Only a Cowboy Will Do--Includes a Bonus Novella

by A. J. Pine

Kimmy made a noncommittal noise and took another bite of sandwich, considering the cowlick at Booker’s temple. The rest of his hair fell straight and in line. And that was Booker’s life in a nutshell. He knew what he wanted and marched straight toward it, overcoming obstacles like a tank on a battlefield.

  Her path to her dreams was slower paced and more circuitous. Not that she wanted to discuss her plans with Booker, owner of the Burger Shack. Or help with his menu.

  She switched gears. “I need to find a wedding date.” She set down her sandwich, thinking it could use a bit more garlic. “Maybe I am desperate. Can you imagine? Me up on the stage at Shaw’s?” Gawked at and bid on. She shivered.

  What did I get myself into?

  “You’ll earn the highest bid of the evening.” That was Booker, ever the optimist.

  Booker back in town. Kimmy needing a date. The Widows Club at her lunch counter. Suspicion worked its way into her thoughts.

  “I’m just going to be frank here.” She wiped her fingers clean with a napkin, wishing she could just as easily wipe away her promise to be auctioned off. “You walked up to my counter with the president of the Widows Club. Mims cornered you to emcee the event and maybe something more.”

  “It’s not what you think.” Booker held up his hands. “My mom brought her into the kitchen at the Burger Shack, and then she said she had something to talk about but wanted to get her steps in, and suddenly I was in your lunch line.”

  Kimmy picked up her sandwich and was about to take another bite when she hesitated. “You don’t think they’re targeting the two of us as…”

  Booker looked stricken and released a strangled “No.”

  He either believed that or was friend-zoning her.

  The friend-zoning stung given how smitten she was by his good looks today.

  It’s a by-product of my need for a date.

  “Yeah, you’re right.” She stuffed some chicken back between the bread. “If they were trying to match the two of us, Mims wouldn’t have asked you to emcee. You can’t bid as the host.”

  “Bullet dodged,” Booker muttered, not meeting her gaze.

  Was the richness of the sandwich getting to him? Or was this conversation turning him off?

  A cool mountain breeze swirled around them.

  “I can still get out of the auction if I find a wedding date.” Kimmy took another bite of her sandwich and savored the flavors.

  “But…you promised.”

  Kimmy lifted her chin. “I caveated my acquiescence.”

  “High school vocabulary words aren’t going to get you out of this.” He wasn’t teasing. He was serious. “You always said—”

  “That a promise isn’t to be broken.” She hung her head. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I can show and get bought, and the schmo can buy me dinner. But forget about that guy being my wedding date.” She’d heard stories about drunken cowboys bidding. “Who can I ask from our high school class?”

  Booker smirked. “First off, you want someone to talk to about the food they serve.”

  It was calming the way he knew her so well. “Yes, there’s that.”

  “And someone who’s willing to put up with your extraordinary dance moves.” Booker grinned.

  What Kimmy didn’t have in smooth moves she made up for in enthusiasm.

  Booker was eyeing her sandwich the way her father’s dog eyed a hot Shack burger. “How about Jason Petrie?”

  “He’s still Darcy’s guy.” When Jason came home from the rodeo circuit, which was almost never.

  “Iggy King?” Booker watched her take another bite. “I hear he’s running a legitimate business now.”

  Kimmy swallowed and frowned. Iggy would be a fun wedding date if she wanted to drink too much and wake up in the wrong bed the next morning. Pass. “I’d put him in my last-resort category.”

  Booker seemed relieved. “I’d offer Dante but that seems a little extreme.”

  His kid brother? “I’m no cradle robber.” Dante was thirteen years younger than she was. She pushed the remains of her sandwich away.

  Booker scooped it up and took a bite. “Oh, man,” he said after he swallowed, “this is good.” He took another bite before asking, “Why don’t you go stag?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Kimmy propped her chin on her fists and adopted a sarcastic tone. “Maybe because ten years ago I went on a date with Hay.”

  It had been wonderful. Dinner in Greeley, followed by a movie and then a drink at Shaw’s. He’d brought her home and kissed her good night. She’d been melting in his arms—her childhood crush, a tender kiss, visions of wedding veils dancing in her head.

  And then Hay had broken it off, rested his forehead on hers, and said, “That was weird, wasn’t it? I’m sorry.”

  He’d turned and walked away so fast that Kimmy hadn’t worked up the nerve to say, That wasn’t weird. It was wonderful, you idiot.

  And he’d driven off, apparently straight to Ariana’s house.

  And that, my friends, was the end of that.

  “You aren’t still freaking out over that kiss, are you?” Booker rolled his eyes. “Hay told me it was like kissing his sister.”

  And Booker had made sure he’d told Kimmy that, more than once. “We don’t have to rehash it.”

  “But you’ve been rehashing if you’re thinking you need a date because of that one mistake a decade ago.”

  “Ariana still looks at me funny.” Like she wasn’t sure Kimmy could be trusted around her man. “I’ll ask Avery if she’s got a castoff I can use.” Avery was an avid dater.

  Booker pulled a face. “Man up and go alone.”

  “No. Jeez. Don’t you get it? This is Ariana’s big day. I don’t want her to look at me and think, That woman is in love with my husband.”

  “Do you love him?” Booker’s dark brows lowered.

  “No.” Crushes weren’t love. When Booker narrowed his eyes, she tried to clarify. “It’s like…when you’re young and you look at a famous actor—in your case, an actress—and you imagine what it would be like to be with them. But you know it’s not going to happen.” Although in her case it had, but not with the desired result.

  “So you do still love him.” There was an odd note to Booker’s words that she couldn’t place.

  “No.” Kimmy made a frustrated noise deep in her throat. “I love both of you but I’m not in love with either of you.”

  “Well then…” Booker was building a grin, along with his point. “Ariana’s not going to be jealous of you.”

  Like I’m not someone to be jealous of?

  “Way to make me feel good about myself, Book.”

  “Kim”—he shortened her name too—“you have mad kitchen skills. You should feel good about yourself and let the past stay in the past.” Booker crumpled their sandwich wrappers together. “Now, about my menu…”

  He didn’t understand. “I don’t have time to fawn over your menu.” Kimmy stood, awash in disappointment. “My break’s over.”

  “Right. Time constraints.” He threw the balled wrappers into the trash, a gleam in his eye. “Speaking of, you should get yourself a wedding date quick, before the good ones are gone. Don’t forget what happened at prom.” When they’d both hesitated and ended up going together. “But first, tell me what you put in your sandwich besides garlic.” He blessed her with a grin that tugged something in her chest.

  “Spill my secrets?” Kimmy wasn’t falling for Booker’s charm that easily. “Help me get a wedding date, and maybe I will.”

  “Hello, parents. What are you doing here?” Booker stood in the back entrance to the Burger Shack, where he had half the staff practicing making gourmet sandwiches. He wanted to check on their progress and then find Mims. “Go home. You’re supposed to be retired.” The business was his now, and he planned to manage it from Denver.

  His dad looked down his nose at a pimento-chicken sandwich with waffles in place of bread while his mom was poking a finger at a jalapeño- and meatball-stuffed ciabatta. Bot
h his parents had dark hair threaded with gray and wore the Burger Shack black button-down and black slacks, along with grease-stained running shoes. They’d come prepared to work.

  “I don’t know, Booker.” His dad pulled a face. The one he’d used when Booker came home after curfew. “The Burger Shack isn’t known for sandwiches.”

  The tension that had sat between his shoulder blades while he’d stood in line for one of Kimmy’s sandwiches and when she’d refused to look at his menu returned. “I’ve proved both concepts work together.” With the restaurant he’d opened in Denver. “People want options.”

  “But these sandwiches…” His mom looked just as grave. “They’re like what Emory’s Grocery offers.”

  The sandwiches were exactly what Emory’s offered, since they were the same sammies Kimmy had made while they were in high school.

  Those were the sandwiches Booker knew how to make. He hadn’t thought anything of his use of Kimmy’s creations until his lawyer suggested he create fanciful names for items on his menu and trademark them. The process of legal protection had made him realize the sandwiches had never been his to begin with. He had to buy the rights from her.

  The double knots threaded their way up his spine, tightening at the base of his neck.

  Booker needed to come clean. But he’d been putting it off, putting out smaller fires instead, like saving the original Burger Shack from bankruptcy. And now he had no firebreak. The fire was upon him.

  “Booker?” His mom rubbed his shoulder. “Are you reconsidering?”

  “No,” he blurted. He needed the higher income the sandwich line brought if he was going to put Dante through college and pay his parents retirement dividends. But…His stomach did a slow churn. It wasn’t as if Kimmy didn’t need the money too.

  “Booker,” his father said in that firm voice he used as a start to a lecture.

  His trainees were looking like they didn’t want to witness their current and former bosses arguing.

  “Guys, these sandwiches sell well.” Booker took each of his parents by the arm and walked them to the door. “They’ll help fund your golden years. Now, why don’t you go look at those travel brochures I gave you?”

  His mom slipped a glance at his dad, a hopeful smile on her face. “I did like the river cruises.”

  “Maybe next year when I don’t feel so useless.” His dad took the sunglasses from the top of his head and slid them on. “We ran this business for more than forty years. It’ll take me more than a month to stop worrying about it.”

  “I appreciate you allowing me to take your vision and make it succeed another forty years.” Booker glanced back inside the restaurant. “Where’s Dante?”

  “He’s at school.” His mom beamed, naive as to her youngest’s whereabouts. “He’s at track practice, and afterward he’s going to Theresa’s to study for their chemistry test.”

  His dad had on his poker face, staring to the west and Saddle Horn Mountain, which was still blanketed in snow despite the spring sunshine. He likely knew what Dante was up to.

  “Uh-huh.” Booker decided not to mention that skateboarding wasn’t a track event. “I wanted Dante to come to the Shack today.” He had a sneaking suspicion that Dante had a severe case of high school senioritis, not conducive to part-time employment. “He should be shadowing me, like I did with Dad. He’s going to help me manage the business one day.” A string of Burger Shacks.

  “Don’t be hard on him,” his mom said in the nurturing voice she reserved for her youngest. “You know, we demanded too much of you, Booker. Let Dante be a kid awhile longer.”

  Dante was almost eighteen, almost an adult. At eighteen, Booker had been writing payroll checks and prepping the Burger Shack ledger for their accountant.

  “Our little Dante is special.” His mother laid a hand on Booker’s cheek. Her eyes filled with tears. “You never know what the future might hold.”

  True that.

  When Dante had been three, their mom had found a lump on his leg, just below the knee. It’d been cancerous. Booker was sixteen at the time and had to step up and run the Burger Shack while his parents shuttled Dante to and from treatments in Denver.

  But Dante was tough. He’d beaten cancer and been clean ever since. And ever since, he’d been doted on by everyone in the family.

  “Dante is special, Mom.” Booker squeezed her hand, squeezing back the wish that someday his parents might see him as special too. “That’s why I want to make sure he gets the best college education.”

  Chapter Three

  How’s my baby?” Kimmy walked up her parents’ driveway and knelt in front of a jacked-up food truck, still thinking about Booker’s successes.

  In ten years, he’d hustled, started his own business, and bought out his parents. Envy banged around her head, making her temples pound. By comparison, Kimmy was a slacker. And so was her business plan, at least if you looked only on the outside.

  Her food truck was rusted, dented, and dinged, but it was all hers. And someday soon—hopefully in six weeks—she was going to quit Emory’s Grocery and make her living catering and selling grilled sandwiches out of it.

  Her dad rolled out from beneath the engine. He still wore his blue-stained coverall uniform from the tire shop but he didn’t look weary. He was as excited about Kimmy’s venture as she was. “The new muffler came in this afternoon. I was just making sure everything’s ready to put it in.”

  “And the stove?” Kimmy opened the van’s door and stepped inside, conducting a slow inventory, wondering what Booker would say when he saw this.

  He’d tell her Sunshine didn’t have a large enough population to support three sandwich options—Emory’s, the Shack, and hers. He’d point out she’d need to move from Sunshine to make a decent living. He’d remind her how close she was to her family, how important they were to her, the same way his family was priority one to him. He’d ask her whether she was willing to leave Sunshine to make it big.

  Kimmy rubbed her temples. This time it wasn’t envy banging around her head. It was impending sadness.

  Leave Sunshine?

  She drew a deep breath. An industrial kitchen on wheels and all her own. Kimmy thought it was beautiful. She didn’t care if it never made her rich.

  She’d bought the truck from someone in Denver who’d set the kitchen on fire and was getting out of the business. New paneling covered newly installed fire-resistant insulation. On the passenger side, the external features hadn’t been damaged. The metal awning over the customer-service window swung up, and there was a customer counter that folded down.

  She set her purse on the floor and ran a hand over the stainless countertop. She’d installed red-checked linoleum on the floor. Elbow grease had scoured the sink, the fixtures, and the cabinets until they gleamed. All she needed now were appliances—a fridge, stove, chargrill, fryer, panini press, steam table, warmer, and microwave.

  And a special-order transmission.

  She’d committed to everything. She’d ordered everything. All she needed were a couple more paychecks, and she’d be debt-free.

  “Hank said the stove might come in today.” Her dad joined her inside, wiping his hands on a rag. His dark-brown hair was gray at the temples but nothing about his knowledge of vehicles was aging. “Too bad it didn’t.”

  Five months of work. Kimmy couldn’t have restored the food truck on her own. Her dad, her uncles, her cousins—everyone had chipped in.

  “It’s okay, Dad. It’s so close to being finished.” She was so close to fulfilling her childhood dream of opening a specialty sandwich shop. “I can already imagine cooking in here.”

  Her dad slung his arm over her shoulder and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “The Garlic Grill is almost ready for launch.”

  “Hey.” Her mom joined them inside. She had a streak of dirt on her cheek, and her hands were red from using cleaning products all day. She ran a small maid service in town. “Are you free on Sunday, Kimmy? Haywood hired me to clean h
is bachelor pad. He’s having family and friends over Monday night.”

  “Um…” Kimmy didn’t mind cleaning her friend’s home but Booker’s achievements proved Kimmy needed to take a step toward her dream every day to make it come true. “I was hoping to work on this but…”

  “But we won’t have all her appliances in,” Kimmy’s dad finished for her. “Of course she can help you. That’s what family is for.”

  “Of course,” Kimmy echoed, swallowing back guilt and excuses. She didn’t want to appear ungrateful, and there were lines of fatigue on her mother’s face.

  “Thanks, honey.” Her mom’s expression eased. “Dinner in thirty minutes.” She left, heading toward the house.

  Kimmy and her father took in the fruits of their labor in silence.

  “If my stove had come in, I could have cooked in here,” Kimmy said wistfully.

  “When this is done, my baby will be flying on her own wings.” Her dad squeezed her once more. “I couldn’t be prouder.”

  “Oh, Daddy.” Kimmy tried not to cry.

  “Hey.” Uncle Mateo bounded into the truck, taking the stairs as if he were a much younger man. He lived just a few houses down. “I have logo designs for you from Ian.” He smoothed wrinkles out of long sheets of paper with colorful renderings of the Garlic Grill food truck on them. “My boss at the shop says I can paint this beauty just as soon as you get her running.”

  They spent nearly thirty minutes admiring her cousin’s graphics. She couldn’t stop herself from wondering which design Booker would advise her to choose. Certainly not the one with pink. She wasn’t selling cupcakes.

  But Kimmy gravitated toward it anyway. The design featured a bright, happy sun in the top left corner, radiating across the side. “The name is really easy to read.” In big pink letters.

  “I’ll tell Ian.” Uncle Mateo placed that design on top. “He promised me he’d come by for dinner tonight and bring my grandkids.” He grinned. “I haven’t seen them in three days. And they live right around the corner. Crazy, huh?”

  That was what Kimmy loved about her large, generous, close-knit family. They all pulled together. Helping to fix each other’s vehicles and homes. Celebrating life’s milestones. Supporting each other’s dreams. It helped that her family lived in a four-block radius on the south side of Sunshine.