Dusty: Wild Cowboy

by Cathy McDavid

  With his left hand on the reins, he raised his right arm and swung the lasso high over his head. Then, with a flick of his arm, he sent the lasso sailing into the air and toward the running calf. Dusty saw Gil’s left hand pull back on the reins and knew the outcome before it happened. The horse hopped, then slowed, almost unbalancing Gil. Maryanne let out a gasp. Fortunately, her father managed to stay seated this time. When the lasso finally fell, it missed the calf by a good three feet, dropping limply to the ground.

  “Aw, shoot,” said one of the other participants sitting on the fence near Dusty and Maryanne. “He’s got to quit yanking on that mare.”

  The bellowing calf was herded into the pen to await his next turn. Dusty waved Gil over. The older man nudged Tiny Dancer into a trot.

  “What do you think happened?” Dusty asked.

  “I pulled back on the reins again.”

  “I know it’s instinctual to hang on but you’ve got to learn to trust your horse.”

  “That calf was getting squirrelly on me.”

  “Next time, give Tiny Dancer her head and lean into the direction she turns rather than sawing on her mouth.”

  Dusty had been briefed on each rider’s previous experience before taking over the class. Though Gil was raised in rural Ohio, he hadn’t ridden in years. Dusty was sure the older man would be fine—he just needed more practice. What he did have in abundance was determination, a trait Dusty admired. It had gotten him and his siblings far on the rodeo circuit and what kept him continually pursuing a writing career after countless rejections and years of disappointments.

  “Appreciate the advice.” Gil rubbed a shoulder, his fingers digging into the flesh.

  “You all right, Daddy?” Maryanne asked, clutching the top fence railing.

  Another woman might have needed to stand on tiptoes to see over the railing. Not Maryanne, who was probably five-eight without those silly, inappropriate and—he admitted it—sexy high heels.

  Watching her clean them in the trough had been entertaining and enjoyable. Her outfit was completely ill-suited for her surroundings yet fit nicely and showed off a figure that would do a pair of Wrangler jeans proud. Most of the ladies Dusty came in contact with wore boots, even if they weren’t real cowgirls and were simply wannabes. Or, wannabe-with-a-cowboy as his older brother Jesse called them.

  “I’m fine, Cookie.” Gil brushed aside her concerns with a chuckle. “Quit being such a mother hen.”

  Dusty liked the nickname. It was a stark contrast to her starchy personality. He couldn’t help wondering if she had another side she revealed only to those people she cared about. The nickname also made him think of things sweet and chewy and chocolaty, all of which he liked. He liked Maryanne, too, though she wasn’t his usual type. Despite his reputation with buckle bunnies, he preferred down-home country girls such as his old girlfriend Josie who just last week had married his brother Dex.

  It should have been weird seeing them together but somehow wasn’t. During the wedding, Dusty realized he was jealous of his twin—which wasn’t anything new. What was surprising was he discovered that he wanted the same kind of contentment Dex had found for himself.

  Maryanne was clearly the wrong candidate but he couldn’t help feeling a strong attraction to her. Brown eyes were his weakness, as was blond hair. Her hair, however, was cut in one of those short, jagged styles meant to appear messy. On her, it looked good and incredibly soft. The color was natural, too, and the makeup on her nearly flawless complexion minimal. He wouldn’t have expected that from her. Gil had mentioned his daughter worked for a cosmetic company. Dusty had assumed she’d be a walking advertisement for the company’s products. Then again, maybe she was, and the products were that good.

  Another student shot from the box. Leaping from his horse even before it came to a stop, he ran toward the roped calf. His horse backed up, keeping the rope taut. When the calf was down and its legs tied, the man threw up his arms to signal he was done. One of the wranglers called out the man’s time, which was improved from before but still nothing to brag about. Dusty had his work cut out for him with this beginner class.

  “I’d better get back,” Gil said. “I’m up again.”

  “Are you sure, Daddy?” Maryanne shaded her eyes but her hand didn’t hide her worried expression.

  “I’m fine. And besides, the health insurance is paid up.”

  “Don’t make jokes.”

  Dusty might have laughed if she wasn’t so serious. He had to admit, her devotion to her father was touching. While he had his share of run-ins with his family, hard not to with five kids, all of them stubborn in their own right just like their father, they were also tight-knit and fiercely loyal. Even when the road was rocky, like it had been a few months ago when his older brother Walker returned from the service with post-traumatic stress syndrome. He’d eventually gotten back to his old self and was also newly married.

  Dusty began to think there was a trend going on with the Cody siblings. He looked over at Maryanne, and his heartbeat momentarily quickened.

  Naw. Who was he kidding? She was a city girl, born and raised. He was…Dusty Cody. Fun-loving. Easygoing. Ladies’ man. Unambitious, except when it came to roping and writing. The kid who couldn’t be serious for one lousy minute, as his father often said, usually in a raised voice. J. W. Cody wanted nothing more than for his youngest son to assume a greater role in the family’s various businesses.

  Dusty thought about the two screenplays and four manuscripts saved in a file on his laptop, the hard copies buried in the bottom of a cedar trunk in the back of his closet. He didn’t dare mention them to any of his family, least of all his father. Supplying trained horses for films and occasionally appearing in small roles was bad enough. If they knew his true ambition, they’d…well, maybe not disown him but they certainly wouldn’t understand.

  They’d also try and force him to quit, especially if they learned about the subject matter of his latest screenplay.

  Dusty wasn’t ready to give up writing and, frankly, didn’t know if he’d ever be. It wasn’t merely a hobby, it was his passion. Like rodeoing. And this latest screenplay, well, it was really good if he did say so himself. Now if he could only convince a producer to read it.

  “I can’t believe he’s doing it again,” Maryanne muttered beside him, her tone ripe with disgust. “He’s too old.”

  “My grandfather rode every day until he was seventy-six.”

  “But did he rope?” Dusty smiled.

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course he did. Who here doesn’t?”

  “Besides you?”

  “I realize I’m a little out of my element.”

  That was an understatement. “You work for a cosmetic company?”

  She raised her brows in surprise. “How do you know?”

  “Your father mentioned it.” If he’d realized how attractive Maryanne was, he’d have paid more attention when Gil talked. “But not what you do for them.”

  “I’m a junior marketing executive.”

  “Not a model?” Okay, it was a line. An obvious one. But some habits were hard to break.

  She gave him a tired look that said his technique was wasted on her.

  “What does a junior marketing executive do?”

  “Sales. Mostly I assist the senior exec,” she said distractedly, keeping her attention focused on her father.

  “With what?”

  “Advertising campaigns and viral marketing. Our goal is to expand our direct-purchase market as well as recruit retail chains to stock and sell our products.”

  Selling a product.

  Before trying to get published, Dusty had no idea how much selling was involved. Not just his manuscript but himself, as well. One of the reasons for his failure to make any headway thus far was his lack of poise and professionalism. No one took him seriously.

  Maryanne clearly possessed those skills.

  Maybe she could give him some advice.

  As the minutes p
assed, the idea took hold and grew. When would he have another opportunity to tap the brain of someone with the skills he himself desperately needed? Of course, he’d have to offer her something in return. While it might be enough for other women, he doubted Maryanne would settle for the simple pleasure of his company.

  “Careful, Daddy,” Maryanne called as Gil lined up Tiny Dancer in the box.

  A second later, the calf was running, Tiny Dancer and Gil in hot pursuit. The horse did everything she’d been trained to do and then some. Gil didn’t, and the calf made good its escape. Again. Gil might need more practice than was available to him from the instructors at Cowboy College.

  Maryanne groaned. “I wish he’d come to his senses so we could go home.”

  “I might have another solution,” Dusty heard himself say. “If you’re willing to negotiate.”

  “Negotiate what?”

  “A deal. My services in exchange for yours.”

  She turned her large, inquisitive brown eyes on him. “This I have to hear.”

  Chapter Two

  Dusty was a writer. Maryanne tried hard to wrap her brain around that astounding bit of information and couldn’t. Not quite.

  “What do you write?”

  “Novels and, lately, screenplays.”

  “Wow.” If he had said cowboy poetry or roping articles, she might have less trouble believing him. “That’s great.” Years of working in marketing enabled her to sound enthused when she wasn’t.

  “I could use your advice.”

  “Um…well, my experience is limited to composing advertising text. I’m afraid I don’t know much about novels or screenplays.”

  They’d left the arena after her father had taken his last turn and were strolling through a large open area in front of a row of barns. The mid-morning sun beat down on them but a cool breeze from the west chased away the worst of the heat. Still, Maryanne regretted wearing a vest over her blouse. In L.A., dressing in layers during the summer didn’t matter because people were continuously blasted by air-conditioning units set on High, be they indoors or riding in vehicles.

  Then again, if she were in L.A., she wouldn’t be walking next to a cowboy. The genuine article, too, not some imitation. Same for his dog—Track?—who periodically trotted off to investigate an interesting smell or chase a lizard, only to return to Dusty’s side. No purse or lap dogs wearing overpriced canine accessories in Wyoming.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of tips on how to pitch my current screenplay to producers,” Dusty said with a charming dash of sheepishness. “So far, they aren’t too receptive.”

  His use of the word pitch gave Maryanne reason to suspect he was a little more serious about his writing than she first thought. It wasn’t typical cowboy vernacular. But then, Dusty wasn’t a typical cowboy. If the stories she’d heard about the Codys’ affluence were true, he was likely well-educated.

  “Who have you approached so far?”

  He recited a list of names, mostly independent film companies.

  “What have they told you?”

  “Well, there’s the rub. I usually don’t get past the receptionist.”

  “It isn’t easy. Even for established screenwriters. You’ve chosen a cutthroat business.”

  “I’m not scared. Competing’s in my blood.”

  She remembered how assured he was he’d qualify for the National Finals Rodeo. “I imagine it is.”

  “I thought I was close with Tierra Buena Productions. I met the head producer last month on a shoot in Calgary. He liked my work, and I figured that would give me an in. He listened to me for about twelve seconds then said while my story concept had broad appeal, it lacked originality.”

  “Does it lack originality?”

  “Hell no.”

  She smiled. He really was brimming with confidence. That alone should get him a foot in the door. As far as his screenplay went, she had her doubts.

  Whatever his educational background and re sources, he came across as a good ol’ boy out for a good ol’ time, which was probably his problem. No one took him seriously. His easy, aw-shucks mannerisms and shameless flirting didn’t help.

  “I like that.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “When you smile.” He flashed his own lazy grin at her, proving her point about the shameless flirting. “Haven’t seen you do it since we met.”

  “I tend to be serious.”

  “So I noticed.” His dimple deepened. “I myself have the opposite problem.”

  “So I noticed.” Maryanne’s guard fell slightly, and they shared a laugh. “If you want a career in Hollywood, you might have more success in front of the camera. You already have a good start and the connections.”

  “Naw. It’s fun, don’t get me wrong. Who wouldn’t get a kick out of seeing themselves on the big screen?”

  They came to a central area outside the main building and dining hall. Across the way was a hotel-like building with nine rooms. Behind them, down a quaint country road, were the cabins where Maryanne and her father were staying. Dusty motioned to a wagon-wheel bench beneath a sprawling aspen tree.

  He waited for her to sit down first. The bench had appeared large enough to accommodate them both until he lowered himself beside her. Then, it magically shrunk so small their thighs brushed lightly against each other. Maryanne’s breath hitched. To distract herself from the sudden rush of heat, she patted Track’s head. He responded by licking her hand.

  “My mother never liked watching herself on screen. She hated attending premieres for that reason.”

  “She was an actress?”

  “A good one.”

  “Famous?”

  “Not exactly, though she was in a lot of movies. Character roles mostly. Her professional name was Dee Devon. You’d probably recognize her face if you saw a photograph of her.”

  Maryanne was proud of her mother’s career, which had spanned well over three decades. She may never have won an Oscar or Emmy but she’d worked steadily, was well liked and respected, and avoided ridiculous scandals that plagued so many celebrities.

  “She was in one television sitcom during the late eighties and early nineties. Family Fortune. She played the secretary, Wanda Winsome.”

  “I remember that show.” Dusty’s face brightened. “My parents loved it.” He studied her face, the twinkle never leaving his eyes. “You remind me of her. You have the same smile.”

  “Thank you.” People often commented on her resemblance to her mother, which had pleased her parents enormously. “I consider that a compliment.”

  “You should, she was an attractive woman.” The warm quality in Dusty’s voice told her he considered Maryanne attractive, too.

  He really did have flirting down to a science.

  Not normally shy and with a high tolerance for come-ons, Maryanne felt herself blush. Perhaps because of that, she blurted, “It is kind of amazing we look so much alike. I’m adopted.”

  “Your dad mentioned it.”

  Dusty knew! And yet he’d said she reminded him of her mother. More flustered than before, Maryanne stumbled over her reply.

  “I don’t normally tell people. Neither does my father.”

  “It came up yesterday. He was talking about your mother. How much he misses her.”

  “So do I.” The pain in her chest, with her always in the three years since she’d lost her mother, swelled.

  “I’m sorry. My grandparents both passed some years back. It’s not quite the same as a parent but still…”

  “The death of any loved one is always hard.” Some worse than others. Her mother had fought valiantly but in the end, the cancer had won. The sick, frail, eighty-five-pound woman in the hospital bed had in no way resembled the vivacious, sharp-tongued, larger than life Wanda Winsome—or any of the multitude of other characters Maryanne’s mother had played.

  “She was lucky to have you. Your dad, too.”

  “No, I was lucky to have them as my parents. They t
ried for over ten years to have a child of their own before deciding to adopt.”

  Maryanne was well aware of how different her life might have been if her parents had chosen an infant rather than a withdrawn three-year-old whose birth mother had dropped her off in front of the Social Services offices in the middle of January, jacketless and with a note pinned to her T-shirt.

  She also knew with utmost certainty that the right people had raised her and thanked God every day of her life for them. That didn’t stop her from reliving a profound sense of abandonment every time she recalled her birth mother leaving her on those cold, hard steps or her birth father disappearing from the face of the earth a few weeks earlier.

  “My mother’s the reason my father came to Cowboy College.” The same easy charm that made Dusty so likable also encouraged confiding. “He gave up a lot to be with her when they were first married. Not many men would follow their wife to Hollywood and support her while she pursued an acting career.”

  “Did he act, too?”

  Maryanne laughed. “No way. He’s a supervisor for a manufacturing plant. This is his first vacation in two years.”

  “He mentioned growing up in rural Ohio.”

  “If not for my mom, he’d still be living on the family farm. It’s why he’s so happy here.”

  “We country folk always find our way back eventually.”

  Had Dusty gone somewhere? Spent a long time away from home? She didn’t quite know how to ask so let the moment pass.

  “Right before Mom died, she made Dad promise that he would live life to the fullest. Do all the things he gave up in order to be with her.”

  “Like roping?”

  “Dad rodeoed some as a teenager. Guess he was pretty good but he didn’t get far. Not enough time or money.”

  “He definitely has the ability and the will. If he keeps after it, he’ll do okay.”

  Maryanne’s concerns for he father came rushing back. “He’s too old and has too many health problems to take up roping.”