The Littlest Cowgirls--A Clean Romance

by Melinda Curtis

  She drew a deep breath, gathering her shoulders up toward her ears in an endearing show of nerves.

  What did she have to be nervous about?

  Then it struck him. The intimate moment. She was as nervous about baring her deep, dark secrets as he was about keeping his stuffed down in the hidden corners of his soul.

  “Movie genres.” She drew another breath and pulled herself together, shoulders loosening, like an actor slipping into a role. “It’s something I do to focus.”

  “You’re having trouble focusing?” They were in a quiet room in a quiet hotel in a quiet town. “No. What is it? Really.”

  “When I say focus...” Ashley glanced toward the door as if anticipating someone entering. And then she glanced at Wyatt. At his lips. As if she was considering kissing him again. “I’m using an acting term.”

  He understood. “Ah, focus. You need to rebuild the fourth wall.” That imaginary barrier between an actor doing a live performance and the audience. “You’re acting with me? For me?”

  “I am...” She took another deep breath and released it. “I am stepping out of my comfort zone in real life. Not for you, but for me.” She hurried on to explain. “I was raised to listen to those in positions of authority—producers, directors, actors with more experience and cachet than me. You want my line delivered louder? I’ll give you louder.” She raised her voice. “You want more punch to my dialogue? I. Will. Give. You. Punch.” Every one of those words was crisply delivered.

  “My programmed response is to get along and behave. Don’t make waves.” Her shoulders had been creeping up on her. She visibly forced them back down. “Not a lot of successful businesses are built by those who do exactly what everyone else wants them to do, especially not by a woman in a man’s world.”

  Wyatt thought back to the times she’d used movie examples in their conversation. “When you talked horror movies and mysteries, I was angry.”

  She nodded, glancing toward the door.

  He wasn’t going to let her escape that easily. He placed a gentle hand over hers, but he had to stretch his arm to do so. She was sitting as far away from him as she possibly could and still be on the bed. “Don’t leave yet. Please.” Because he was thinking through the nuances of her so-called performances, the times when she’d worn a brave face at odds with the Ashley Monroe he and the public knew so well. “And when we talked westerns, I had assumed you were making a rom-com of Mike Moody’s story.”

  She nodded again, staying on the bed, although her hand seemed to be sliding infinitesimally from beneath his.

  He subtly increased his hold. “And just now... We were talking about character reveals.”

  “So-called bedroom secrets that lovers share.” Her words were so low, he almost didn’t hear them. And she wouldn’t look at him, not even his lips, which would have been nice because it had been more than a day since they’d last kissed.

  “You don’t have to act with me.” He knew immediately they were the right words.

  Her shoulders loosened. Her mouth relaxed into a smile. But she continued to move her hand out from under his. “You’re louder than I am. Brasher than I am. More confident than I am. Of course, I have to act like the idealized version of Ashley Monroe when we’re together.”

  “Only when I’m upsetting you, it seems.” He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. “You aren’t always acting.” There were those quiet moments, including that kiss at the A-frame.

  “No, but I have my support group here. And distance with business contacts. The phone. Email.”

  Ah, distance. The fragile Ashley’s defense. “Don’t forget those message groups of yours.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence closed around them. Or around Wyatt. It was a weighty silence, one that pressed in on him, like the deep throb around his eye. He took the ice pack off. He was supposed to say something. It was his turn.

  Again, he thought of his mother. Do the right thing.

  Again, he pushed back the painful memories, allowing the less painful ones to the fore.

  “My father sits in the home I bought him, in the recliner I bought him, waiting for me to fail.” He’d never said the words out loud before. Not even to his sisters, although they knew and perhaps, given the way they benefited from his status, didn’t care. “And when I was younger, it didn’t matter how much I contributed to put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads. He’d be the one sitting in the corner saying he’d still have a job when my looks dried up.”

  “You are more than just your looks.” Ashley moved the ice pack back into position. “Although it is the first thing everyone sees.”

  “And the driver of my ticket sales, if the corporate bean counters are to be believed.” He hated that his looks contributed to his bottom line.

  “It’s why you came charging into Second Chance,” Ashley surmised, still in that gentle voice. “To protect your image and box-office power.”

  “I can admit I’m shallow. To you,” he added, because they were close despite being at odds. “The more money I make, the more records I break, the more it will feel like I’m proving him wrong.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s what your father needs from you. Maybe you should stop using his approval as the benchmark of your success.”

  It wasn’t success. It was absolution for the circumstances surrounding his mother’s death. Nothing he could ever do or buy his father would achieve that. Didn’t mean he was going to stop trying.

  “There.” Wyatt smiled at Ashley. “Intimate scene objective accomplished. We’ve removed layers and bared our souls.”

  Ashley didn’t think so. She gave away her rejection of his statement with the smallest of flinches. And then she stood.

  Wyatt sat up, ignoring the minor head rush, and caught at her hand. “Where are you going? The doc said I need monitoring.”

  “I’m going to get Mitch.” Ashley stared at his hold on her, slowly pulling herself back until she was out of reach. “I can’t do this.”

  “What?”

  “We’d make a great on-screen couple, Wyatt. Because we have chemistry and we could appear to bare our souls as we read someone else’s words. But neither one of us can do this in the real world. You’re holding back your truths, and I’m afraid to trust you with more than friendship.” She drew her hand free and darted out the door.

  Wyatt lay down, turning Ashley’s words over, adding them to what he already knew about her. She was right. He wasn’t being completely honest with her. And there were complications to a romance, even one as brief as the fling they were projecting to the world. But there was chemistry. And something more, a symmetry to their very beings that called from one to the other.

  And wouldn’t his father guffaw over that.

  I’ve been in Hollywood too long.

  A few minutes later, Mitch stood in the doorway. He took stock of the room. “For some reason, I expected the bed to be put back in place.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m your night nurse.” Mitch, who’d told him he used to be a defense attorney, still had that courtroom stare nailed down.

  Wyatt stowed the look away for use at a later date. “Okay, princess, do you need me to put a mattress on the floor for you?” The second antique bed frame hadn’t fit with the inversion machine set up.

  “No.” Mitch wrestled the mattress onto the floor. “Ashley was right.”

  “About what?”

  “You and Holden sharing a room.” He straightened out the bed linens with quick, practiced movements. “She said it’d be good for both of your egos. Something about learning to bare your souls?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ASHLEY DRAGGED HERSELF into the Bent Nickel Friday morning, late for once.

  Cam was already busy over a hot stove. The smell of bacon and fried potatoes filled the a
ir. “Your tea is waiting at your table.”

  So was Wyatt. He was the reason she’d slept in. She couldn’t stop thinking about him last night. Stubborn man that he was. Unused to sharing his innermost secrets. So like her. But so off-limits.

  And now Wyatt was in front of her with a gloriously purple bruise around his eye, and she had no time to get into character.

  “I’ve been thinking...” Wyatt turned in the booth, never taking his gaze from her.

  Had he been thinking of the pretty little speech she’d made to him last night? Had he been thinking about her? About them?

  Her heart leapfrogged over don’ts and shouldn’ts, because it was Wyatt her heart wanted after all this time alone. That big ego of his that protected his big heart. Being with him shouldn’t make her feel stronger and whole. All that noise he made. And his physicality. She couldn’t ignore him.

  But his heart called to hers. A call of love. A call she was going to ignore for Laurel’s sake.

  Ashley clung to her folders and laptop, because she could sense his presence wasn’t conducive to getting work done.

  “Aren’t you going to sit?” He had a way of quirking his brows that weakened her knees.

  She plunked down in the booth, shoulders sagging. She loved Wyatt.

  Why had this happened? She tried to pinpoint when she’d fallen for him. But it was no use. What did knowing the exact moment matter? She loved Wyatt.

  Wyatt readjusted himself in his seat, leaning forward, smile growing. If anything, that black eye made him edgier, sexier, everything America’s Sweetheart shouldn’t want. “I’ve been thinking that I should audition for the role of Mike Moody, rather than having to sign those papers.”

  “No.” The word burst out of her before she could even process how heinous the situation had become.

  Wyatt frowned. “Did you lock down someone else?”

  “No.”

  He ran a hand over his freshly shaved jaw while he stared at her. “You’ve changed your mind and think I’m right for the part?”

  “No.” She had to say something other than that. Ashley drank some of her tea and tried again. “I mean, I’ve decided that I’m not the right director for you.”

  “That’s not it. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Really? She hoped he couldn’t see the love she was hiding. Her gaze dropped to her hands.

  He sat back in the booth. “Hang on. You’re going to direct the movie, too?”

  She knew it was beyond her at this point. But she had to run with the statement she’d tossed out on the table as if this was improv. “If I did, you wouldn’t take orders from me.”

  “Oh, come on.” The trademark Wyatt Halford intensity was building, like a fire in a blocked furnace that was about to explode.

  “You know it’s true.” And what a relief. Both that she’d rediscovered her vocabulary and that he’d given her an out. “Tone it down, Wyatt. Mike and Letty are siblings who are very close and don’t object to being criminals.”

  He clenched his jaw. “Feed me a line...sis.”

  Ashley took a moment to run through sections of dialogue in her head, trying to find the right one. Ah, yes. “You shouldn’t have taken Mrs. Granville’s jewelry box.”

  The fire in Wyatt’s eyes banked. Ashley could almost see his brain working, repeating and testing the line with different emphasis, finding the best way to portray Mike Moody and make him Wyatt’s. “You shouldn’t have taken Mrs. Granville’s jewelry box.”

  “That’s too judgy. The follow-up line I say is, ‘Or Miss Hillard’s hair comb.’ Which you counter with, ‘Or Miss Jenkin’s silver spoon.’ Try it again.” The lines themselves should have told Wyatt more about the siblings’ relationship than she had. And a bit about Letty, chief criminal.

  Working the lines should have eased the hold this man had on her heart. He should have become Mike, Letty’s brother.

  “Ah, they’re buddies.” His gaze softened, became less reproachful but not an expression that completely absolved Letty of whatever trouble she’d caused. “You shouldn’t have taken Mrs. Granville’s jewelry box.”

  Ashley gave him Letty’s secretive smile. “Or Miss Hillard’s hair comb.”

  “Or Miss Jenkin’s silver spoon.” His smile matched hers.

  And just like that, Ashley knew she was in trouble. If Wyatt wanted the role, she’d give it to him. Not because she believed he was the perfect casting choice but because their on-screen chemistry would be riveting. And if he wanted her heart, she was at risk of giving him that, too.

  Of the two gifts, casting him as Mike Moody was the safer bet all around.

  * * *

  WYATT’S WORLD WAS upside down.

  And it felt fabulous. For his back.

  For his heart, his head and his swollen eye, not so much.

  The mattress Mitch had slept on was back against the wall. Wyatt’s feet were locked into the inversion boots and blood was rushing to his head, pounding around his eye—probably not wise—but gravity was doing its job, giving every vertebra the space it needed.

  Ashley needed space, too. It wasn’t always easy to make the leap from actor to director or producer. She had a job to do, and he had to be patient and understanding of her creative and business-based choices. He was a popular star with a well-known reputation, and they’d gotten off on the wrong foot. But they were finding common ground. He knew she’d been impressed with their little reading. He’d seen surprise on her face when he’d met her challenge and delivered those lines.

  Ashley also needed space on the personal front. The few times he’d taken her hand, she’d extended her arm, inserting distance between them. He was trying to draw her closer with his winning charm and his tender touch. Even after they’d kissed, she’d found all kinds of excuses to dig in her heels. Not that they weren’t legitimate reasons. Work. Dreams. The babies.

  But no matter how much she was trying to put him in the friend zone, Wyatt rebelled. He didn’t want to be her buddy or an actor on her set. And he for sure didn’t want to be someone she added to that cyber circle of friends. He wanted... He felt...

  He hadn’t been able to put his finger on what he wanted or what his feelings were in Second Chance. Not where those babies were concerned. Not where Ashley was concerned. And, increasingly, not where his career was concerned.

  He was hanging upside down with blood rushing to his head twice a day. He should be able to think through every enigma. Instead, his head hurt. And when his head hurt, the memories intruded.

  “Why are you wasting your time in a school play? Do you really need to stand up on a stage and have people applaud how good-looking you are?” His father hadn’t lifted his head from shoveling stew in his mouth, hadn’t let up his criticism since he’d come in the door after work. “You want something to do after school? Get a job that puts food on this table.”

  Wyatt’s job put food on his father’s table and a roof over his head. And still, he was criticized. Still, his love, his effort, his very being, was rejected.

  Wyatt rubbed a hand across his forehead, trying to wipe out the painful memory and the nagging need to have his father’s love.

  Voices drifted to him. Shouted instructions. A half-hearted scream. Laughter.

  “Stick ’em up!”

  What?

  That same half-hearted scream.

  “That’s right. Hands high.”

  “Cut.” That was Ashley’s voice.

  Wyatt contorted himself, so his head was pointed toward the ceiling the way it should be. He let the head rush subside before he freed his feet. Only then did he go to the other window, the one facing south. From it, he could see the small white church across the road. Workers were giving it a new coat of paint before the wedding tomorrow.

  “Odette, you need to scream like a mouse just ran across your bare foot.”
Ashley stood near the river, two stories beneath him with a group of people. She had a thin stack of papers in her hand.

  If Wyatt had to guess, Ashley held a script. Was this another rehearsal for that festival she’d talked about? The one where she wore both a suit and a dress?

  “Take it from the robbery,” Ashley instructed.

  Wyatt felt a tug of longing. To belong to a cast. To be a cog in the ensemble. To put on the mantle of a character and lose himself in telling a story.

  The cast rearranged themselves. One man stood alone to the far side, his face hidden by a burlap bag.

  “Action!” Ashley cried.

  The solitary man ran up, finger guns drawn. “Stick ’em up!”

  Odette screamed more convincingly this time. She and her cast mates thrust their hands in the air.

  “That’s right. Hands high.” The villain in this badly acted drama circled the other participants. “Toss me your coins.”

  The cast made a show of tugging money out of imaginary pockets and purses, tossing them to the ground.

  The bandit knelt to pick their money up, totally without realizing he was making himself vulnerable.

  I mean, come on. I can do better than that.

  Didn’t matter that it was a street-fair performance. He could show this guy how it was done.

  “Good. Now make your escape,” Ashley directed.

  Good? Wyatt shook his head. Her ability to ride and shoot notwithstanding, Ashley knew nothing about directing action films.

  Before he knew what was happening, Wyatt had his cowboy hat and boots on and was out the door and headed downstairs.

  He passed Gabby at the front desk, barely registering a wheeled rack near her with clothes hanging from it.

  “Nice shiner.” Gabby reached for her phone, but if it was a picture she was looking for, she was out of luck. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere.” Wyatt’s boots pounded across the lobby and out the door.

  Summer heat assailed him, along with a feeling of humidity. Since it was nothing like South America heat and humidity, he kept going. Down the porch steps, through the now-crowded parking lot, to the crest of a slope that led down to the Salmon River. A cluster of Monroes stood watching. None of whom were Holden. Wyatt paused behind them.