Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning

by Patricia McLinn

  “That wasn’t to change the subject from your not having a warm coat?”

  “At first,” she admitted, and he chuckled, “but now I want to know. What brought you here?”

  “Stock.”

  “Really? But it’s winter.”

  He smiled. “Not your kind of stock. My kind — livestock.”

  She laughed. And found him looking at her with warmth, approval, appreciation, and something more. He struck her as someone more inclined to smile than laugh, yet he enjoyed her laughing as much as she enjoyed it herself.

  “How egocentric, thinking stock meant summer stock theater and how snobby, being surprised there’d be any here. Especially since I grew up in Indiana, not exactly a hot bed of theater.”

  “Well, what I’m here for is a stock show. But nothing like what you do.”

  “You know about summer stock theater?”

  “I’ve seen a black and white movie or two on TV.”

  “Ah, Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney,” she said wisely.

  “My primary resource for information on the theater.”

  “Then you can’t blame me for basing my ranch knowledge on ‘Bonanza’ and ‘The Big Valley.’ ”

  “Wrong century, but we don’t take much to new-fangled ways, so you’re fine.” She giggled. He smiled. “So, you’re from Indiana? Farm girl?”

  She shook her head. “Not unless you count driving past them. But tell me about this stock show. Is it a big deal?”

  “The big one’s in January, but folks I wanted to talk to were coming to this, so I arranged to get away.”

  “December? January? I can think of better times to come to Denver — unless you’re a skier.”

  He grinned. “Less of a skier than a roper.”

  “Around the ranch,” she said with a nod. “Like ‘Bonanza.’ ”

  “That and rodeo.”

  “Rodeo? So you are a cowboy?”

  He slanted her a look. “You got a special fondness for cowboys?”

  There was meaning in the question, and there would be meaning in her answer. No matter what answer she gave.

  She met his gaze, and said, “I don’t know. Yet.”

  She was caught by a flare in his eyes. Still, his words and tone were mild. “Fair enough.”

  This undercurrent could tug her right out to sea . . . where their ships would be passing each other, heading opposite directions, just like Lydia always said.

  “So, rodeo . . . You’re one of those who gets thrown from a horse?”

  “Not if I can help it.” A grin accompanied his dry words. “Used to do some bronc riding — bare and saddle. A little steer wrestling. But as my mom says, there’s not much difference between getting thrown from a bronc and throwing yourself off a perfectly good horse to wrestle a steer. Mostly I focus on roping events.”

  “Your mom,” she repeated, ignoring broncs, getting thrown, or wrestling a steer. All of which sounded disturbingly dangerous.

  Not that mothers weren’t.

  “Yeah. She’s something else. Third-generation Wyoming. Grew up on a ranch. Knows more about horses and cattle than any other ten people. Dad always says he knew marrying her meant marrying a herd, too. She’d like you.”

  “How on earth can you know that?” A ranch woman like Mrs. Currick was far more likely to see a singer-dancer with Broadway aspirations as flighty, if not a downright floozy. Maybe she could win her over —

  What ? Wait. What was she doing, thinking of winning over this unknown woman?

  “She’d like you because I do,” Ed said.

  She looked into the gray heat of his eyes and her mental protest evaporated to nothing. No, not to nothing. It converted to steam. Steam that filtered through her bloodstream and pooled in her lungs, consuming all her oxygen. Until she gasped to draw in more.

  Just as she did, he leaned down and touched his mouth to hers.

  It was a gentle kiss, undemanding. He seemed careful not to crowd her with his greater height and size.

  A mouth against a mouth. That’s all.

  All. . . Yes, that’s what it was. All. All of her. All of him. All of the universe.

  He was the universe, surrounding her. His presence and the mingled scent of warm man and cold air rippled around her, while drawn-in breaths brought the tastes and scents of him inside her.

  She wanted to step into him, to refuge against him.

  She wanted to open her mouth, to taste the promised heat.

  She wanted to touch him, to feel the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, the strength promised by those shoulders.

  She wanted . . .

  She wanted.

  With a gasp that came as much from shock as oxygen deprivation, she stepped back.

  “I’ve got to . . . I should . . . ” She gestured over her shoulder to the hotel’s entry. “Go inside.”

  “We’re going the same way.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

  He held the door, then followed her in and to the elevator, where he pressed the up button. Her heartbeat went from the lightest high-hat flutter straight to bass drum. She stood beside him. Silent. Unable to say anything, think anything.

  The elevator came, the door sliding open, the car yawning before her. Them. He urged her forward with his warm hand at the small of her back — warmth so vivid that even through coat, sweater, and shirt she could pinpoint each cell experiencing it.

  Only when she was inside and turned to face the door did she realize he hadn’t followed her.

  “Good night, Donna.”

  “Good night, Ed.”

  The door slid closed. The lurch as the elevator rose explained her wobbly knees. But what explained the wide-eyed look of . . . shock? that stared back from the door’s polished metal surface?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Thursday night

  Three of the girls tumbled into the room she shared with Lydia, demanding to know all about “The Cowboy.”

  “Rancher,” she said.

  “Looked like you were having a good time,” Lydia said. “Talking and laughing.”

  “Uh-huh.” She answered absently, preoccupied by the realization of how easily they’d talked. On the walk back, the few silences had been relaxed and comfortable.

  Except for the silence when they’d kissed. Definitely not relaxed.

  “Talk about what a man should look like — yum,” Raeanne said.

  “Just those shoulders. Those are something a girl could sink her teeth into.”

  “Please, MaryBeth, don’t tell us those details,” Lydia begged.

  “Totally wasted on Donna, of course,” said Nora.

  Ignoring the decidedly wasp-tongued Nora made life easier, so Donna didn’t dispute the comment. But she’d had a couple serious relationships in college, had even discussed marriage with Jeff.

  She’d shared a normal amount with her girlfriends about those relationships, and had been in on conversations with these girls about their admirers in various cities. She just didn’t feel like sharing this evening with Ed.

  Especially with Nora in her audience.

  Lydia propped her hands on her hips and said to Nora, “Just because you raise the men-in-a-lifetime average doesn’t mean everybody has to.”

  “He looked like he was a real gentleman,” Raeanne said, jumping in to keep that animosity from flaring yet again.

  Donna picked up by singing a phrase about being waited on by a guy like he was a maître d’ from “If My Friends Could See Me Now,” Sweet Charity’s best-known song, with Raeanne, MaryBeth, and Lydia joining in on the last phrase.

  “Except your cowboy’s even better because he’s not looking to get tipped like a maître d’,” Raeanne said.

  “No, he’s looking to get something else entirely.” Nora smirked.

  Lydia glared at her. “So what if he is, Donna has the right to a sex life. As long as she remembers they’re ships passing in the night and not to get tangled up.”

  Nora rose
from her spot on Donna’s bed. She still moved fairly well, but the smoking and drinking were definitely showing. There were rumbles she might not have the role of Helene much longer. Some said because she’d be taking over the lead when Angela moved on and up. Some thought otherwise.

  “As long as she doesn’t get other ideas,” Nora said. “Men aren’t looking for a girl to take home to mother when they hang out at stage doors, not even when they see little Donna.”

  No one disputed that. Although Ed had said — No. That was just . . . conversation.

  Lydia said staunchly, “Doesn’t make any difference, since Donna’s only looking for fun.”

  Then she looked at Donna, who couldn’t do anything but agree. “Exactly. It’s probably all moot, anyway. I doubt I’ll ever see him again.”

  “God, moot,” Nora mocked. “Another of your college girl words.”

  Nora never let it be forgotten that Donna had wasted time getting a college degree before pursuing a life in theater. Unlike — according to Nora — real theater people.

  With the door now open and one of her extremely long legs curled around the edge of it the way she did in “Hey, Big Spender,” Nora said, “I’ll tell you what’s not moot — what’ll happen to you girls if Angela hears you singing any of Charity’s songs, even in the shower. Not even little Donna’s cowboy could save you.”

  On that exit line she was gone.

  It broke the party up. “Because she’s right,” as MaryBeth said in a carefully low voice. “Nora might be a cat, but Angela’s a tiger.”

  Donna didn’t sleep much.

  Perhaps because of the conversation. Perhaps from considering what might happen if two ships that passed in the night came across each other a second night. Or, perhaps, because of the time she spent staring at the ceiling, realizing Ed hadn’t said a word about seeing each other again.

  ****

  Did she feel it?

  She’d never mentioned being involved. If she were, she would have said. She was too honest not to.

  That didn’t guarantee she felt anything for him.

  She had to. This couldn’t be all on his side.

  Couldn’t be.

  Did she feel it?

  He thought so. In the moment her sweet mouth touched his, he’d felt no doubt. That wonderful mouth, so generous in smiling and laughing . . . And kissing.

  But lying here alone in bed, Ed couldn’t be sure.

  And it wasn’t like they had time on their side.

  Before those moments in the hotel lobby Wednesday afternoon, he’d been ready to return to the Slash-C. So eager to start putting into action ideas picked up here that he’d planned to move around Sunday appointments to be able to leave Saturday.

  Not now.

  God, all they had was Friday, Saturday, Sunday.

  But he wouldn’t rush her.

  No matter what.

  No matter how much he wanted her. No matter what he saw in her eyes. No matter how little time they had. He wouldn’t do that to her.

  She had to feel this, too.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Friday

  Relief so strong it smarted her eyes was Donna’s first reaction.

  Ed Currick stood outside the elevator when its door opened at the lobby the next morning. As if he’d stood sentry all night. Except he had shaved. And dampness in his hair and across the shoulders of his jacket showed he’d been outside in the flurries she’d noticed from her room window.

  Still, the notion that he’d stood here, in the spot where she’d left him, pooled irrational warmth in the pit of her stomach.

  She was going to see him again. She was seeing him again.

  “Ed.”

  Relief, and maybe something else.

  “Good morning, Donna. You said you like to see the towns you’re in, and I hope you’ll see some of Denver this morning with me, then have lunch.”

  She tried to keep her smile from stretching too wide. It was daylight, and their ships weren’t passing. They were standing face to face—

  “Excuse me. The rest of us would like to get off the elevator.” Lydia’s voice from behind her made Donna jump.

  She and Ed moved sideways. “Oh, sorry! Uh —”

  “Hi, I’m Lydia, Donna’s roommate.” She stuck out a hand, and he shook it as the others started past, blatantly studying Ed. “And you’re Ed, and now I’ll make my much desired exit.”

  “Nice meeting you, Lydia.”

  “You, too, Ed.” She waved, then called to the others, “Wait up.”

  Perhaps in response to Lydia’s call, MaryBeth turned back toward them, her words reaching them clearly: “. . . if he does, we’ll get a week off from her dragging us to dusty old museums.”

  Lines fanned out from the corners of Ed’s eyes, though his mouth remained straight. “So, if I take you to dusty old museums, I can win points with you and your friends.”

  As if he needed any added points with them. Or her.

  “You’d think I was trying to kill them by getting them to know a little about the towns we’re in,” she said. “I don’t even try to get them on tours anymore. You should have heard —”

  “You do have a way of showing up at my door,” came the familiar — if not quite as famous as its owner liked to think — voice of Angela Ford from behind Donna. By stepping aside from the first elevator, she and Ed had moved in front of another, this one a direct trip to the exclusive floors.

  Angela addressed Ed, and only Ed. She placed a hand on his arm.

  Donna supposed Angela meant it to look as if she were gently guiding him out of her way. More like the woman was holding on to him with no hint of letting go.

  “Morning, Ma’am.”

  Ed reached up to touch the brim of his hat, easily dislodging Angela’s hold, at the same time grasping Donna’s elbow and drawing her to his side with his other hand.

  “Good morning, Angela.” She added a bright smile.

  “Oh. Good morning.” She looked from one to the other of them. Her smile disappeared. “My car’s waiting.”

  With that, she swept past.

  “Family, huh? Wasn’t that what you said last night?” Ed said, as the exterior doors swung closed.

  She chuckled. “Every family has a few difficult cases.”

  “So, what do you want to see first?”

  “Oh, Ed, I’m sorry. I can’t. I would love to, but I have to be at the theater. That’s where we’re all heading. Well, I don’t know where Angela’s going. But the rest of us. With everything going on, there hasn’t been a run-through for understudies.” It was her favorite part of their routine. But now, for the first time, she would have willingly given it up. “But after lunch —”

  He shook his head. “I have afternoon meetings.”

  “Oh.”

  “Would you go to dinner with me? Supper I guess, after the show?”

  “I can’t. I have —” She stopped dead, a sudden idea speeding through her head.

  “Plans,” he filled in evenly. “I’m not surprised. I should have asked last night, but . . .”

  His eyes dropped to her mouth. Her breath disappeared. He hadn’t asked her about tonight’s plans last night because he’d been busy kissing her. Busy kissing her and being kissed back by her.

  “No, no. I was going to say — well, yes, I was going to say I have plans, but not those kinds of plans. It’s just . . . it’s the opening night party, and even though we have them in about every town, they want us to go, mingle with the community, important people.”

  “I understand. It’s part of your job.” He sounded relieved.

  “Yes, it is. Only —”

  “Like going to the stock show for me.”

  “Yes. Only—”

  “We have responsibilities and — what?”

  She had her hands on her hips and was looking up at him. Possibly glaring up at him. “For someone who started off not talking much, you’re making it hard to get a word in edgewise.”

 
He grinned. She thought it might not be good that he grinned when she was probably glaring at him. But that thought was way, way down in her reactions, compared to how that grin spread warmth across her skin and little jigs of pleasure under it.

  “Sorry, Donna. Go ahead.” And then there was the way he said her name . . .

  “Okay. What I was going to say . . . ” She seriously doubted her expression came close to a glare now. She shook herself. “Would you like to come to the opening night party?”

  “With you?”

  “Of course with me,” she said indignantly. Did he think she was fixing him up with somebody? Angela, maybe? Hah!

  His grin broadened. “Yes. I’d like that a lot.”

  ****

  “So, Angela heard you singing a Charity number, huh?” Nora asked as they filed into the shared dressing room after the last curtain call.

  Shared, yet with placements in the dressing room as finely tuned as the billing. Nora, playing Helene, and Lydia, playing Nikki, had individual makeup tables and mirrors. The rest of them shared a communal set-up.

  “No,” Donna responded without much interest.

  She’d had the oddest feeling on stage tonight. When she’d noticed it, she’d remembered a similar feeling last night. She didn’t recall it from yesterday’s matinee. Had it been there Wednesday night, too? She thought it might have been.

  “Well, something was going on,” Lydia said. “Even Angela doesn’t usually miss her mark that many times.”

  “And wasn’t it strange how when she did, it kept blocking out Donna?” Raeanne said earnestly. “What?”

  Nora clicked her tongue impatiently. Lydia rolled her eyes.

  Maudie stepped in. “That hem’s about to come out again,” she said to MaryBeth, who obediently took off her costume and handed it to a waiting wardrobe assistant. Maudie patted Raeanne on the shoulder. “They know Angela was blocking out Donna. That’s why they’re talking about her missing her marks.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, what did you do to our star?” Nora insisted.

  Lydia’s lips parted, then she met Donna’s gaze through the double reflections — her mirror and Donna’s — and closed her mouth.