The Great Montana Cowboy Auction

by Anne McAllister

  "Good. I'm glad you're not. I'm glad you won't do it. It isn't what I want."

  "Then what are you doing in here?"

  "Well, I won't say sleeping with you didn't occur to me. And I won't pretend it doesn't have its appeal." He raked a hand through tousled hair. "It has a hell of a lot of appeal. But I want more."

  Her gaze narrowed. "What sort of more?"

  "How does marriage sound to you?"

  "What!" She stared at him, stunned. No. More than stunned. Poleaxed. "Marriage? Marry you?" Polly didn't believe her ears. She half expected him to break into one of those devastating grins and say, "Gotcha!" But he didn't. He looked serious. Intent. '

  "Is that such a bad idea?" he asked finally.

  "You don't even know me! I don't know you!"

  "Not well," he agreed.

  "So then, what are you doing, talking about marriage?" She was strangling the quilt, totally discombobulated. Sloan Gallagher was proposing marriage? To her?

  "Because it's crossed my mind."

  "It crossed your mind and you proposed?"

  "I think you're what I want in a wife."

  She was gaping at him now. She was sure of it. "You think?" The mind boggled. "And so you proposed?"

  "You said you didn't want a one-night stand."

  Her mouth was opening and closing. Why on earth would Sloan Gallagher propose marriage to a woman who looked like a frumpy fish? It didn't make sense.

  "You're going out with my sister next weekend," she reminded him.

  He shrugged. "Because she's paying a lot of money for the pleasure. That has nothing to do with this."

  "It does for me."

  "If she weren't, then you'd say yes?"

  "No! I told you, we don't know each other!"

  "Then we should get to." He sounded so calm, so matter-of-fact, so sensible! As if proposing marriage to a widow with four kids and no prospects was an eminently reasonable thing to do.

  Polly huddled inside her quilt, shaking her head, telling herself she'd obviously been working too hard. She was overworked, overtired and, today, overstimulated. She screwed her eyes shut, but when she opened them again, Sloan was still there, still looking at her.

  "Polly?"

  "What?"

  "Think about it."

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it wouldn't work."

  "It could."

  "No."

  He shoved away from the door and came to stand beside the bed, looking down at her. "So what are we? Ships that pass in the night? Twice?" He sounded sardonic, sarcastic almost.

  Polly ignored the sarcasm. "That's right."

  "We could be more," he insisted. "Give us a chance."

  "No."

  "You're afraid."

  "I'm not afraid. I'm realistic! I'm here. In Elmer. Every day. All year. You're not. You're in … in … Tierra del Fuego! We have nothing in common."

  "We want the same things. Home. Family. Love. Each other."

  Polly deliberately ignored the last two. "I have a home. I have a family," she said stubbornly.

  "And I want to share them."

  "You want junior high school dances and play practice and Cub Scouts and cranky college students? You're crazy!"

  "Am I?"

  "Yes! And you're leaving in the morning."

  "I am," he agreed.

  "There you are, then." It seemed clear and simple enough to Polly.

  "But I'll be back. I promise you."

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  « ^ »

  He wouldn't be back. Polly was sure.

  Oh, someday she had no doubt he'd turn up to visit Gus and Mary. He'd probably drop in on Maddie as he'd promised. He might even come and see her. She might look up someday and find him at the post office window or standing on her front porch.

  But he wouldn't be back for her—not the way he'd made it sound.

  Polly knew all about "Out of sight, out of mind." The phrase hadn't got to be an old adage without having a kernel of truth.

  Just ask Celie.

  That was a good part of what had happened to her and Matt.

  How many times more likely was it to happen to a jet-setting famous actor who had no real reason to return to Elmer? Matt had at least had family in the vicinity—and a fiancée. But even then he'd barely remembered to come back.

  So, no, she didn't expect to see Sloan again. Not anytime soon.

  After all, he hadn't even bothered to say goodbye this morning. When she came downstairs to fix breakfast for the kids before school, he had already gone.

  "He said he had an early plane to catch," Jack told her. "He said he didn't want to wake you, said you needed your beauty sleep."

  So she had looked like a frumpy fish! And that had been his way of telling her so. Needed her beauty sleep, indeed!

  "Humph," Polly said, slopping oatmeal into bowls and slapping them on the table. But then, hating herself, she asked. "Did he say anything else?"

  "He said he'd see us soon. I asked him if he'd come to my mountain man rendezvous." That was Jack's latest project in school.

  "Don't get your hopes up." Polly dumped the oatmeal pot into the sink. "'See you soon' is just an expression."

  "But—"

  She turned and glared at him. "Don't, Jack."

  Jack gave her a mutinous look. "He said he'd try."

  "He said he'd come to my play," Lizzie announced, breezing into the kitchen and dumping her backpack on the counter.

  "And that I could come to his ranch and ride horses." Daisy bounced into the room after her sister. "That'll be so cool."

  All three children gave her bright, sunny, optimistic smiles.

  The auction is over, Polly wanted to shout at them. Elmer isn't famous anymore. Sloan Gallagher is gone. The world is back to normal.

  "Eat your oatmeal," she said crisply.

  They ate. They chattered about Sloan, about the play and the ranch and the mountain man rendezvous. They gathered up their books and backpacks, yelled, "Bye, Mom!" cheerfully, banged the door shut and thundered down the steps.

  The last words Polly heard them say were, "Sloan said … Sloan thought … Sloan promised…"

  Damn him, Polly thought. Damn, damn, damn him. He should know better.

  You didn't make promises to kids that you weren't going to be able to keep.

  Sara didn't ask Flynn for promises.

  She didn't have to. He'd loved her all night long. He'd shared himself with her. That was a promise—all the promise she needed.

  She made up her mind not to cling. She knew he had to go back to New York, that he had obligations. She knew he had to go to L.A. later this week for Sloan's premiere. She understood that.

  She had obligations, too.

  He admired her determination, her focus, her goals. He'd told her that this weekend. When she'd told him about medical school, about how she'd been working toward it ever since she was fifteen, he'd been impressed. He said he'd never met a girl with more purpose.

  She tried to remember that purpose now. To focus on it. It was the only way she was going to get through this, the only way to be bright and cheerful as they sat side by side in the airport and waited for his flight to be called.

  She wished he would stay. Or she wished he would say, "Come with me."

  But he didn't say anything at all. He stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable. He didn't look at her.

  She couldn't stop looking at him. She supposed it wasn't the thing to do, but she couldn't help it. She just sat there and drank in the sight of him, remembering what he'd looked like making love to her, kissing her, holding her tenderly after, saying, anguished, "My God, why didn't you tell me?"

  That she'd been a virgin.

  She hadn't even thought about it. She'd only thought about him. What had occurred between them this weekend had been so deep, so perfect, so profound, that she couldn't imagine not sharing the rest of herself with him. When they had lo
ved, they'd connected on every level—emotional, intellectual, spiritual, physical. They were a couple now.

  He might leave. But he would come back. Sara knew that.

  So she wouldn't cling, she wouldn't press. She wouldn't smother him with her demands.

  "I hope your plane's on time," she said with all the cheer she could muster. And then, lest he think she was trying to get rid of him, she added, "I've got a bio exam at nine."

  He glanced at her then and he seemed to come back from a long way away. "You don't have to hang around."

  "Of course I'll hang around. I mean, bio's important, but…" She stopped, unsure how important biology was or rather, how important she ought to make it sound. "I'll be all right," she said. "It's just one test. I'll make med school. No fear." She gave him a bright smile.

  He grinned back. "Sure you will. Top of the class, no doubt."

  "No doubt," Sara said. And you'll be there to cheer me on, won't you? she wanted to ask. But that would be pressure, so she didn't. She'd run after him last night. Now it was up to him.

  "They're calling my flight." Flynn got to his feet and picked up his bag.

  Sara scrambled up, too, and looked up into his beautiful face. They were inches apart. "I—" She stopped, got a grip, smiled. "Have a good flight. I—"

  There was turmoil on his face. His jaw worked. A muscle ticked in his temple. "Sara, I— We shouldn't have—"

  "Of course we should have," she said, cutting him off. That was the one thing she was sure of. "Don't tell me you regret it!"

  He shook his head. "I'll never—"

  "Well, I don't either," she said firmly. One more bright smile. Don't go!

  Flynn dropped his bag, wrapped her in his arms and kissed her, deep and hard.

  Yes! Oh, yes!

  But then he pulled back. He shook his head, opened his mouth, then closed it again. He sighed, grabbed his bag and, without another word, hurried through the boarding gate door.

  Sara watched him go. Desperately she told herself it would be all right.

  He would be back.

  The last thing Jace wanted to see this morning was Celie O'Meara's smiling face.

  "Good morning!" she sang, all cheer and bright smiles as she sailed into Artie's store—late!—and tossed her jacket toward the hook. She missed.

  Jace grunted and stared at the column of figures he'd been adding.

  "Ah, in a good mood, are we?" Celie said gaily. "Just peachy."

  She didn't even bother to pick up her jacket, so he bent down, snatched it up, jammed it on the hook, then went back to the estimate he was making on some lumber for a local rancher.

  "Thank you." She aimed another smile in his direction, then breezed past him toward the register.

  She was wearing some flowery scent this morning, and it lingered long after she had passed. He tried breathing through his mouth.

  "You're not catching cold, are you?" Celie asked, turning to look at him.

  "No."

  "Because your eyes look a little bloodshot and you look a little peaked."

  "I'm not sick!"

  Except inside. He'd felt sick inside ever since he woke up at five this morning to find himself in bed with Tamara Lynd.

  He'd been dreaming about Celie. About making love with Celie. About touching her and kissing her and easing himself inside her. And then he'd awakened to find Tamara's hand on him, his body primed for release at the same time that his mind rebelled.

  Last night he'd given in. He'd been angry, hurt, his dreams dashed, his hopes thwarted. He'd taken what Tamara had offered. He'd given her release, as well. But that was all it had been—release.

  But he'd resisted that release this morning. Instead he'd eased himself out of bed and had stood under an icy shower until his teeth chattered so hard he thought they'd crack. Still his body ached and his mind whirled and his heart ached.

  And he damned well didn't need Celie O'Meara waltzing in wearing flowery perfume and humming snatches of some romantic tune!

  He couldn't remember whether he was carrying eight or nine. "Damn it!" He slammed down his pencil and broke the lead.

  Celie made a tsking sound. "Go to hell," Jace muttered.

  "No thank you," she said quietly. "I've been there."

  His head jerked up. "What?"

  "After Matt," she said.

  It was the first time his name had been mentioned by either of them. Jace swallowed a groan. He did not want to talk about Matt this morning.

  But since when had what he wanted ever mattered?

  Celie said, "I was in hell after he dumped me. And then I guess I was in purgatory for a lot of years. And now I'm not."

  Jace stared at her. "Because you spent your entire life savings on a date with Sloan Gallagher?"

  "Yes."

  "You really think he's going to … marry you?"

  Considering the way his luck was running these days, Jace thought wearily, Gallagher actually might.

  Celie shrugged. "I think," she said, "it's time to stop dreaming and find out."

  Celie had actually expected to wake up this morning and regret what she'd done.

  But when she opened her eyes and stretched and thought about it, she realized she didn't.

  She was a little scared, a little excited and oddly relieved.

  For years she had carried with her all the ideals of courtship and marriage and family—ideals that she'd never been allowed to test after Matt's defection, ideals that had simply grown with time and fantasy until she hadn't been able to move for the weight of them.

  And now it was as if the weight of her ideals had been lifted. She was going to face reality this weekend. She was going out with Sloan Gallagher.

  And she didn't care what anyone said—especially not cranky, annoying Jace Tucker—she was looking forward to the prospect.

  "Joyce?" The voice on the phone was male and familiar, but Joyce couldn't place it.

  It wasn't as if men called her these days. "Yes?"

  "It's Walt Blasingame. I was wonderin' … is it hard, learnin' Spanish?"

  Not exactly a question she was expecting. "What? No," Joyce said, confused. "But I don't know how well I learned it, do I?" She gave a little laugh. "I've never tried it."

  "But you reckon you could get by? Maybe prove you made the effort?"

  "What?"

  "I was thinkin' I might give it a try."

  "You want to learn Spanish?" That surprised her, but no more than his answer.

  "No. Vietnamese." He hesitated, then went on to explain. "I was there in the war. 'Course you know that. We were there together, me an' Gil."

  "I remember." She and Gil hadn't been married long. She'd just had Polly. He might have got a deferment because of being married with a child, but Gil had just shrugged and said, "If it ain't me, some other poor sucker'll have to go."

  Joyce had been all for the other poor sucker going, but that wasn't the kind of man Gil was.

  "I went back last year," Walt said now. "But I didn't know the language. Figured I was too old, but if you can learn Spanish…"

  "Well, of course, you can learn some Vietnamese," Joyce said. "I mean, I don't see why you wouldn't be able to. Are you thinking of going there again?"

  The war there seemed so long ago. Gil had never much talked about it. "Got better things to do," he'd always said, and he'd certainly never been interested in going back. Not once, let alone twice.

  "Maybe," Walt said. "Reckon I'll order me some tapes or somethin'. Don't suppose you'd want to study 'em with me? Give a guy a little support? You bein' bilingual an' all?"

  Joyce laughed at that. "Bilingual? Because I can order a beer and tacos and a room with two single beds?"

  "An' you can dance," Walt said. "Don't forget you can dance. How about it?"

  Well, why not? What else did she have to do?

  Joyce smiled. "All right."

  Even if Sloan was out of sight, it was hard for Polly to keep him out of mind when Celie talked about h
im all the time.

  He apparently called several times and talked to Celie, telling her what was going to happen, where they were going to go and what they were going to do.

  Every day, it seemed, there was something new to report. Something new Sloan had done to make Celie's weekend a dream come true.

  Celie told her the name of the trendy restaurant where they would be having dinner before the premiere. She talked about staying at a posh Beverly Hills hotel.

  "For three nights," she said, eyes wide. "I won't be home until Monday. Besides dinner and the premiere, he's taking me around Hollywood and showing me all the stars on the sidewalks. We're going to do a VIP tour of one of the studios. And he said he'd take me out to the beach for an afternoon."

  "It's winter in California, too," Polly reminded her, feeling like a spoilsport.

  "Not to swim. We'll swim at the hotel or at his place, he said. I guess he must have an indoor pool. He said he'd take me to see his place, too." Celie's eyes were bright and eager. They'd been bright and eager all week.

  Polly had thought her sister might have second thoughts, but Celie seemed to be going into this full speed ahead. Sometimes Polly wondered whatever had become of the reticent young woman who had sleepwalked her way through life for the past ten years? Not that she wanted her back, of course.

  But she didn't want Celie going out into the world and getting hurt.

  "You know he might not, um, feel the same way you do?" she warned, feeling guilty even as she did so and irritably wondering why. It wasn't as if, no matter what he'd said, Sloan was two-timing Celie. Polly hadn't heard a word from him since that night in her room when she'd turned down his proposal of marriage.

  Marriage!

  And then he hadn't even called!

  Celie shrugged, "He might not. But this isn't really about him."

  Polly stared.

  "It's not," Celie explained. "They were my dreams. Not his. I have to do this, Pol'." She looked at her sister earnestly.

  And all Polly could do was nod. "I know."

  It was like sending your child off to kindergarten for the first time, Joyce thought.