COWBOY CRESCENDO

by Cathleen Galitz

  "Why don't you buy yourself something nice while you're in town?" he suggested. "Maybe something pretty to wear. Or a piece of jewelry. And don't forget to stop for ice cream on the way home. Dylan hates shots, and it'd be a treat for him that might help offset his fear of needles."

  Heather protested his generosity. "There's nothing I need—and nowhere really to shop for that matter."

  Toby's eyes narrowed as he repeated Sheila's thumbnail description of the nearest town. "Just one cheap discount store and a couple of bars … I suppose it's not much of a place for a discriminating woman to make her mark on the world."

  Heather laughed. Marathon shopping had never been her idea of having fun. "Good thing there's always the shopping channel on TV, then," she said, making light of his concerns.

  An hour later, she was climbing into Toby's four-wheel-drive crew cab after securing Dylan in the child seat next to her. Toby put his hands around her waist and helped her up into the vehicle without having to strain himself any. Heather couldn't refrain from running her hands along the muscles of his arms and letting them rest there.

  "You do look good in a cowboy hat," she said, ruffling the short hair curling at the base of his neck.

  It amused her that he thought it too long if it reached the top of his collar. Because she thought he had a particularly kissable neck, she would never complain about its length. Toby returned the compliment by taking the hat off his head and placing it on hers. The hatband left a workingman's mark upon his hair that Heather smoothed out with loving care.

  "You, too," he murmured and lowered his voice to add, "but you look even better in nothing at all."

  They kissed. In the background a glorious backdrop of mountains shimmered in the rising heat, and any fears about the future dissipated like a dessert mirage. Heather had grown so used to his mustache that it no longer tickled—any part of her body. She cherished the warmth of his lips upon hers and wouldn't give up that feeling a second before she had to. Her entire world pivoted around this solid hunk of man. She clung to him as if fearing she might go spinning off into the cosmos if she ever let go.

  In the distance a trailer kicked up a cloud of dust marking Sun Dancer's arrival. Toby's eyes lit up. Sighing, Heather glanced at her watch and put the vehicle in gear.

  "I can't help feeling dwarfed by this monster truck," she admitted. "I should pack a stepladder so I can get in and out by myself."

  "A sporty little car just doesn't have much place on a ranch," Toby apologized, leaning into the open window and trying to memorize the heavenly smell of the perfume she was wearing. "But if that's what you want, I'd buy one for you in a heartbeat."

  Heather laughed and kissed him again before sneaking a peek at Dylan in the seat beside her. The boy didn't seem in the least traumatized by the affection between them. In fact, he wore a great big grin as he held out his arms and demanded a hug from his father, too. Heather made herself turn away from the poignant scene. It was dangerous to let herself feel like she was a part of a real family.

  Bouncing down the gravel road a few minutes later, Heather reconsidered Toby's offer to buy her some new clothes. Perhaps that comment was just his way of letting her know he was tired of seeing her wearing the same few shirts and jeans that comprised the majority of her wardrobe. Feeling far from the glamorous picture of the ex-wife still gracing the top of the piano, she hoped Toby was not embarrassed by her simple attire.

  Or by his relationship with her.

  Ultimately it wasn't the size of the town that left Heather feeling small but rather the size of the minds that inhabited it. Dylan held up well under the practiced and blessedly quick shot that the doctor administered. Promising a brave boy a reward, she pulled into the dusty parking lot of the Whistle Stop Café a short while later and told Dylan that he could order whatever he liked once they were inside.

  That the railroad had long ago bypassed the Whistle Stop didn't warrant a name change according to the string of owners who managed the landmark, through the subsequent booms and busts that pockmarked Wyoming's history. The latest proprietor boasted a bottomless cup of coffee and the best pie in the whole darn county. It also was the roosting spot for locals to catch up on gossip and bemoan the price of cattle on any given day. The noon rush consisted of a dozen or so customers.

  As they took their seat at a well-worn booth, Heather had the oddest feeling that everyone in the place was looking at her. Brushing off the feeling as pure paranoia, she ordered coffee and an extra spoon for the brownie sundae Dylan ordered. Their waitress assured them it was twice as much as Dylan could dream of eating by himself. The woman, whose name tag announced her to the world as Nancy, was a big-boned blonde with nice features and a hairstyle popular in the previous decade.

  "That her?" asked one of the fellows sitting on a revolving stool at the counter as Nancy refilled his coffee on her way to the refrigerator.

  Despite the sizable wad of chew pinched between the man's lip and jaw, he spoke clearly and loud enough for Heather to hear.

  "Shhh," the waitress told him returning with their order.

  She discreetly closed the magazine that he had open on the counter. She then proceeded to put a huge scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of a saucer-size brownie, dripped hot fudge over it, gave it a noisy squirt of whipped cream from a can and topped off the caloric nightmare with a single maraschino cherry.

  Nancy placed the gooey concoction before Dylan a moment later. His eyes grew wide in appreciation.

  "Still not talking, huh?" the woman inquired. Concern creased her brow.

  Heather allowed Dylan time enough to respond should he have chosen to do so before supplying an answer for him. "I'm afraid not."

  She assumed Nancy must know Dylan through a previous association with Toby and thought it nice of her to ask. A couple of bites of chocolate was enough to satisfy Heather's craving for something sweet. Setting down her spoon, she scanned a nearby rack of magazines and newspapers, hoping to find something to occupy her time while Dylan made a charming mess of himself. One publication in particular caught her eye—and by the looks of the prominently displayed, and nearly empty space, on that rack—everyone else's as well.

  Exclusive Photos of Danforth Family Fourth of July Bash! was proudly proclaimed in bold print across its banner.

  Heather snatched up the only remaining magazine and flipped it open without bothering to act nonchalant. While most of the coverage highlighted Abraham Danforth's political intentions, a number of interesting and potentially incriminating photographs were included as dirt on one of America's first families. Among them was a full-size picture of Heather wrapped in Toby's arms. Apparently he had been mistaken about destroying the only pictures of the kiss they had shared in Savannah. Another more surreptitious reporter had a captured a different angle from a spot he'd staked out earlier. An uncomfortable two-and-a-half-hour wait straddling a branch in a nearby tree ultimately earned the reporter a handsome commission from the tabloid. And Heather's undying disgust.

  The caption proved as titillating as the picture. It insinuated that Toby Danforth hired a nanny to work with his "emotionally disturbed" son, more for physical attributes that were far more suitable for his bedroom than Dylan's nursery. Heather's face burned with shame. She glanced up to see every other patron in the establishment turn away in sudden preoccupation with their food or lack thereof.

  Heather wished she didn't care a whit about what they thought. She knew she shouldn't.

  Still, as a sensitive spirit, she was easily wounded. A wave of nausea washed over her as the coffee in her stomach soured. She gripped the edge of the table to keep her hands from shaking. Whether it was true or not, she had the definite feeling that everyone was laughing and pointing behind her back. The back of her neck grew hot and prickly.

  When Josef humiliated her, she turned away from music to seek a new identity for herself. One that had given her a joyous beginning and faith in her own ability to shape her future. Unfortunately, sh
e didn't know how to outrun the innuendo of a nationally syndicated publication, albeit one of dubious repute. Her parents, already disappointed in her, were sure to completely disown her now.

  And what about Dylan? Heather knew how cruel children could be. There was no telling how his mother might react to such ugly publicity. Would she use it as ammunition in court to gain full custody of her son?

  In her heart, Heather knew that falling in love with Toby had been a terrible, wonderful mistake. She simply hadn't counted on such a personal mistake being magnified and vilified in the press.

  Dylan pushed his bowl away and swiped at the chocolate dribbling down his chin with the back of his arm, indicating he was ready to go.

  Heather had to clear the lump from her throat before asking him, "Have you had enough?"

  Nodding his head yes, the child looked perplexed by the tears shimmering in her eyes.

  "Me, too," she said, meaning much more than he could possibly understand.

  Heather paid their bill without saying another word and pretended not to hear the grizzled old man at the counter elbow his companion in the side.

  "Think the little lady'd consider being my bed warmer—er, I mean nanny, Charlie?"

  "Dunno, but I'd sure like a tonsillectomy like the one she gave her boss…"

  Their words echoed in her ears as Heather stepped from the air-conditioned building into the bright light of day. The worst thing about falling in love with Toby was that her previous numbness had finally worn off, leaving her all the more vulnerable to the searing pain that engulfed her and left her feeling so all alone. If the highs with Toby were breathtaking, the lows were enough to suck the breath right out of her. Heather ached all over.

  For once she was grateful for Dylan's silence. At least she didn't have to worry that he would tell his father about the many tears she'd shed on the long road home.

  * * *

  "I'm giving you my two weeks' notice."

  Heather's words reverberated off the walls of the Double D and ricocheted inside Toby's brain like a bullet gone wild. Dylan was napping and the house was so still that every sound was amplified. The antique cuckoo clock in the kitchen alerted the house that it was three o'clock. The dishwasher clicked into its rinse cycle. And Toby felt the world shift beneath his feet.

  He couldn't fathom what could have possibly occurred between the time he'd kissed Heather goodbye in the morning and now to make her say such a thing. A million thoughts raced through his head, most centering on what he could have possibly done to upset her. Picking one of the many excuses Sheila used to divorce him, he asked Heather if she simply found the town too rustic for her tastes. His attempt at flippancy fell as flat as his heart.

  "No, too cosmopolitan actually," Heather replied, handing over the tabloid with shaking hands.

  Toby scanned the article before hurling the magazine across the room in disgust.

  "Is that what this is all about?" he demanded to know. "I can't believe you'd let this piece of trash bother you."

  "Maybe I didn't grow up with it the way you did. And maybe I'm more concerned about how this might affect you and Dylan than how it affects me personally."

  "And maybe you're just looking for an excuse to run away."

  Heather flinched, and he realized that he must have struck a nerve. He reached out a hand and brushed it against the side of her face. She took a deep breath and rested her cheek in the palm of his hand for a second. For eternity. With the pad of his thumb, Toby wiped away the tear that rolled down her face.

  "What are you afraid of, sweetheart?"

  "Of embarrassing you," Heather admitted. "Of compromising the progress Dylan's made for my own selfish desires."

  Toby's laugh was almost a bark. "You could never embarrass me, and by the time Dylan will be able to read this, I'd like to think he'd have more discriminating tastes than to let something so base bother him. I certainly don't."

  Heather pushed his hand away and swallowed against the tightening of her throat. "You can joke about it all you want, but the truth of the matter is it won't be long before Dylan will be old enough to question our relationship. A relationship stuck in neutral because neither one of us wants to commit to more than the physical. I can't see myself as your lover indefinitely, and I don't want to play the kind of games that require me to withhold love as a way to force you into marriage."

  She held up her hand to stop Toby from interrupting her.

  "Look. I've studied this from every angle, and the only thing that makes sense is for me to go back to school this fall and work on my teaching certification. That way everyone can save face, and we can part as friends."

  As she continued babbling on about her plans to obtain a student loan and register for classes early, Toby looked at her as if she were asking to be helped into a straitjacket. While it was true that he had become somewhat inured to unwelcome publicity very early on in his life, he couldn't believe that Heather would actually let something as inconsequential as the National Tattler come between them. He wondered if her hypersensitivity was rooted in a painful past, or if she was simply mortified thinking of her parents and friends seeing her in such a compromising photograph splashed across the page of such a scandalous rag.

  Toby never claimed to understand the complexities of the female mind. His ex lived to see her picture in the press, all too often lamenting Toby's aversion to the kind of elite social events that attracted the media. She mistakenly assumed fame under any circumstance was a good thing. Knowing Sheila, she'd be pea-green with envy at the very picture causing Heather such grief. As much as Toby preferred Heather's attitude toward tabloid journalism, given the circumstances, he wished she could see it for what it was worth—little more than the paper on which it was printed.

  Toby experienced a terrible sense of déjà vu as he recalled the day that Sheila announced she was leaving him. He had been secretly relieved to end the charade of their marriage. When Heather said those same words, he was rendered completely incapacitated. It would be far easier to lose a limb than to lose the gentle soul who had infused his life with hope and love. Feeling sucker-punched, he knew he had to do something drastic to get her to stay. Somehow he had to fix things between them. He had to make her understand that tawdry words had no power to tarnish a love as rare as theirs. Heather was no more the gold-digging tramp the press made her out to be than he was the playboy that they wanted so desperately to portray him as.

  The solution came to Toby so easily that he knew in an instant it was what he wanted all along—a reason to put aside old fears and make a forever commitment to their relationship. A way for Heather to save face. A way to keep his child's best interest at heart. A way to proclaim his love to the entire world. A way to make things right.

  Without any further ado, he knelt down in front of Heather and took both her hands into his. He stared into her eyes as if searching the starry sky for answers to the universe. A universe he longed to share with her for eternity.

  "Miss Heather Burroughs," he began, slipping into the distinctly lyrical pattern of speech with which he'd been raised. "Would you do me the honor of marrying me?"

  * * *

  Twelve

  « ^

  Heather looked at Toby in disbelief. Here he was on his knees asking her to marry him and he hadn't ever so much as told her that he loved her. She could think of only one reason for him to propose out of the clear blue like this. From his reaction to the article she had shown him, it had nothing to do with salvaging his family name. And everything to do with her decision to tender her resignation.

  She should have known that concern for Dylan would supersede everything else in Toby's life. As much as she admired him for that, her heart would not let her accept the offer that her head told her only an idiot would refuse. Toby Danforth was handsome, rich and compassionate. He was a good friend, a great father and an even better lover. Nonetheless, Heather had come a long way in terms of demanding self-respect since the day she broke
away from those who would manipulate her talents to their own ends. As much as she loved Dylan, she didn't believe that was reason enough to marry his father.

  "I can't marry you just so you don't have to look for another nanny," she said softly.

  Clenched inside the velvet gloves of her words were granite fists. Toby drew back as if he had actually been struck, then reached up to tenderly stroke her cheek with the back of one hand.

  "Sweetheart, whatever gave you that idea?"

  Heather's face tingled where he touched her. Still, she could hardly compromise her future for an endearment that could melt the polar ice cap. Weariness weighed down her reasoning.

  "If nothing else, your timing."

  A note of exasperation crept into Toby's voice. "I thought this was what you wanted. Why else would you throw that rag of a magazine in my face if not to make me feel obliged to make an honest woman of you and prove something to the rest of the world?"

  Heather stiffened under the accusation. Ugly words hurt, but now that the truth was out in the open she had no choice but to deal with it. Clearly, Toby felt she was manipulating him in much the same way she felt he was willing to use her just to make his life easier. In the same way her parents and Josef used her to promote their own aspirations. She'd vowed never to let anyone claim her life for their personal goals again. She believed that she deserved to be loved as a woman first, and a mother second.

  "Those aren't exactly the words a girl hopes to hear when a man proposes," she told him flatly.

  "I never said I was any good with words."

  Toby's voice climbed with his frustration. "And I imagine that even if I found the right ones now, they'd be suspect in your mind. Wouldn't they?"

  Heather shook her head sadly. "Probably."

  She was as taken aback by Toby's sudden anger as by the fact that, even under duress, he seemed unable to utter the three little words that were the foundation of all good marriages. She had to wonder if he even knew what they were. Having heard him profess his love openly to his son on numerous occasions, she was inclined to believe that was not the case. Toby simply wasn't in love with her.