg's hands were doing to her. Because, in fact, Gregg's hands weren't ever doing anything to her—except meeting hers accidentally in the popcorn tub.

  She had a timetable with Gregg. They had goals and plans for their engagement and marriage and their future together, and somehow urgency and intimacy had little to do with any of it.

  They were in control. In perfect control. Like the sane, sensible people they knew themselves to be. Like everyone, Sara had told her mother flatly one day not long ago, should strive to be.

  But that had been yesterday. Now Sara wanted Flynn.

  Sara had never wanted another person in her life. She very rarely wanted anything. She planned for things, thought out her goals and focused on them. Everything with Sara had always been long range.

  Not now. Not Flynn.

  They'd spent twelve hours together, in town and out driving around so she could show him the area, so she could ostensibly give him background for his article on Sloan Gallagher and the auction. They'd parked to look at the scenery from a place where Sara had told Flynn they could get a good view. But they'd done a little bit more than look at the valley.

  In fact, if Flynn hadn't had the presence of mind to stop, to get out of the truck and stand, shoulders heaving, body taut, in knee-deep snow until he cooled down, they would have done more than a little.

  Lying in bed now, Sara crushed her pillow against her breasts and wondered at her lack of control. More, though, she wondered how she was going to survive not going to bed with him.

  She wanted him fiercely, desperately, urgently. Nothing she felt for Gregg could begin to compare to it. The urge to touch Flynn Murray, to run her hands over his body, to learn the secrets of his nakedness was stronger than anything she'd ever felt in her life.

  She was hot, aching, just lying here thinking about him.

  He'd left tonight about ten when Polly had politely shown him the door. "It's been lovely having you," she'd said in her most determined-mother, it's-time-for-you-to-leave-now tone. "I'm sure you'll want to get an early night so you'll be ready for tomorrow."

  Sara had been mortified. "Mother!"

  But Flynn had grinned. "Absolutely."

  "I could walk a ways with you," Sara had offered.

  But Polly, no fool, had said, "I would be obliged, Sara, if you would help me change some bedding."

  "I'll see you tomorrow," Flynn had promised.

  That was hours from now. Hours! Sara ached with the need of him.

  She was tired of being alone in her bed.

  Jace was alone in his bed.

  And thank God for that, he thought. Though he could take a little credit, if he did say so himself. It had been one of his better ideas, inviting Tamara to stay at Artie's.

  Serena and Kelsey could hardly believe it when he'd come back this evening with Tamara Lynd in tow. They'd been so excited to talk to her, to listen to her, that they'd followed her all over the house. They'd ignored Jace. Since that had been the general idea, he'd breathed a sigh of relief and left them to it.

  He'd driven down to Livingston to see Artie—a better idea than sitting home listening to a trio of tittering women chatte
r about Sloan Gallagher, while the one woman he was interested in was having dinner—and God knew what else with—with the man himself.

  Of course he knew, in that one small sane part of his brain, that Celie would never have anything else with Sloan Gallagher. She had a crush on Sloan Gallagher. That was all.

  But it hadn't helped to walk into Artie's hospital room and have the old man say, "What? Just you? Where's Celie? Out with Sloan Gallagher?" He'd cackled a bit, then coughed so much Jace had thought he might drop dead right then. He started to get the nurse, but Artie waved him back.

  Reluctantly Jace had stayed where he was.

  "Just kiddin'," Artie wheezed when the coughing had finally subsided

  "Yeah? Well, Gallagher's at her house. He stayed there last night."

  "That's what Joyce said," Artie nodded. "Joyce thinks he's the right stuff."

  Jace jammed his hands in his pockets and prowled the room. "He's not right for Celie."

  Artie watched him, interested. "Got someone better in mind, have you?"

  Jace glared out the window at the cars parked in the road. "I'm just sayin' Gallagher's not for her. That's all." He was damned if he was going to go setting himself up as a laughingstock—the guy who couldn't get Celie O'Meara to even look at him.

  Artie nodded. "Could be you're right, too."

  "I am right," Jace muttered. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and cracked his knuckles.

  "You gonna be in the auction?"

  "What? As an item? No way. I'll clean up the town hall after it's over," Jace said.

  "Celie might bid on you."

  Jace had glared at him. "Oh, yeah. Right."

  Artie had looked as if he'd be up for discussing the matter, but, thank God, a nurse had come just then.

  "Time for your medications now," she'd told him. Then she'd turned to Jace, "It's getting past his bedtime."

  "Is not," Artie protested. "You'd think I was some young whippersnapper the way they boss me around," he'd grumbled.

  "It is gettin' sort of late," Jace said, and he didn't want Artie probing the Celie issue anymore anyway. "Don't want you overdoing things."

  "Like I could," Artie muttered. Then he looked up at Jace. "It'll be all right."

  "Sure," Jace had agreed, though he wasn't at all sure what Artie had been talking about.

  What would be all right? His health? The hardware store? Jace being hung up on Celie?

  There were a whole lot of guys who would laugh at him now, Jace thought grimly.

  Here he was, barricaded in Artie's bedroom, a delectable sexy female in every other room of the house, while he prayed that the chair he'd shoved under the doorknob stayed put and that tonight he got a little bit of sleep.

  Celie lay there, clutching her pillow Sloan to her breasts, her normally fertile mind a barren plain of disorientation and panic.

  She'd eaten dinner at the same table with Sloan Gallagher tonight. He'd gone out of his way to be friendly, to try to put her at her ease, to tease her gently so she would stop being so stiff and awkward around him. He was every bit as kind as she'd imagined he would be. He'd been easy to be with, not at all snobbish. He'd joked with Jack and had been patient with Lizzie. He'd talked horses to Daisy and told Joyce about places he'd traveled.

  He was, in reality, everything she'd ever wanted in a man. What was she going to do?

  Sloan Gallagher had slept in her bed.

  Polly felt a little like one of the three bears every time she thought about it. The notion made her smile, but mostly she yawned. And then she smiled again, because who'd have thought that tonight he'd be sleeping in a bunk bed in Jack's room?

  Sloan Gallagher! In a bottom bunk!

  There were lots of other places he could have gone. She knew that Gus and Mary would be happy to have him. And since the press now knew he was here and had, in fact, dogged his steps all day, there was no more need to worry about them knowing where he was. But he'd said no, he wanted to stay here.

  And because he had been such a good sport all day—doing interview after interview, taking time for everyone who wanted to renew his acquaintance, and generally making her life much much easier and allowing her to do all the last-minute stuff that needed to be done—Polly had agreed. Another night on a too-short couch wouldn't kill her.

  But Sloan had said, "I'll take the couch."

  "It's too short," she had protested. "You'll never be able to sleep on it. You stay in my room. I'll bunk in Jack's. He has an extra bed."

  "Then I'll take that." And no amount of arguing had deterred him. Sloan Gallagher had taken his gear and moved in with Jack.

  Jack, of course, had been over the moon. He'd bounced his way to bed. And even after he got there, he kept right on bouncing. "Wait'll I tell Randy! Wait'll everybody hears!"

  "You need to ask Mr. Gallagher if you can tell them," Polly had said. "And don't bounce, Jack! You'll drive him crazy!"

  "He can call me Sloan." Sloan had said, coming into Jack's room from the shower, his hair damp. "And he can tell his buddies, but he's not allowed to tell the press. My credibility would be shot." He grinned wryly. "He can even bounce, but only until I get in bed. Then it's got to stop." He gave Jack a severe look, just like the one he gave the bad guys before he either mowed them down or hustled them off to jail.

  Jack grinned. And bounced some more.

  Sloan winked at the boy as he scrubbed at his own damp hair with a towel. He was shirtless and barefoot, but wearing jeans that Polly was sure he'd dragged on in order not to offend anyone, which she appreciated, even as she noted that the button at the top was undone. Her eyes had gone directly to it with the unerring instincts of a homing pigeon.

  Realizing it, she deliberately—and quickly—had looked away.

  "Good night," she'd said hastily, dropping a kiss on Jack's nose, then backing toward the door.

  "Hey," Sloan had protested. "Don't I get one?"

  "No!" Her voice had come out at barely more than a squeak. She was almost as bad as Celie!

  Actually she was worse than Celie. She was a widow. A mature woman. The mother of four. She wasn't a giddy girl with a hope chest full of fantasies. She hadn't had a fantasy since she was eighteen and had dreamed of Lew.

  But last night Sloan Gallagher had slept in her bed.

  And tonight she couldn't stop her brain from wondering what it would be like if he was here tonight … with her.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  « ^ »

  It was worse than the Christmas pageant, Polly thought, standing there amid a dozen milling muttering cowboys, all of whom were questioning their sanity and how long the line was for the bathroom.

  "You just went to the bathroom," Polly told first one and then another twitchy-footed cowhand. "You don't need to go again. Honestly," she told them all, "you're worse than a bunch of third-graders."

  "Yeah," one of them muttered darkly. "In third grade Miz Stedman told me I didn't have to go, either. I'm still livin' that down."

  "Better let him go to the front of the line," another one cracked.

  "Auction off the weak bladders first," another suggested from the back of the line. "Save the real men for last."

  Bunnies, Polly decided, were easier to deal with. They were smaller. They stayed in cages. And they didn't have a cowboy's ribald sense of humor.

  Or if they did, she was blessed not to be able to understand it.

  When Mary Holt had directed the pageant, she'd had Gus as her bunny wrangler. Polly wished she'd had the forethought to shanghai Gus and provide him with a cattle prod to keep her cowboys in line.

  "Where's Sloan?" she demanded, having lost sight of him ages ago. The minute he'd arrived, he'd been mobbed. If Polly had thought the crowds during the week had been bad, it was nothing compared to the sea of people who had converged on Elmer this morning.

  Spence Adkins had been on duty since 5:00 a.m. At seven he'd called in reinforcements. When Polly had set off for the town hall a lit
tle after eight, there were three deputies directing traffic, and several cowboys on horseback were helping people find places to park. She'd passed a crew that was setting up an impromptu large screen TV in the Dew Drop and there was another in the Busy Bee, "to hold the overflow" one of the crew told her.

  "They say they can bid from there," Jenny Nichols reported. "We'll have a couple of spotters on site in each location. They can use walkie-talkies to relay the bids. Taggart says it will work."

  What did bull riders know about wireless communications? Polly wondered. But then, what had she known about running an auction like this? She realized now that even with all the preparation in the world, she would never have anticipated such things.

  Jenny patted her shoulder comfortingly. "It'll be all right. Truly it will. Mace and Shane are working the Dew Drop. Cash and Ranee will do the Busy Bee. Alice is recording the bids. Cloris will be backing her up. If you need any kids for runners between places, Tuck will organize them. Jed is taking care of the parking. Charlie is taking pictures. Noah and Taggart are each going to shoot video. Gus will, too, if you want three. We figured we could get someone to edit it later and sell copies—make a little more for Maddie that way."

  Polly, dazed, stared at Jenny as she ticked things off. "That sounds great. I … when did you do all this?"

  "Earlier in the week when you were dealing with all the news people. Tess and Felicity and I decided that if you'd be spokesperson, we'd make sure the nitty-gritty stuff got done."

  "I'm supposed to be the nitty-gritty person," Polly said sadly.

  Jenny laughed. "I can't think of anything grittier than dealing with all the TV and print people. I'd rather deal with a class of crazy fifth-graders."

  "How about a roomful of cowboys?" Polly offered.

  "Sure."

  "You're serious?"

  Jenny grinned. "I can be just as bossy as you when I put my mind to it. Besides, Gus was looking for you."

  "Why? Has something happened to Sloan?" Gus had been running interference for him.

  "Don't worry about Sloan," Jenny said. "Go find Gus. It's almost eleven. Calvin will want to start."