Mr. Congeniality

by Sherry Lewis

  “You scare the hell out of me, Annie Holladay, and that’s the absolute truth. I haven’t felt like this in a long time, and I’m not quite sure what to do about it.”

  Annie turned her hand and cupped his cheek gently. “If it helps, you frighten me, too. I’m still in the middle of an ugly divorce. I’m not ready to have feelings for someone else.”

  “So, what do we do about this?”

  Annie shook her head and dropped her hand from his cheek. “I don’t know. If we were smart, we’d agree to be friends and leave it at that.”

  Her answer disappointed him, but he knew she was right. “I agree, that would be the smart thing.”

  “Neither of us can afford to get involved,” Annie went on quickly. “You have the Eagle’s Nest and Tyler to worry about. I have to focus on Nessa while I still have her. And I’m leaving for Seattle in a couple of months. We can’t forget that.”

  He groaned low in his throat and forced himself to remember what she’d said. She was leaving. Getting involved with her would be foolish. And yet…

  Dear Reader,

  One of the questions authors are frequently asked is where we get ideas for the stories we write. As a reader, I’m always fascinated to hear about those snippets of conversation, moments glimpsed from the train or the car, stories on the evening news and songs on the radio that spark other imaginations and turn into the seeds from which stories grow.

  Mr. Congeniality got its start about three years ago. I was halfheartedly watching a cooking show on television, trying to take my mind off the fact that I had to pay bills. I don’t remember what was on the menu or even which show it was. But I do remember glancing up once to see a chef (who was quite obviously from the city) standing along the bank of a stream in the mountains of the American West. As I watched, the chef began pulling tin containers, linen napkins and assorted trinkets from a saddlebag—things she’d hauled up the mountainside by horseback so she could create an artistic arrangement of hors d’oeuvres along the trail. By the time she cheerfully assured her viewing audience that presentation is vitally important even in the mountains, my bills were forgotten, Annie Holladay had come to life and Dean Sheffield had crept into the shadows of my mind.

  Mr. Congeniality is a story about forgiving and healing, about loving and laughing, about letting go and hanging on. It’s about life with teenagers and all the joy—and occasional pain—that comes with the territory. I hope you’ll enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

  I love hearing from readers. You can contact me c/o Harlequin Enterprises Ltd., 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada, or visit me at http://www.slbwrites.com.

  Sherry Lewis

  Mr. Congeniality

  Sherry Lewis

  This one’s for the best guy cousins around…

  Gary, Ted, Bart,

  Tony, Ray,

  Carter, Chris, Jay, Todd,

  Blaine, Brad, Garth, Clay, Clint, Blake,

  Mike, Steve and Sam

  Thanks for a lifetime of laughter and memories

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  DISASTER.

  That was the only word to describe the scene that greeted Dean Sheffield when he walked into the main lodge of the Eagle’s Nest Dude Ranch. He stared, open-mouthed, at scaffolding climbing one wall, boards for bookshelves stacked against one another, and rocks for the fireplace heaped on a tarp near the chimney.

  He turned slowly toward Gary Parker, his best friend and right-hand man. “Tell me I’m dreaming.”

  Gary’s dark eyes narrowed slightly and he stroked the thick handlebar mustache that bracketed his mouth as he took in the mess in front of them. “I wish I could, buddy. But I think this is for real.”

  Dean lowered the toolbox he’d been carrying to the floor. “Any guesses where the construction crew might be?”

  Gary followed a trail of muddy footprints across the polished hardwood floor with his gaze. “On break or taking an early lunch? I didn’t notice any of their trucks when we pulled up, so they might even be through for the day.”

  In spite of the warm spring sun hitting Dean’s back and the call of a meadowlark in the distance, a chill worthy of a Montana winter inched up his spine. “The foreman promised they’d be finished yesterday,” he said, instinctively checking his watch. “We only have two weeks until we’re supposed to open for business.”

  “They’ve almost finished.” Gary pushed back the brim of his cowboy hat and took another long look around the room. “It just doesn’t look like it. Why don’t you try to relax? There’s plenty of time to finish everything before Memorial Day. I’ll look for the foreman and find out what the holdup is.”

  Dean reached to pick up the toolbox. Worry and frustration almost made him forget to use his left hand, but the warning flash of discomfort he felt as he stretched reminded him in a hurry. “Thanks, but I’ll talk to him myself. I’m just glad you’re still optimistic, because I’m having trouble staying upbeat. The furniture’s not here yet, none of our food or supplies have arrived, and unless I’m mistaken, nobody’s heard from Miles in days.”

  Gary’s cowboy boots echoed on the wooden floor as he trailed Dean across the room. “Barry said the furniture would be here tomorrow and I checked with our other suppliers yesterday. We should start receiving things in the next couple of days. As for Miles, he’s a good friend and reliable as the sun. He’ll deliver the horses before we open, guaranteed.”

  Dean shoved through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen and stopped just inside. In spite of Gary’s reassurance, the sight of the renovation crew’s sawhorses and temporary workbenches made him very nervous.

  Was he making a mistake to think he could run a dude ranch? The business courses he’d taken in college were a distant memory and the research he’d done on the vacation industry suddenly felt skimpy rather than extensive. But it was too late to back out now. His savings account was almost depleted, and he’d borrowed heavily against the money in his retirement plan. Besides, Dean didn’t back out of commitments—at least not willingly.

  “Maybe I should ask Les and Irma if I can store the furniture in their barn in case it arrives before the crew clears out.”

  Gary took the toolbox from Dean and carried it toward the bank of windows overlooking the wide clearing behind the lodge. “Good idea. And if they don’t have room, they’ll know someone who does. That’s one thing there’s no shortage of in Whistle River—storage space.”

  In spite of the turmoil his life had been in lately, being surrounded by good friends helped keep Dean grounded. He’d met Les and Irma just four years earlier on his first visit to Montana. Two years later he’d met Gary, and now Dean felt as if he’d known them all forever. He counted himself lucky that they’d all offered to help him get back on his feet.

  Gary pulled two scrapers from the toolbox and handed one to Dean. “Now, how about we wait and see if something actually goes wrong before we start coming up with solutions?”

  Dean stared at the tool in his hand. “I’m not trying to sound pessimistic. It’s just that life’s thrown me a few curveballs lately.”

  Sitting on his heels in front of the window, Gary started working on a label stuck to the pane of glass. “Thi
ngs are finally looking up for you. Why can’t you just accept that and be grateful? Everything’s going to be fine. Trust me.”

  Dean let his gaze linger on the broad sweep of landscape outside the window. He could see the red-roofed stables at the bottom of the hill, the shadow of forest separating the lodge from the fire pit, the slow slope of tree-covered hills rising toward snow-capped mountains.

  “This land is the first thing I’ve allowed myself to want since the accident. And renovating this lodge is the first risk I’ve let myself take.” He took a deep breath and brought up a subject he usually refused to talk about. “Sometimes it’s hard to be grateful when you’re only thirty-eight and the only career you’ve ever wanted is a distant memory.”

  Gary peeled a long strip of paper from the window, shrugging as if they were discussing something inconsequential. “Try looking at it this way—you’re only thirty-eight and you’ve been given a chance to start over. How many people get that?”

  “I’m grateful,” Dean said, stretching toward a label high overhead. “I’m downright giddy when I can go a whole day without taking a pain pill, or when I get a full night’s sleep.” Agitated by their conversation, he reached too far and pain blazed through the muscles in his right shoulder. Before he could stop it, the scraper tumbled uselessly to the floor at his feet.

  Frustrated and angry, he grabbed his shoulder and fought back the unwelcome tears that still came with the pain. Turning away from Gary, Dean headed for the sink, pulled a prescription bottle from his pocket and shook a capsule into his hand. He scooped water into his mouth, swallowed the pill and swabbed his chin with his sleeve.

  Gary kept working as if nothing had happened. His tactfulness was one of the things Dean liked best about him.

  When Dean could breathe easily again, he leaned against the counter and took up the conversation. “I know I was lucky to even have money after the accident. I had great insurance, too. Most people would be buried under a pile of medical bills and fighting just to survive and here I am with a piece of the most beautiful country in the world and a new business on top of that. I keep telling myself how lucky I am, but I can’t shake the feeling that something major will go wrong before we open.”

  “You worry too much,” Gary said with a grin. “Fortune’s getting set to smile on you. I can feel it.”

  Dean returned the smile halfheartedly and started toward the window again, determined not to let the pain immobilize him for long. The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps caught his attention just as he bent to retrieve his scraper, and Jill Beck, the woman he’d hired as cook for the ranch, burst through the swinging door.

  Her short blond hair was tousled as if she’d just climbed out of bed, her blue eyes were as round as silver dollars, and her wrinkled white shorts and bright pink halter top looked as if she’d slept in them. She was young, flighty and inexperienced, but without a reputation to back him Dean had been damn lucky to find her. He’d tried for months to lure a more experienced cook away from one of the other lodges, but none of them had been interested in taking a chance on a completely unknown establishment.

  “You’re never going to believe what’s happened,” Jill gushed before the door could even begin to swing shut. “Never in a million years.”

  Dean picked up the scraper and nudged the toolbox out of his way. “Whatever it is, please tell me it’s good news.”

  “It is…in a way.” Jill ran her fingers through her hair and shifted her weight onto one thin leg. “I’m getting married! Can you believe it? Scotty finally asked me—after six long years.”

  Dean grinned at her. “I’d say that qualifies as good news. Congratulations.”

  Gary covered the distance between them in three long strides and swept Jill into a bear hug. “It’s about time that guy of yours pulled his head out. When’s the big day?”

  Jill’s smile faded slightly and she glanced sideways at Dean. “That’s where things get sticky.” She clasped her hands in front of her and twisted her fingers. “The thing is, we want to have a real small wedding. Just immediate family and a few close friends, you know? And we want to do it before Scotty’s brother leaves for basic training. The fifteenth of June is, like, the only day we can do it and have everyone there.”

  The explanation tumbled out of her mouth in such a rush, Dean felt a tingle of apprehension in his scalp. “That’s quick, but nothing we can’t work around. Any idea how much time you’ll want off for your honeymoon? I should probably start trying to find a temporary replacement right away.”

  Jill’s smile disappeared completely and the knuckles of her tangled fingers turned white. “Well… That’s another problem.” Her gaze danced around the room, never landing anywhere for more than a second and touching everything except Dean’s face. “The thing is, Scotty’s been doing a lot of work in Cheyenne the past few months. I told you about that temporary job he’s got….”

  Dean nodded, but he was starting to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Well, anyway,” Jill continued, “he’s making a whole lot more there than he can here, and he just got offered a permanent position, so that’s why he finally proposed.” She took a deep breath, shot a glance at Gary, and then finished at top speed. “The thing is, with his job and everything, we’ve decided we should live there. In Cheyenne, I mean.”

  The tingles on Dean’s scalp turned into ice. Gary kept his gaze locked on Jill’s face so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact with his friend. “When are you going?” Gary asked.

  “Next week.”

  Dean raised both eyebrows but his heart sank. “I guess this means I’m not looking for a temporary replacement.”

  “No. And I’m sorry.” Jill’s hands sprang apart and her fingers fluttered nervously. “I know this is a horrible thing to do to you at the last minute. Do you hate me?”

  “I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t a stumbling block,” Dean said, forcing a smile. “But that’s my problem, not yours. And I’m not the kind of guy to begrudge someone a little happiness just because it inconveniences me. I’m happy for both of you.”

  Jill let out a sigh so heavy and filled with relief, Dean thought she might fall over. “Oh, thank you. Scotty kept telling me everything would be okay, but I was still so worried. I didn’t know how you’d react because, you know, sometimes—” She broke off, tittering, and flapped a hand between them. “Well, anyway, I just know you’ll find someone to take my place. Someone a whole lot better than me, I’ll bet.” She turned toward the door, obviously anxious to be away. “If I can help, just let me know.”

  Dean sighed heavily as the door closed behind her, and turned toward his friend.

  Gary held up both hands defensively. “Don’t say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “That you told me so.”

  Dean rotated his shoulder gently. “I don’t need to say it, do I?”

  “No, but you want to. I can see it in your eyes.” Gary stared at the door, still swinging gently behind Jill. “It’s not the end of the world, you know. There’s a solution out there. All we have to do is find it.”

  Dean rolled his eyes, exasperated that nothing seemed to shake his friend’s optimism. “Just for the record, if this is your idea of good luck, I’d rather have fortune smile in another direction.”

  “Joke if you want to. I’m dead serious.” Gary gathered the small pile of paper shavings he’d accumulated and carried it across the room. Dropping it into the trash can, he stood for a few seconds without moving, then turned back with a grin. “In fact, I’ll bet a hundred dollars I can have a replacement for Jill before the day’s out.”

  Dean took a couple of steps toward him. “What do you have in mind?”

  “It just so happens, I have a cousin who’s a gourmet chef. I haven’t seen her in years, but my mom mentioned her when she called the other day.” Gary dusted off his hands on the back of his pants. “Apparently, she and her husband are splitting up and she’s been ap
plying for jobs all over. Mom said she’s accepted a teaching position at some cooking school this fall, but she’s at loose ends until then—or was three days ago.”

  Dean shook his head with a laugh. “Great idea,” he said sarcastically. “I could barely afford the salary I promised Jill. There’s no way I can afford a gourmet chef. And that’s assuming she’d even want to come here.”

  Gary glanced around in surprise. “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “For one thing, we’re pretty isolated. For another, we’re not a gourmet restaurant or a four-star hotel, or a spa, or a country club. And let’s not forget that the people who have made reservations so far are coming because they want a rustic experience. You think your cousin would be interested in fixing meat and potatoes for a bunch of weekend cowboys?”

  Gary shrugged. “Why not?”

  “I can’t imagine that any gourmet chef would find our setup even slightly interesting.”

  “Oh? And how many gourmet chefs do you know?”

  “A few,” Dean lied without batting an eye. “I haven’t always lived in Whistle River, and I used to eat at plenty of high-class restaurants.”

  Gary waved his explanation aside. “Well, you haven’t met Annie. She’s completely down-to-earth.”

  “If you say so.”

  Gary leaned on the counter and looked Dean square in the eye. “Do you want me to call her, or would you rather give up before you try?”

  “I’m just trying to be realistic.”

  “Well, stop. We only have fourteen days until we’re supposed to open, and I don’t see a whole lot of options out there. This isn’t the time to be practical and realistic. It’s the time to be bold and daring.”

  Dean held up both hands in surrender. “Okay. Fine. Call her if you want to but don’t get your hopes up. When she hears what I can afford to pay, she’ll laugh you off the phone.”