Love With a Perfect Cowboy

by Lori Wilde

  “Things are really that serious?”

  His ominous eyes, which were usually so teasing, met hers. “Melody, I’ve had to watch the grass burn past dry yellow to dusty gray and even that’s dwindling as hungry cattle gobble up every dead patch they can find. We feed them of course, but without grazing land it gets pretty expensive and it takes a real toll on pocketbooks. Most folks have stretched themselves thin with bank loans they won’t be able to pay back if we don’t get some relief soon.”

  A sick feeling sloshed in her stomach as it dawned on her just how desperate he must have been to come to her for help. “I’m not some messiah who can sweep in and fix everything.”

  “Maybe not,” he said solemnly, “but you’re our last real hope.”

  THE NEXT MORNING Luke took her to get her things from Jean-­Claude’s home. She packed up her most essential belongings in three suitcases and then rented a storage unit for the rest. They returned to the Hilton just long enough to switch the room from his name to hers and then he took off for the airport.

  Leaving her feeling empty and restless.

  Melody stayed holed up in the hotel room, working on the cornbread bake-­off proposal for Quaker. She touched base with her contact at the Food Network and coerced an agreement from them that if Quaker supported the bake-­off, they’d supply three celebrity judges. She told neither Quaker nor the Food Network about her change in employment status. It wasn’t as if she actually lied about no longer working for Tribalgate, she just didn’t volunteer the information. If they had come right out and asked, of course she would have told them the truth, but as it was, she saw no reason to stack the deck against herself.

  In between working on getting the bake-­off up and running, she also looked for a place to live that she could afford. Now that she was unemployed, Manhattan was no longer an option. She’d have to move back to Queens. Maybe Brooklyn or Jersey. She put out some feelers, but hadn’t heard anything back from the real estate agent.

  Late on Wednesday evening malaise took hold of her. She’d done what she could and now she was in wait mode. She hated wait mode. It was so … static. Besides, she had to find a place to stay and soon. She couldn’t keep paying for a hotel or she’d drain her savings in no time. New York was a great city when you had money. But when you were down and out? Not so much.

  As much as she hated it, she was going to have to impose on her friends and do some couch surfing until she could find a place to stay.

  Loser.

  She hadn’t told any of her friends about her situation. She was too embarrassed, even though she knew they would understand. They would offer sympathy and wine, a shoulder to cry on and a place to crash, but she was used to being the one who offered the sympathy, not the other way around.

  Even asking for help felt like major defeat.

  On Thursday morning, still feeling disconcerted from her night with Luke, she packed up her three suitcases and checked out of the Hilton, and headed for her friend Bethany’s house in Brooklyn. At least three-­dozen ­people were backlogged for the hotel’s taxi line and the arriving cabs were few and far between. At this rate, she wouldn’t get a taxi for an hour. Feeling restless and edgy, she decided to try her chances hailing a cab on the street.

  But the second she left the protective building, huge raindrops fell from the overcast sky. Talk about poor timing. She had an umbrella somewhere, but didn’t know which suitcase she’d shoved it into.

  Ah well, it was only a little drizzle. She wouldn’t melt.

  She struggled with the suitcases, juggling them through the crowd headed to work. The rain thickened, drumming on her head, and causing her hair to frizz instantly.

  Determinedly, she trudged on, zigzagging her way through the crowd, scanning the street for an available cab.

  Halfway up Sixth Avenue, the wheel of one of the suitcases caught on a deep crack in the sidewalk, jerking her backward. Chuffing out a breath, she yanked on the handle. “Come on.”

  Someone knocked into her and didn’t even bother to mumble, “Sorry.”

  Her purse slid down her arm and she had to stop in order to hike it back up on her shoulder.

  The sky opened up, dumping a torrent. Umbrellas bloomed like mushrooms. Shoulders hunched, ­people began sprinting to their destinations.

  She was blocking foot traffic, getting in the way. She tried to move over to the side, but the pressing throng was too thick. She was stuck in the middle of the congestion and there were no empty taxis in sight.

  Water froze up the wheels on her suitcases and none of the casters would turn. Gritting her teeth, she tightened her grip on the handles and dragged them behind.

  Another person bumped into her. Then another. A woman jostled her elbow, and rushed around her with a disgusted snort.

  “Watch where you’re going, bitch,” snarled a short, beet-­face man with caterpillar eyebrows. “Keep up or get out.”

  Her chest tightened. Everywhere she looked ­people were glowering at her.

  A homeless man sat on the ground underneath the awning of a bodega, seemingly immune to the rain as he peeled a banana. He looked up when she passed, made eye contact. Before she could look away, he yelled, “Who are you? You don’t belong here!”

  Knees shaking, she rushed past him. She needed to get somewhere she could think. Someplace quiet and serene. Go back to the Hilton, idiot.

  That’s when she spied an available cab. She stepped to the curb and stuck a hand up for it. One after another they passed her by. Finally, one did pull to a stop, but before she could muscle her suitcases to the curb, a man jumped into the backseat, commandeering the vehicle away from her without so much as an apologetic glance in her direction.

  Life in the city. Survival of the fittest.

  Normally, she sharpened her teeth on obstacles, a fearless tigress taking on the world. Today, she felt like a newborn kitten that’d been both defanged and declawed.

  By the time another cab acknowledged her raised hand and pulled up, her hair was plastered to her face. The back tires splashed in a puddle, soaking her slacks up to her knees.

  Perfect. That’s the kind of morning she was having.

  The driver did not get out to help with the luggage or pop the trunk, just jabbered at her in broken English and a scolding tone as she struggled to get the drenched suitcases loaded into the seat beside her. Exhausted, she sank back against the seat and pulled the door closed.

  “Where you go?” demanded the cabbie, who frowned sternly at her in the rearview mirror.

  Where indeed? Overwhelmed, she gave him Bethany’s address and he took off.

  She sat brooding, staring at the city gone gray and dour in the rain. Yes, she knew this pity party wasn’t attractive, and she would snap out of it before she ended up on Bethany’s doorstep. If she was going to be an uninvited guest, she had to at least be pleasant to be around.

  Melody would allow herself to pout for the length of time it took the cabbie to thread his way through the midtown traffic and over the bridge into Brooklyn, but after that, she would be all smiles and a gung-­ho attitude. She would come out of this entire mess stronger and more confident than ever.

  Six minutes into the sulk, her cell phone rang.

  Who was calling her instead of texting? Everyone she knew texted. Well, except her mother. Please, don’t let it be Mother.

  She pulled her phone from her purse, and took a peek at the screen.

  Luke Nielson.

  Her pulse quickened instantly and she had the sweetest flashback to saying good-­bye to him in the lobby of the Hilton before he caught a taxi to LaGuardia. He’d pulled her up against his chest, his down-­home scent wrapping around her like a blanket as his commanding mouth delivered an exclamation mark of a kiss.

  After a long moment, he’d stepped back and murmured, “Just try and forget me.”

  She didn’t know if it had been a challenge or a command.

  Now, she touched her lips, smiled, and answered the phon
e. “Hello?”

  “I got your text about Quaker going for the deal. That’s exciting. I knew you’d make it happen.”

  “You could have just texted me back,” she said, uneasy with his compliments. The deal could fall through at any moment until the ink was dry on the contract. “No need to phone.”

  “Call me old-­fashioned, but I wanted to hear your voice.”

  Her stomach fluttered. “Where are you?”

  “In my office. I just came from a board meeting with the Cupid Chamber of Commerce.”

  “And you told them about Quaker and the bake-­off?”

  “I have. Everyone is real excited, Melody. You should see them. They’ve finally got sparkle back in their eyes. This drought has been worrisome for everyone, but it’s been particularly hard on the small business owners.”

  “We can’t celebrate yet,” she cautioned. “We still have a long way to go.”

  “I know, but it’s a start. How are you?” he asked, his tone growing lower, more intimate.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t have to put on an act with me,” he soothed. “Feel free to spew. How are you really?”

  She wasn’t about to tell him that she was coming unraveled like one of Great-­Aunt Delia’s badly knitted afghans in a room full of kittens. Not on her life. She’d already shown him enough of her vulnerable underbelly, thank you very much. No matter how hot and sexy the man might be, ultimately she could never forget that he was a Nielson.

  “It’s raining here,” she said, watching the droplets splatter on the cab’s window. “I wish I could bottle it up and send it to you.”

  “I wish you could too.”

  An awkward silence stretched over the airwaves.

  “Have you found another job yet?” he asked.

  She stared out of the taxi at the water rushing underneath the Brooklyn Bridge. It was not fair that New York was deluged and Cupid was dried-­up thirsty for rain. “No.”

  “Got a place to stay?”

  Just tell him yes. You don’t need him feeling sorry for you. “No.”

  “Are you stuck on staying in New York City?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Where else would I go?”

  “You could always come home,” he said.

  “This is my home.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “You can’t go home again,” she quoted wistfully, cupping the cell phone against her chin and blowing her breath against the window, fogging it with condensation. On the misty glass she wrote with her index finger. Luke Nielson.

  “Sure you can.”

  She crossed out his last name, leaving a streaky: Luke Nielson and she then drew a misty heart underneath it. “There’s nothing for me in Cupid.”

  “I’d like to think otherwise,” he murmured.

  “Luke …” she whispered, caught her breath, and with the palm of her hand smeared away the sentimental artwork from the glass. “We talked about this. One night. One time. Our secret tryst—­”

  “This isn’t about that,” he interrupted. “I’m not talking about us.”

  “Oh,” she said, embarrassment grabbing her by the scruff of the neck and giving her a hard shake. “What are we talking about?”

  “We’d like to offer you a job.”

  Her throat tightened. “What? Who?”

  “The Chamber of Commerce. The board members were really impressed by your idea for a cornbread bake-­off and razzle-­dazzled by the fact you’ve got so much pull with the Food Network.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “It’s not permanent.” The tone of his voice changed again, but she couldn’t decipher why or what the change meant. “It’s a consulting job. Think of it as something to tide you over while you lick your wounds and plan your comeback.”

  “What kind of consulting job?” she asked warily.

  “An image consultant, I guess. For the town.”

  “And that would entail … ?”

  “Marketing, branding. Tell us what we can do to bring more money into the town.”

  “How long do you see this job lasting?”

  There was a pause and then he said, “I guess until it rains.”

  “That could be months away,” she pointed out. “Even years.”

  “God, I hope not. The rainy season starts in July. Maybe we’ll get some relief then.”

  The rainy season in the Chihuahuan Desert was a bit of a misnomer, considering the average annual rainfall in a nondrought situation was twelve to fourteen inches. “Except you didn’t have a rainy season last year.”

  “That’s correct, we didn’t. Which is why we’re in the mess we’re in.”

  “To be clear, you want me to take a temporary job with no official end date?”

  “You could quit any time you wanted,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel boxed in or beholden if something better comes along, but this would be a lifeline for both of us.”

  She inhaled deeply. What should she do? On the one hand, returning to Cupid felt like a huge step backward. Not only career wise, but also because she’d be under her family’s watchful—­and extremely nosy—­eyes.

  And where would she live? Certainly she could not move back in with her parents. She’d been out on her own too long for that, and the thought of knuckling under her mother’s rigid rules made her want to set her hair on fire.

  “Those vacation condos on the mountain above town are renting out dirt-­cheap because of the drought,” Luke said, reading her mind. “I’m leasing one myself so I don’t have to drive the twenty miles to the ranch every time a city council meeting runs late. They’re pretty nice.”

  Of course, she should turn down the job offer flat. This was not a smart career move anyway you sliced it, but instead of saying no, she asked, “How much does the position pay?”

  “Five thousand dollars a month. I know it’s nothing like what you’re accustomed to making, but it’s good money for out here.”

  Actually, she was quite surprised the town was able to pay that much for a temporary consultant. “Honestly, Luke, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not sure—­”

  “Are you going to make me beg, Melly?” he asked. “Because I’ll do it. Cupid is in serious trouble and from where I’m sitting, you’re the only one who’s got a prayer of pulling us out of this nosedive.”

  The taxi stopped outside Bethany’s house. From an upstairs window, the curtain flipped back and two small faces pushed against the panes—­her friend’s three-­year-­old twin sons. She was going to have to walk up those steps, knock on the door, and ask for help. She swallowed hard. Pride did not go down easy.

  She could stay in New York City with no job, forced to sleep on friends’ couches for God knew how long, or she could return home to both a job and an affordable place to stay. She could either be a loser in the Big Apple or be a hero in Cupid.

  “I understand you need time to think this over. It is a big decision,” he said. “I won’t pressure you. I just wanted you to know that you do have options. We need and appreciate you.”

  And then he hung up, leaving her listening to a dial tone.

  Well, what was she supposed to make of that?

  From Bethany’s upstairs window, the boys stuck out their tongues, making faces against the glass. Much as she adored Bethany and her family, the thought of imposing on them lay like an iron weight in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t like owing anyone anything.

  She pocketed the cell. “Driver, I’ve changed my mind. Take me to LaGuardia instead.”

  “ARE YOU GOING to tell that Spencer girl that you’re footing the bill for her consulting job?” From the doorway of his office, Luke’s assistant, Eloise Harbinger—­all four feet, eleven inches of her—­eyed him as he tossed his cell phone on the desk after his call to Melody.

  Eloise sank her hands on her hips and gave him her patented mother hen tsk-­tsk-­you’re-­screwing-­up expression. Eloise had raised eleven children, some born to her,
some adopted, some fostered, and she figured that gave her the right and privilege to tell everyone younger than she what to do, and how to do it.

  Even though she could be a royal pain in the ass sometimes, Luke had to admit, she kept him on track with his mayoral duties. “I am not.”

  “That’s not honest.”

  “If I told her I was the one paying her salary, there is no way she’d agree to come home. She’d see it as charity and she’s got too much pride for that.”

  “Then maybe she shouldn’t be coming home.”

  “She doesn’t realize it yet,” Luke said, “but this is exactly where she belongs.”

  Eloise arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Because you know her so well?”

  “Believe it or not, I do.”

  “Sometimes I think your ego is bigger than the state of Texas.”

  “Sometimes it is.” He grinned. “But not this time.”

  Eloise sniffed. “Uh-­huh. What’s Melody going to feel like when she learns you lured her here on false pretenses?”

  “The pretenses aren’t false. We do need help because of the drought and that’s no joke. And what better way to stop this stupid family feud forever than by having a Fant and Nielson work hand in hand to save the town they both love?”

  “You’re playing with matches. Manipulated is how she’s going to feel,” Eloise went on, completely ignoring his argument. “And probably a little pissy to boot. If you’re thinking about romancing Melody this isn’t the way to go about it.”

  Luke pressed his lips together to keep the warmth that was creeping up the back of his neck from reaching his cheeks. He was a grown man. He shouldn’t be embarrassed over what had happened between him and Melody in New York.

  But he was and there was the rub.

  His embarrassment didn’t stem from their hot one-­night stand. He’d enjoyed being with her more than he’d enjoyed anything in a very long time.

  But he wished he could erase all of it.

  Well, not the making-­love-­to-­her part. He’d keep that. Just change the circumstances leading up to the lovemaking. Then again, change the circumstances and she would never have gone to bed with him. He knew that. It was another reason for the flush burning his ears.