MARRIAGE, OUTLAW STYLE

by Cindy Gerard

  Maddie considered herself neither. She saw herself as pragmatic and sensible, even though she had taken a chance on Necessities in a highly competitive community of prolific artists.

  Some people would argue—Clay James came instantly to mind—that she was eccentric. Some people—again Clay's pressed Wranglers, supple leather vests and impeccable tan Stetson flashed in her mind's eye—would label her as bohemian, maybe even flamboyant. She really didn't care what some people—Clay in particular—thought of her.

  So what if she liked her skirts long and loose and flowing and preferred dangly, colorful earrings to neat little studs. It was nobody's concern but her own if she'd rather go barefoot than wear shoes, and had given up on taming her springy shoulder-length curls with little more than the occasional help from a brightly colored scarf.

  None of those choices meant she was quirky. She simply liked color and flash, a little razzle with her dazzle. The way she dressed, the way she approached life, with eyes wide open but ready to embrace any adventure, was merely a reflection of, maybe even an extension of, her love for her art. "Necessities" had been born and nurtured by that love.

  She could have taken another road. Her SAT scores had soared off the charts; the academic scholarships offered by many prestigious universities had been numerous and humbling. The eternal disappointment that her parents had little success concealing when she'd chosen her potter's wheel, glazes and kiln over a more lucrative and respectable career in law or medicine had been difficult to ignore.

  The major incentive behind her hard work had been her desire to prove to them that she didn't need to become a doctor like her sister or a lawyer like her brother to be a success. That and the occasional bothersome need to eat.

  Thinking of her family now made her realize how much she missed them. Since their retirement, her parents spent little time on their Jackson Hole ranch where they'd raised Maddie, Savannah and Ryan. Instead, they spent more and more time at their Palm Springs condo. Following their lead, Savannah and Ry had migrated to the flash and frenzy of the West Coast several years ago. Maddie rarely saw any of them. She regretted that. Really regretted it.

  Tonight, she promised herself, tonight she'd give them all a call—even though she knew her mother wouldn't waste much time before asking her if she was any closer to settling down and giving her grandchildren like her sister had.

  Only on that count did she feel inferior to her younger sibling. Inferior probably wasn't the word she was searching for, but it was the one that came to mind, anyway. Savannah was already a parent, Ry was engaged, so a family was inevitable for him, too. And while Maddie didn't envy either of them their high-profile careers, she did envy Savannah her babies.

  Refusing to let herself get melancholy over the lack of someone special in her life, or the more pronounced absence of a child of her own to nurture and cherish, she forced herself to get on to the business at hand.

  Fiancés, husbands, babies or even Necessities, wasn't foremost on her mind today. Neither was the world's perception of her personal style. Something else entirely occupied her thoughts as she drew a deep breath, picked up the phone and punched in a number.

  While she waited, the simmering sort of anticipation that she always felt when facing the prospect of going toe-to-toe with Clay James sizzled through her blood. When his secretary, Agnes Crawford, answered on the third ring and announced that she'd reached the James Construction Company, Maddie settled herself down.

  After giving Agnes a cheerful hello and inquiring about her health and her grandchildren, she asked to be connected with Clay. Then, leaning back in her chair, she propped her feet on the corner of her desk, crossed her ankles and waited.

  Only a few moments passed before a deceptively charming and sinfully sexy male voice came on the line. "Hello, this is Clay. What can I do for you?"

  A spike of irritation and an unsolicited shiver of awareness shimmied up her spine.

  "Clay," she said, inflicting just enough greeting in her tone to sound cordial. "It's Maddie."

  A short silence was followed by, "Well, hey, Chicken Little. How's it flappin'?"

  She didn't need to see his face to know he was grinning like a loon. Resisting the urge to suggest that he take his worn-out chicken jokes and stuff them where the sun don't shine, she ground her teeth, drew a deep breath and forged ahead. "I was wondering if you've set a construction date yet."

  "Construction date," he repeated to the sound of shuffling paper. "You know what? I think maybe we have. Hold on a sec. I'll dig up the schedule."

  As she waited, she thought back to the decision she'd made to enlist Clay and Garrett to build her new gallery. The first reason was room. The present location—a rented building squashed between a music shop and a trading poet—was no longer large enough to accommodate her inventory. The second was practicality.

  While Garrett's wife, Emma, was Maddie's dearest friend, friendship hadn't come into play in her decision. The bottom line here was that despite a long, haranguing history with Clay that had started when they were kids and never played itself out, she really did have a head for business. Clay and Garrett's construction company was the best-run outfit and the best value around. And although she'd had to swallow some pride—not a new occurrence around Clay—she'd looked past their long-standing rivalry, fallen in love with the blueprints he'd drawn up and sealed a deal.

  Checking on the construction date, however, wasn't the real reason she was calling Clay today. It was a smoke screen. She had another, more compelling, issue—revenge—and the sweet, thrilling certainty that it was within her grasp.

  If asked, she wouldn't have been able to explain this constant competition the two of them had going. Neither would Clay. It was an element in their lives that neither gave conscious thought. Like dogs hassled cats, like Hatfields feuded with McCoys, the rivalry, the incessant knee-jerk need to constantly dish out grief, had just always been there. It had been there so long, in fact, neither of them bothered to ask themselves why they persisted or what they were gaining in the process.

  In fact, it had evolved so far that to ask why they were always going at each other would be like asking why the sky was blue or why the mountains where high. The why of it didn't matter. It was just the way it was.

  Maybe it had started when they were toddlers using their chubby little baby fists to steal each other's teething digs. Could be it was in elementary school when they'd gone head-to-head in spelling bees or on the playground at recess playing tag. By junior high, when they'd vied for everything from delegate seats on the student council to class officers, it was out of control.

  Whatever the reason, however petty the original cause, Maddie gave it as much thought today as she ever did—none—as she waited for Clay to come back on the line.

  It had been two weeks since the chicken suit incident. Even though his appearance on the scene had been by accident not design, it was another event in a long string where he'd gotten his chuckles at her expense. Now it was payback time—maybe a little slow in coming—but all the sweeter for her wait.

  "Still there?" he asked as he picked up the phone again.

  "I'm here," she said evenly, and told herself the ripple of awareness that lapped through her body was not sexual, but the prospect of retaliation.

  Admittedly his voice—brandy rich and bourbon mellow—held a sensual promise that reduced most women to ridiculous little sighs and simpery palpitations. She, however, was not most women. The only reaction she felt, she assured herself, was the irritating knowledge that he knew what kind of effect he had on the opposite sex.

  "What did you come up with?" she asked, when she realized she'd been dwelling on the sound of his voice and arguing with herself about its effect on her for too long.

  "Well…" More paper crackled in the background. She could picture him wedging the receiver between his ear and a broad shoulder. "Ah, here we go. You'll like this. It looks like you're next on the list. Garrett's got the permits and the
crew lined up. Most of the material came in last week, so if nothing comes up in the meantime to slow us down, figure on next Monday to break ground. That work for you?"

  "That works just fine." Despite herself, she couldn't contain her excitement over the prospect of seeing her gallery take shape after months in the planning stages.

  "Do I have to remind you that if you've got any alterations you want made on the blueprints," he added, "now's the time to tell us."

  "No. No, I think we got everything ironed out."

  "Now see, it's that kind of statement that'll get us in trouble. Thinking everything is ironed out isn't good enough, Matilda. You've got to know you're solid on the plans because once we get started, there won't be any room for changes."

  As usual, both his superior male attitude and his implication that if there were problems on the horizon she'd be the one to cause them, set the fillings in her teeth tingling. Just as predictably, his ingratiating habit of calling her by her given name conjured visions of voodoo dolls and pins. Lots of pins. Lots of sharp pins.

  "I get the point," she enunciated testily. "I know everything's pinned down. Okay? There won't be any changes."

  "Good. Then we're understood. And we ought to ease through this just fine."

  It was more threat than promise. More wish than expectation. They both knew the chances of the two of them easing through the building project were roughly the same as a 747 easing through the eye of a needle.

  A silence filled with all kinds of bloody scenarios passed before he said, "Well then, now that we've got that straight, was there anything else?"

  The hint of dismissal in his tone rankled. But then, everything about him irritated her—always had. Clay James was too confident, too competitive and too damn pretty. All the James boys were. With Clay, however, we were talking overkill. His thick black hair, light blue eyes and cowboy lean build completed a package that was too poster-perfect for his or anyone else's good.

  And there had always been something else about Clay and his button-down neatness and organized orderly life. Something that grated and gnawed and, as much as she hated to admit it, intrigued her. She was darned if today was the day she would let herself think about why. He was, after all, a man who had made it his life's work to be a major thorn in her side.

  That's why it was so disturbing that if she was brutally honest, she'd have to admit how sometimes—emphasis on sometimes—she found herself enjoying their verbal skirmishes. Worse, she sometimes wondered what it would be like to be on his good side.

  It shouldn't, but it miffed her that he reserved his orneriness for her and his excess charm for everyone else. For her he'd perfected a teasing brand of arrogance that hit all her hot spots and set her blood boiling with the need for retaliation.

  He'd done it again just now. He'd pushed her hot button by wanting to get rid of her.

  "What's the matter, Clayton," she purred nastily, the needling coming as naturally as blinking. "Are you pressed for time today? Could it be the banking Betty Cracker is waiting in the wings with a little offer of cash and casserole?"

  He answered her accusation with a short silence, then a silken taunt. "Why, if I didn't know better, I'd think I'd just heard a little green in your voice, Miss Brannigan," he went on with irritating smugness, "I'm flattered—baffled, but flattered—that you're jealous of Veronica."

  "In your dreams, home boy," she muttered, shrugging off that little absurdity with a laugh then ruined the effect by backpedaling. "I just find it a little distasteful that you'd let pleasure interfere with business. After all, I'm going to be throwing a lot of money your way. The least you could do is make time to talk with me."

  "Don't you worry, sweet cheeks." Though he shot for placating, the undertone of PO'd male came through loud and clear. It made her smile. Anytime she could get to Clay James, she was a happy girl.

  "We'll earn every penny and you know it," he went on as she grinned into the receiver. "But, if you want to talk business, then hey, talk away."

  Actually, she'd finished talking business. And thanks to her smart mouth and her unfailing need to be a squeak in his hinges, she'd just about tripped herself up. With two well-directed hits, he'd managed to put her somewhere in the vicinity of "hung by her own rope."

  "My mistake," she countered, recovering quickly by eating more crow than she had the stomach for, "for even thinking you'd shirk business for pleasure."

  Another measuring silence followed.

  "Well," he said finally, "was there something else?"

  "Actually…" Regrouping, she picked her words carefully. This, after all, was the real reason she'd called. This was the setup. This was the payoff. "There is something I wanted to talk to you about. You may have heard … I'm the chair for the variety show this year. Sounds like I'll be directing it, too."

  Jackson Hole, for all its integrated mix of migrated multimillionaires and home-grown locals, was full of community spirit. The annual variety show, organized by the Chamber of Commerce and staged with the help of volunteers, was a substantial source of revenue for the hospital. The proceeds from this year's show were earmarked for the children's wing.

  "And," he prompted, making her ask the question they both knew he would say yes to.

  "And I've been designated to ask if you would be willing to do a segment again this year."

  His deep breath sighed across the line. "Don't you think the singing cowboy bit is wearing a little thin?"

  It was true. Clay, with his cowboy lean looks, his more-than-modest ability to coax sweet chords from his twelve-string Gibson, and a voice, which, if he'd gone in that direction, may have ended up on the country charts, was a regular, repeat feature in the annual event. But every year the committee had requests to hear him again, so every year they asked. And every year, prompted by his own sense of community spirit—and, Maddie suspected snidely, his ego—he agreed. It was his ego she was counting on to set the trap.

  "Actually, I was thinking of something a little different this year," she said, working to conceal the plotting in her voice. "Are you up for it?"

  He sighed heavily. "Yeah, sure. Why not. Just don't put me in a dress, and I'm your man."

  She mouthed a silent "Yes!" and punched a triumphant fist in the air. "That's great, Clay. I thank you. The hospital thanks you. I'll get back to you a little closer to the rehearsal dates," she added demurely. "In the meantime, mark your calendar for the Labor Day weekend and we'll count on you."

  Before he could pick up on her smug sense of satisfaction, she disconnected, sprang out of her chair and did a jaunty little victory lap around her office.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  She didn't put him in a dress. Well, technically, it wasn't a dress. Technically, it was more of a banana yellow bolero skirt with a rainbow of trailing ruffles. The size-twelve heels matched perfectly.

  "No way," Clay snarled, getting right in Maddie's face as he clutched the skirt and middy top in one big masculine fist and the pineapple and mixed-fruit headdress and a pair of yellow hoop earrings in the other. "If you think I'm going to parade around on stage like a drag queen doing Carmen Miranda, you're out of your ever-loving mind."

  The rest of the cast milled quietly around on the fringes of the action, sneaking covert looks at their director, Maddie Brannigan, and the designated, but balking star of the "Chiquita Banana" skit, Clay James. Even if someone wanted to intervene to ward off the possibility of physical blows, they were enjoying the verbal sparring far too much to interrupt it.

  Maddie was doing some enjoying of her own. She was enjoying the heck out of Clay's red-faced anger. She was particularly pleased by the way the veins in his neck had popped out like tire treads. And she loved like blue blazes that she was the one who had set him off.

  She didn't let herself dwell on it, but the reality was that, chest-puffing mad and nostril-flaring agitated, he was one magnificent male animal. Steady as a post, telling herself she was abo
ve reacting to him on a physical level, she faced him down, warming to the thrill of the battle that she knew was hers to win.

  "But you said you'd he glad to do something different this year," she reasoned, all innocence and astonishment.

  "Different, not deviant," he growled, shaking the fist that held the crumpled wad of ruffles and sequins. "I'm not wearing this."

  "It's not deviant. It's funny. And it's a little late to back out now, Clay. You'll let the whole cast down."

  "Oh, no you don't." He slowly shook his head, tried for an in-control sneer. "You're not going to shame me into this. And you can bat those baleful brown eyes until the cows come home. That melting-chocolate look you've got perfected might work on your little legion of admirers, but it's not going to work on me."

  Once more with feeling she blinked, big and huge and innocent, absurdly pleased that he thought she had a legion—even a small one—of admirers.

  He swore under his breath. "You could have told me," he ground out between teeth clenched so tight the muscles in his jaw bulged.

  "You could have come to rehearsal," she countered and knew she had him there, "then this close to show time, it wouldn't have come as such a surprise. But you were too busy."

  "Too busy framing up your gallery," he growled, so close to her face she could smell the cool hint of mint on his breath that was so at odds with the heat of his temper. "Dammit, Maddie. You think you've pulled one over on me, but you've singed your own feathers this time, because I'm not doing this bit."

  "Well," she said, with a staged sigh of concession, "if that's the way you feel. But I've got to tell you, I never dreamed you'd be so uncomfortable or uncertain of your masculinity that you'd be intimidated by a little good-natured fun."

  His glare was so hot she felt skewered, basted and barbecued. Lord he was mad. She loved it. And the way that little muscle above his eye twitched—a sure sign he was about ready to blow—almost had her laughing out loud with glee. Almost.