“No shame in bulls and muck. It’s an honest wage,” Owen replied, unfazed. He put on a pair of sleek black shades that somehow made his face even more holy than it already was. “How do these make me look?”
Ridiculously gorgeous.
“Hideous,” she answered. “You look like an alligator trying to blend in with crocodiles.”
“That makes no sense.”
She batted her eyelashes. “That’s only because you’re not smart enough to understand.”
To her irritation, he laughed again. “You heading to Mesa for the big competition?”
“Only if Papa makes me.”
“So no then.”
“Not likely.”
“When was the last time you’ve been to the rodeo?”
Mary Beth swallowed. “When I was fifteen, after my mama died.”
Owen softened. “Is that why you don’t like to go?”
“No. I don’t like to go because it smells like muck and it’s full of rednecks who call themselves gentlemen but don’t know the difference between a knife and a fork.”
“You should go to Mesa with your father,” Owen persisted. “Remember where you come from. You were born a cowgirl. You can take the girl out of the rodeo, but you can’t take the rodeo out of the girl.”
“You can take the rodeo and shove it,” Mary Beth countered. “I was born in Beverly Hills, and that’s where I plan to stay.”
***
Her mansion sat on a lake in the far stretches of Los Angeles. Well, technically it was her papa’s mansion, and it was more of a ranch, built of whitewash stone walls and Spanish roof tiling with stables and barnyards surrounding it. There was very little Mary Beth liked about the Wild West, but she did like the mansion. It was the only home she had ever known.
In the drive, she stepped out of her black convertible and handed the keys to the valet, who would park it in the nearby garage with the rest of the cars. Most were her papa’s collection of old classics, but the convertible was all hers. It was fast. She liked fast.
“Papa!” she called when she entered the house, realizing she hadn’t seen him in days. He had the virtues of an early bird. She was a cat in the night, clubbing until sunrise and sleeping most of the day away, unless there was shopping to be had. That’s where the sunglasses came in handy. Sunglasses could hide eyes that were red and weary from a party gone right.
When her papa didn’t answer, Mary Beth turned to the intercom on the wall. “Papa, it’s me. Are you home?”
“I’m in my room packing for Mesa,” he answered through the box. “Come on up.”
She kicked off her heels and left them by the door for the housekeeping staff to put away before heading upstairs to her papa’s bedroom, enjoying the feel of her bare feet against the cool marble flooring. The marble was Italian. It was the best of its kind. Her family never settled for anything less than the best.
In his room, her papa had his suitcase sprawled open on his bed, which he neatly folded his fringed and embroidered rodeo suits into.
“You should really hang those in garment bags,” she recommended.
“Someone will take care of the creases in Mesa,” he returned, sounding tired. It was unusual for him. He was usually as peppy as a showman, even in his sleep.
“Do you have to go to Arizona?” she asked with concern as she sat on the foot of his bed. “You look awful. Take a day off. Get some rest.”
“Mesa is one of the biggest events of the year. I own it. I’m in charge. I have to go. Plus, it’s special to me.”
“It’s not worth your health. You can go next year. For now, send someone else to oversee it. Or hire a double.”
He chuckled. “A double couldn’t pull of my energy or charm.”
“No,” she agreed. “But they can run one show without you. Stay.”
Her papa answered by changing the subject. “Owen called. He said he ran into you.”
“He was probably following me,” she huffed, though she knew it wasn’t true.
Sighing, her papa put the last of his suits into his suitcase then started on his socks, which lay in a neat row near his pillows. He was an efficient man, no matter what it was he did. “I really wish you two would get along.”
“I know,” she said irritably, lacking her usual patience with her papa. “He’s the son you never had.”
“Don’t say it that way. I don’t regret not having a son. You are better than any son. But I do regret that you lost interest in the rodeo. I miss having you there.”
“I’m sorry I missed dinner last night,” she replied, unable to say more. She stood to leave, but her papa wasn’t finished.
“You know I opened up the shop for you. I had hoped Ray Chaudett could be a project we could work on together, a fusion of your love for fashion and my commitment to the rodeo.”
Mary Beth stopped in her tracks. “You never told me that before,” she said, stunned by the revelation. “How come?”
“I didn’t want to push you into it. I thought you would naturally migrate towards it, but you hate it as much as you hate the animals in the barnyard.”
“I don’t hate the shop,” she protested. “And I certainly don’t hate the animals in the barnyard. I actually kind of love the pigs.”
He smiled, a joy in him despite his exhaustion. “Then I guess we both have things to learn about each other.”
There was more he had meant to say, but as he opened his mouth to speak, his hand began to tremble, causing a sock he held to fall to the bed.
“Daddy?” she asked, frightened by how pale he suddenly became. “Are you okay?”
She stepped forward, but it was too late. Her papa collapsed to the ground and fell into unconsciousness.
* * *
Chapter Two
Mary Beth disliked hospitals as much as she did the rodeo. Hospitals were full of fear and uncertainty, especially now. When her mama had been in the hospital battling cancer, they’d known she was going to pass. They had time to prepare and say their goodbyes. She wasn’t sure the same would happen with her papa. She sat in the waiting room of the ER, his fate uncertain, her last glimpse of him when the paramedics had wheeled him on the gurney into the back.
A little boy sat next to her, his head down in his hands. “Tough day,” she said to him.
“The worst,” he said. “My brother fell off his bike. He has to have a cast put on his leg. Now he won’t be able to play soccer with me.”
“That is tough,” Mary Beth said, glad for the distraction. “But maybe you can still play. Ask your parents if they can get a pair of crutches for you too. That way you can both hop around on one leg trying to kick the ball.”
The boy raised his head. “That’s a great idea! Thanks, lady.”
She frowned. “Don’t call me lady. I’m not your grandma.”
A doctor walked in looking as if he hadn’t slept in years. “Mary Beth Chaudett?” he called.
Panicked, she quickly met him by the door. “Is my papa okay? Was it a heart attack? I told him those barbeque ribs would catch up with him someday.”
“Walk with me,” the doctor instructed. “I’ll take you to him.”
“Thank you,” she said, terrified as they walked. “Is he alive?”
“For now. It wasn’t a heart attack, but it does involve his heart. We believe he caught a virus, which has been left untreated for awhile. With his age, we’re afraid it may have damaged his heart. We’d like to keep him in the hospital for a few days to observe him.”
Mary Beth wasn’t sure how to handle the news; her relief that he was alive matched her despair that she could still lose him. His hospital room didn’t make the situation any easier to deal with. Her papa was hooked up to a herd of machines, and he remained ashen.
“My girl,” he said when he saw her, lighting up. He hadn’t called her my girl since she was ten. “I’m sorry you have to see me this way.”
“Don’t be stupid, Papa,” she said, trying hard to push back
her tears. “You look very handsome, even strapped up like that.”
“You could never lie as good as I could,” he mused. “I’m glad you’re here. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
He sounded serious. “Please don’t say your will,” she pleaded, “because I don’t want to even think about that. You keep your money. I just want you.”
“Come here.” He took her hand when she met him at his bedside. “I’m humbled to hear it,” he said, emotional. “But I don’t want to talk about my will either. That’s for lawyers to discuss. I want to talk about Mesa. Go in my place. Wear my boots. I can’t go, and there are very few people I trust to run the show.”
Mary Beth was appalled. “Papa, I can’t leave you. What if… No. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to send someone else. What about Owen?”
“Owen is a competitor. He can’t be affiliated with the business, not on a professional level. Please. Do this for me. Mesa is where I met your mama. It’s special to me. It’s special to you too. At least, it used to be. The three of us always went together.”
“I haven’t been to a rodeo since I was fifteen,” she reminded him. “I’m not even sure I can tell the difference between a horse and a cow anymore.”
“Joke all you want, my girl, but I know the rodeo still lives on within you. You didn’t quit because you hate it. You quit because you got bored, but you’re all grown up now. I think you’ll enjoy it again. Owen will be there. If you have any questions, he’ll help.”
She could see how much going to Mesa meant to her papa. If these were his last days, she couldn’t deny him his final wish, so she reluctantly agreed. “Only if you promise to still be here when I get back. And if the whole place burns down, it’s on you. You don’t send a rabbit out to catch a snake.”
He snorted. “You’re no rabbit, Mary Beth.”
“You calling me a snake?” she teased despite her grief.
“No. You’re no snake either. You’re sunshine.”
She smiled. “Well, don’t be telling that to your staff. I plan to use their fear of me to my advantage. That includes Owen.”
He nodded, contemplative. Then he asked, “If anything did happen to me, you and Owen would put your differences aside, wouldn’t you? The two of you would keep my legacy going? The rodeo can’t stop, no matter how many cows go home.”
“Sure,” she said. “We’d try.”
He looked disappointed. “I really wish you were better at telling lies.”
***
To her relief, it turned out there wasn’t much Mary Beth had to do in Mesa. The people her papa had hired did their jobs well. All she really had to do was smile big and put the fear in anyone she thought might slack off. In a way, it was like hosting a big party. She could handle that. She was the queen of parties. Wearing stilettos paired with a floral skirt and oversized blouse, Mary Beth made her rounds, introducing herself to those in expensive fabrics, figuring they were her papa’s comrades, unlike the rodeo folk in their faded T-shirts and ripped jeans.
If there was one thing she had learned from her experiences when she was younger, it was that each rodeo was different. Smaller rodeos were usually outdoors in an arena where the crowd gathered around the fences. The larger televised events were in grand stadiums where thousands looked down at the arena. Mesa was a combination of the two. It would be filmed to air on television, but it was all outdoors, including the giant arena, where the men would ride their bulls and broncos, and they would rope their calves, and the barrelmen would entertain the crowd. The men and the women, actually. Mary Beth had been impressed to see there was a women’s bull riding competition scheduled. There hadn’t been the last time she stood so close to a pen.
The Mesa rodeo also had a fair. Surrounding the arena were countless games, rides, and food stands. There was also a convergence of beer tents where the fans liquored up before the bull riders claimed their eight seconds.
Meeting and greeting the elite at the rodeo was easier than she had anticipated, but Mary Beth couldn’t wait to return to Beverly Hills. Walking in the dirt in her stilettos killed her feet, and the dust around the place made her sneeze, but she had a much bigger worry on her mind. She didn’t want to leave her papa alone for too long. As soon as she was certain the rodeo wouldn’t burn down, she’d jump back onto the private jet she’d flown out in and go to him.
Standing at the entrance to the press tent where she had just done an interview, the crowd around her suddenly parted with murmurs of adoration.
Oh god no, she thought, tempted to run back into the press tent, anything to avoid the rodeo god. I don’t think I can handle Owen Hutch today. Mr. Sainthood. Mr. He’s So Gorgeous and Kind. Mr. Hardworking.
As she predicted, Owen broke through the crowd, but his casual manner was gone, replaced by an anger she rarely saw in him, an anger that caused his golden eyes to burn with the fury of a bear.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me!” he roared when he reached her.
“Hush,” she commanded, grabbing his arm, though her hand could barely grip its mass. “Not here. He doesn’t want everyone to know.”
Understanding, he allowed her to lead him to a private alley between the beer tents, far from the press. “You should have told me,” he asserted when they were alone, pressed between kegs of ale.
“How do you know what happened?”
“I called him as soon as you showed up. I didn’t buy your baloney story that he was busy with the new clothing line at Ray Chaudett. He would never miss the rodeo for something so trivial to him. This is where he’s happiest.”
“Ray Chaudett isn’t trivial,” she protested. “He started the company to be closer to me.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Owen hissed. “You should have told me. You knew I was in town. I shouldn’t have had to hear it from the maid over the phone.”
“I didn’t have your number,” she explained, though she doubted she would have called him anyway.
He shook his head. “Maybe I should leave and go visit him.”
“Don’t,” she said, putting a hand to his chest. She cared very little about where Owen went, but she knew her papa would be upset if Owen didn’t compete. “It’s the last thing he’d want,” she added, softening her tone.
“But what if he…”
“He won’t,” she insisted, hoping it was true.
Standing so close to Owen, she began to feel her heart beat faster. She was suddenly very aware of how strong a man Owen Hutch was, of how powerful he was. His body was thick and hard. His arms bulged through the T-shirt he wore. She felt her own body respond to his, pulsing in places other than her heart. Starving, she very much wanted Owen to pin her to the stack of kegs and run his hand up her skirt and past her lace panties, where his fingers could explore deep within her.
It’s the grief, she determined, trying to keep her breath steady. It plays tricks on the soul.
Owen must have felt the same. Tenderly, he took her hand and held it in his. Surprisingly, she liked the way it felt. It steadied her, helped ease her fears. But then he pulled a pen from his back pocket and scratched his phone number onto her palm, his anger returning.
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