A Cowboy To Keep: A Contemporary Western Romance Collection

by Hebby Roman

  “Yes!”

  “Oh, give me a break.” K.C. watched as her mother got up and headed toward the kitchen. “I have to check the meal,” she threw over her shoulder.

  K.C. stood up again, glanced around the living room, everything as it was from her childhood, a room she knew by heart. She could name every knick-knack on the shelves by the audio system, was sure what music she would find opened on the piano, knew where the cocktail napkins were kept and the coasters. Nothing had changed.

  But she had.

  She headed for her coat in the entryway just as the front door swung open.

  “Carol, I’m home!”

  Chapter Four

  Chay looked at what he assumed was his last order of the night, a party of four women just being led from the bar to one of his tables. He heard the, “Oh, could we have another table please; this one is too much in the middle of things. Maybe by the window at the back.”

  Half of him was saying, yes, yes do it, do it for me, let me go home; he was eager to hear how K.C. had got on with her parents, and if anything had been resolved. The other half of him was saying, there goes a hefty tip. So there was a modicum of relief when the hostess explained this was the sole table available. He watched as the foursome settled into their seats, the drinks they’d been carrying placed on the table, and bags either shoved at feet or dangled from the back of chairs. Not a wise move.

  “Ladies, good evening.” He plastered his smile on his face, bent low to the woman whose bag was hanging off her chair, and whispered in her ear. “I think it’s safer to have your bag where you can see or feel it.”

  She jumped and gasped, mouth hanging open as her wide-eyed stare met Chay’s smile. “For chrissake, you could have just said, you didn’t have to scare me like that.”

  Chay’s smile remained glued to his face while he kept his gaze on one of the other women across the table. She was sucking on a straw, glassy eyes staring up at him, lips puckered in a way that reminded him of a blowfish.

  “My apologies,” he muttered to the handbag woman.

  A third member of the party ran a glance over him, top to bottom, and back again, finishing with a raised eyebrow. “Are those cowboy boots you have on?”

  Chay took in a breath. This would not end the evening on a good note.

  “Excuse me, I asked—”

  “Yes, ma’am. Those are the most comfortable footwear I own. But I promise not to get them in your food.” He watched as the women exchanged glances. “If I may tell you our special for the night? It is rabbit thighs—”

  “Ewwww….”

  “—In a déglacer of white wine, and served in a vegetable sauce of olives, capers, garlic, and sun-dried tomatoes. Have you any questions on the menu?”

  “Is rabbit red meat? I don’t eat red meat.”

  “I…uh…I believe rabbit is rather like chicken and considered white meat. Any other questions?” Chay gave each member of the table a glance with his smile. “I’ll leave you to have a moment to look over the menu.”

  As he rushed off toward the kitchen, he heard one of the women say, “I’ll have him for dinner. Boy.” To which several of the others giggled, with one adding, “Midnight cowboy?”

  Chay took the unfinished bottle of wine from a passing tray and swigged it down. He checked the dishes ready to go to one of his other tables, collected the items, served them, and headed back to the women’s group.

  “Ladies, are we ready?”

  They all nodded and Glassy-Eyed chirped, “Well, we need a bottle of wine. No, two. We’ll have the Sauvignon Blanc, the first one on the list.”

  “The New Zealand Cloudy Bay Te Koko? Excellent choice.” And at one-fifty a bottle, terrific for toting up your check.

  “And,” Glassy-Eyed continued, “we’re going to share two orders of the calamari for the table. And I’m going to have the veal limone. Does that come with vegetables?”

  “It has a side of spinach with almonds.”

  “I’m allergic to almonds and I hate spinach.”

  Then why didn’t you read that on the menu, jerk.

  “Can I have the carrots instead?”

  “I’ll see what can be done.”

  “No, don’t see, do! I just said I’m allergic.”

  He knew his smug smile would annoy her, but she was so rude, not a single ‘please’ throughout the order, he thought he would haul off and smack her. “Perhaps you would care to order something else?” Chay kept his voice as reasonable as possible.

  “Nooooooo. I want the veal!”

  Chay looked at the next woman who had been silent so far. A tilt of his head told her he was ready to take her order.

  With a small, tolerant smile on her face, she said, “I’m just having the Italian salad but can they leave out the pepperoncini and red onion, switch the radicchio to another leaf, and put the mayo on the side?”

  “Is that it?” Chay tried to keep the note of sarcasm out of his voice, his dream of a hefty tab fast-fading.

  “I’m sharing in the calamari and, in my experience, there’s usually tons of that.”

  Chay nodded, took a breath, and peered over his pad at Miss Handbag, whose order proved to be straightforward, followed by Miss Cowboy Boots who ordered the marinated sirloin, medium-rare. He placed the order and wasted no time in returning to the table, showing the wine bottle to Glassy-Eyed, getting her approval, and pouring a taste before completing the round and disappearing as fast as possible.

  When he returned to the table with the calamari, there were two cameras waiting for him.

  “Would you mind?” Miss Handbag asked holding out one.

  “Uh, I’ve only ever used cell phone cameras, I have no idea how to use this—”

  Handbag tossed a quick look at her playmates as if to say, what planet is he from, but smiled up at Chay. “You just look through here, and push this little button on the top. Easy as pie.” Her tone indicated she thought he was an idiot.

  Chay took the camera with some reluctance, looked into the viewfinder, and saw so much information down the side and at the bottom, it was difficult to frame the shot. He peered behind him, took a step back, and waited for them all to smile.

  “Say cheese,” he reminded.

  Handbag made a face but said it anyway and the camera clicked. Chay handed it back, she glanced at the picture on the screen, shook her head in dismay, and held it out. “Can we try again?”

  He repeated the entire process to the point where Handbag frowned at the photo. “Well, if that’s the best you can do.”

  Chay was stunned in disbelief. He tried not to respond but couldn’t help it, so he said it with as much good humor as he could muster. “Uh, I was not the one who wasn’t smiling or not looking into the camera at the last moment.”

  She looked up at him, took a deep breath, and shoved the camera into her bag.

  Chay could feel all bonhomie fading faster than a New York minute. He nodded and made his way back to the kitchen, hoping the owner of the second camera would have given up. When he peeped out from the kitchen, she was asking one of the busboys to take the shot. He dreaded what would happen next, but the calamari seemed to go down well, and he kept their glasses filled, even getting happy smiles as the first, empty bottle was removed. So it should be enjoyed, at that price. The main courses were served and he said the ridiculous, “enjoy!” and started away. Almost through the kitchen door, he could hear a screech and a demand to the busboy ‘their waiter’ be called back.

  “Yes? Is there a problem?”

  Cowboy Boots looked up at him, her steak cut in two, her hands open as if to say, ‘just take note of this,’ and on her face, a look of disgust. “Remember I said medium-rare? This is not medium-rare. May I speak to your chef?”

  “The chef?” Chay mulled this over, how Chef would take being called out to be reprimanded for a steak. “Uh…he may have gone home…this was the last order put in tonight,” he lied.

  “Well, look at this. You know I order
ed medium-rare?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “This is not medium-rare. I did not ask for blood on my plate; that’s rare. Very rare.”

  Chay stepped over to look at the beef, cut into two pieces down the middle. There was no blood. There was about a quarter inch of gray, cooked meat inside of which was the pink of rare beef—the way he, himself, liked it. The way it should be cooked. “Ma’am,” he started. “That is definitely medium-rare.”

  Cowboy boots looked up at him, mouth agape. “Are you telling me the way I like my beef?”

  “No. Not at all. I’m telling you, as someone who knows beef, that is medium-rare.” He caught the open mouth, the wide eyes of disbelief. “But I’ll ask the chef to come out to speak to you if that’s what you want.”

  Standing aside while Chef was balled out and told he didn’t know what medium-rare was, watching as Chef picked up the plate and headed back to the kitchen, Chay wondered if waiting tables was the only job he could get for the duration of the two years. He’d have to think. A customer service center? A sales job? Construction? He was a cowboy, after all; nothing in New York City would suit him, he knew that. But some jobs might be better than others. He followed Chef back into the kitchen, watched as the other man cooked a new slab of marinated beef and trailed behind Chef as he brought it back to the women’s table. Chef set it down with a flourish before he beat a retreat to the kitchen.

  Chay let the women refill their glasses themselves after that, but eventually headed out in some trepidation to ask if they wanted any dessert.

  “No, but could you refill our water glasses; we’ll probably be here a while. And you can bring the check when you’re ready.”

  There was no problem with doing either but the words, ‘we’ll probably be here a while’ rang in Chay’s ears. Probably be here a while? It was past midnight now; last orders were at ten and staff expected to be off by 12.30. So how long did this table anticipate staying? When he set down the check with a, ‘whenever you’re ready, ladies’ he wondered when the heck they would be ready. He stood back and watched as a huge discussion took place, heads in, disgruntled words, hand movements expressing dismay, sighs and looks of disagreement. When the fluttering hands stopped and a settlement seemed to be reached, Glassy-Eyes beckoned him over.

  “This was not the wine I ordered,” she said.

  A cold finger of disbelief went down Chay’s spine. “I beg your pardon?” he managed to get out.

  “You heard me: this was not the wine I ordered. I ordered a Sauvignon Blanc listed at forty-five dollars a bottle, and even at that, it was over-priced. You have the nerve to tell me we drank two bottles of a wine priced at one-fifty. That’s ridiculous!”

  “Madam. I mentioned the name of the bottle; you told me it was the first Sauvignon Blanc on the list, and I showed you the bottle, which you agreed to. That was the wine. Cloudy Bay Te Koko.”

  “You’re the one who’s cloudy. That was not the wine I asked for.”

  “May I call over the manager to see if he can rectify the situation?” Chay did not wait for an answer. He explained the situation to the manager who followed him to the table.

  The restaurant was now almost empty, a few last patrons just sitting over their coffee or dessert, finishing conversations as they paid their tabs. Chay stared up at the painted angels on the ceiling, the presentations of Italian castles and vineyards he would never see. He listened as the manager explained Chay had brought them the wine they had asked for—the first one on the list—and had showed them the bottle. The woman demanded to see the wine list again and, as she spotted Cloudy Bay Te Koko was, indeed, the first on the list of Sauvignon Blancs, she explained how the wine list was so designed that, in order to hold it, her finger was forced to cover the first entry so she thought Geyser Peak was first. The manager—a man who well knew the various tricks patrons could pull in order to reduce their bills—gave his regrets but the price was the price, and they had to pay. And Chay saw, in that moment, his tip go out the window.

  “All right,” Glassy-Eyed, who, for the first time during the entire meal, now seemed wide awake, continued. “We’d like one-forty taken out of this,” she said laying down two hundred-dollar bills, “One-nineteen taken on this Visa, another one-hundred-twenty-nine taken off this Mastercard, and one-hundred-twenty-seven taken out of that.”

  Chay waited while Handbag laid down another couple of hundred-dollar bills. He made a few notes on his pad, scooped up the cards and cash, and made his way to the till at the back. Feeling his blood pressure rise to new heights, he almost asked one of the other waiters to take the change and card paperwork back, but he confronted the foursome, leaving them to tip whatever they would, wishing them good-night, and heading off. When they, at last, gathered their bags and managed to sway and stumble to the coat check, he braved returning to the table.

  There, among the signed credit card slips in the usual plastic folder, was one twenty laid on the table, one ten-dollar bill, and the two slips. Holding his breath, he picked them up. One had left fifteen dollars.

  On the other was written, “I don’t believe in tipping but my telephone number is (646)-….”

  * * *

  K.C. awoke as Chay slipped into the warm bed and ran a hand down the curves of her body. He snuggled up to her, gathering her into him, and she felt the stirring of his desire and the warmth from his skin. The scent of his manliness moved her to awaken more alert now as his hands hugged her head, pulling her close for a kiss at once soft and sad before it grew in passion, deepening as he released her onto the pillow, his hand trailing the length of her body, caressing it as he sighed.

  “I love you.” He pulled back to study her face as if he were memorizing it. “I love you a lot.” Chay tilted his head as if deciding whether those were the right words to use to express his love, then moved in to kiss her once more, brushing his lips against hers before permitting himself to sink into her.

  “It’s a good thing,” K.C. whispered against his mouth. “A very good thing. Because I love you, too.” Her body began to react to the closeness, the intimacy of his physique, his bulk, and she slipped down in the bed, raising her arms as Chay danced his fingers down her sides before ruching her nightdress up and over her head. She moved her leg over his to collect him closer, sliding her own hands down the valleys of his back, running a trail back up and into his shaggy hair.

  This time his kiss had more urgency as his body grew greedy for her and he edged on top, her legs wrapping him in need as he moved to make his claim. Pulling back on his hands, he studied her face as he entered her and began to move to the rhythm she set, their bodies setting an ever-increasing tempo as he nuzzled into the side of her neck causing her to whimper. His low moan was a breath across her lips.

  K.C.’s mind blanked, as her hands traveled the length of him finding the spot low on his back that heightened his need. She saw nothing, experienced only Chay, could not sense where her body ended and his began, felt at one with him before her body lifted into him to meet his ecstasy with her own.

  Her body ached for him, seemed to be singing, ‘one, one, one’ as she drifted into sleep.

  And neither of them thought about the day they’d had.

  Chapter Five

  “Why are you wearing that suit?” K.C. raised an eyebrow, trying not to look too concerned.

  “Because it’s the only one I have?”

  “Golly, what year is that thing?” Daphne popped some chewing gum into her mouth before reaching for the doorknob. “You two have a great Thanksgiving. I’m off.”

  Chay breathed out a deep sigh. “Good-bye, and good riddance,” he mumbled before catching K.C.’s look.

  “Again: why are you wearing a suit?”

  “You said that suit before. That has a different meaning to a.”

  “Chay, please don’t split hairs with me. You know very well what I mean. I know you hate the thought of going to my parents, but at least Mother had the decency to invite you her
self—”

  “Oh, yes, it was very decent of her: ‘would you like to join K.C. at our house for Thanksgiving? I’m sure she’d love for you to be there.’”

  “All right, so it wasn’t the most sincere, warm invitation you’ve ever received—”

  “I’d say it ranked pretty low on the Ridgway invite-o-meter. But maybe the Ridgway invite-o-meter has far too high expectations. Such as, I’d love to have you here, or I’d love to see you, Chay.”

  K.C. felt her head; she was sure a headache was coming on. “Look. Just change into something you’re comfortable in, try to be yourself, your own charming self, and everything will be fine.”

  “Shouldn’t we be bringing them some wine or something? Flowers?”

  “It wouldn’t go amiss, I guess. We can pick up something on the way there.”

  They stood facing each other, expressionless for a moment before Chay headed back to the bedroom. “Are jeans okay?” he called over his shoulder.

  As the bedroom door closed part way so he could get into the closet, K.C. muttered a “yes” and sank onto the sagging sofa. She studied her hands, the bitten nails, peeled polish and chapped skin. Sensing this was going to be the worst Thanksgiving of her life, she took another chomp from the side of a nail as Chay emerged looking somewhat as if he were going to cut cattle for branding. She studied him for a moment, meeting his inquiring gaze. “You don’t happen to own a plain shirt, maybe a button down, or perhaps a sweater?”

  Chay shook his head in agreement before traipsing back to their bedroom. When he emerged, he had on a cable-knit crew-neck over his check shirt.

  “Fine. Let’s go, I’m phoning Uber.” She turned away to call, hiding the slight worry still niggling at her.

  They remained silent standing outside, leaves in small cyclones parading down the sidewalk, the traffic almost nonexistent on their side street. Chay leaned against the neighboring house’s railing, lethargy evident in his stance. K.C. kept checking the progress of the car.

  “How are we going to pick up flowers or wine?” he asked, blinking awake.