by Lori Wilde
It felt like defeat.
To drown out her feelings, she turned on the old transistor radio she’d found on the windowsill in Dutch’s bedroom. She’d sold her iPod on eBay weeks ago—along with most of her other extraneous possessions—when she was desperate for rent money. It was tuned to a country-and-western station, not Mariah’s cup of tea, but when she went to turn the dial, the worn-out old plastic knob broke off in her hand. She tossed the knob in the trash. She was stuck listening to WBAP.
Stuck.
That seemed to be her current life theme.
Dolly Parton came over the airwaves, singing “I Will Always Love You.”
She remembered that Dolly had been one of Dutch’s favorites. She reached out to the picture on the wall of Dutch and Joe. She traced an index finger over her father’s face and listened to Dolly singing about lost love and her heart hurt so badly she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t cry. She wanted to cry. Wanted to fully mourn her lost father, but the tears refused to fall.
Resolutely, she turned from the picture, closed her eyes against the pain, and mentally shook herself.
Okay then. She was here. This was the situation. No more wallowing in self-pity. She needed to accept things as they were, get any job she could land, and just ride it out until Joe had the money to purchase the ranch from her. After that, after that . . .
After that, what?
One step at a time.
She’d seen the help wanted sign in the window of the Silver Horseshoe when they drove past it. Clover, the woman on horseback she’d met the day before, said she owned the place.
Why not start there?
The next morning, Mariah got up, showered, and started to dress in the one decent interview suit she still owned, but thought better of it. Talk about standing out like a sore thumb. The Chanel suit might have worked in Chicago, but what closed a deal here in Jubilee were cowboy clothes. Of which she had none.
She stood peering into the closet, wrapped in a thin cotton towel, her damp hair curling over her shoulders, as if something would materialize if she simply stared long enough. Finally, she put on the clothes she’d worn to lunch with Joe the day before. Black slacks and simple sweater. As the one concession to her true self, she put on the one indulgent item of clothing she had left. A pair of Manolo Blahniks.
As Mariah drove into Jubilee, past all the horse-oriented businesses, it occurred to her that she already had a connection here whether she wanted it or not. That she wasn’t absolutely alone.
Because of who her father had been, everyone made assumptions about her. They saw her as an extension of him, even though she and Dutch had nothing in common. The thought was both comforting and worrisome.
Mariah parked Dutch’s dually in the empty parking lot of the Silver Horseshoe that sat parallel to the interstate. This hour of the morning, the place wasn’t open for business, but there was an old green pickup parked near the side exit door and she was hoping to find Clover here, or at least talk to someone who could tell her where to find the woman.
Her heels clicked against the asphalt. It was a big place, at least ten thousand square feet, part honky-tonk, part restaurant. Posters of upcoming bands adorned the walls along with a menu advertising the daily specials, an announcement that the Silver Horseshoe was closed on Sundays, and the help wanted sign.
She walked around to the exit door and knocked. Waited. Then knocked again. Just when she was about to leave, the door creaked open and Clover poked her head out. “Yes?”
“Do you remember me, Mrs. Dempsey?”
“ ’Course I do, Flaxey. I’m old but my mind’s still pumping on all cylinders.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise, but I do prefer to be called Mariah.”
“Sure you do.”
Somehow that sounded like an indictment, but maybe she was just being sensitive.
“Well, c’mon in.” Clover motioned her inside the darkened building and led her down a narrow corridor to a cluttered office with deer heads mounted on the wall.
“Do you hunt?” Mariah asked to make small talk, and stared at a glassy-eyed buck.
“Carl did. They’re his trophies.” Clover waved a hand at a brown leather sofa that had seen more prosperous days. “Have a seat. Just push that horse tack over.”
She was getting accustomed to furniture that served as a clearinghouse for horse supplies. She eased the bridles and bits aside and perched on the edge of the sofa.
Clover sat on the corner of her desk, one leg on the ground, the other dangling over the edge. She rested one hand on her thigh, braced the other hand against the desktop to stabilize herself. “What’s up?”
“I need a job,” Mariah said. “I saw your help wanted sign.”
Clover gave her the once-over, narrowing her eyes. “You ever wait tables?”
“In college. And for a few weeks a couple of months ago.”
“Let me guess. You waited tables at one of those high-class joints in downtown Chicago.”
Mariah widened her eyes. “How did you know?”
Clover shook her gray head. “Honey, it’s written all over your face. You might have been born to a cutter, but you were raised around luxury.”
“Not my luxury,” she said. “I picked rich people’s clothes up off the floor and did their laundry. I swept their floors and washed their dishes and scrubbed their toilets.”
“But along the way you did learn how to appreciate nice things.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Clover studied Mariah for a long moment. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing wrong with that.”
“So you’ll hire me?”
“You ever wait tables in a honky-tonk?”
“No,” she admitted.
“We’re packed every single night that we’re open from five until two in the morning. You’ll be on your feet the whole time, carrying heavy trays, getting sloshed with beer, getting thrown up on, getting your ass pinched.”
The picture Clover painted wasn’t pretty, but Mariah was desperate. And although she might not look it, she was tough. Besides, she’d had Destiny for a boss. After that, the Silver Horseshoe would be a stroll through the garden. “I’m a hard worker.”
“It’s a long sight from Hyde Park. If you don’t want to get razzed by every cowboy in town, you’re going to have to change your look.” Clover swept a hand at Mariah’s clothes. “Get you some cowboy boots, and Wranglers, the tighter the better. That is if you’re angling for tips.”
Hope fluttered. “You’ll give me a job?”
“Maybe.” Clover narrowed her eyes. “How long you planning on staying in town?”
“Just until Christmas,” she confessed.
Clover folded her arms over her chest. “So why should I bother training a waitress who’s only planning on hanging around for two and a half months?”
“I need money.”
“That’s really not my problem.”
“But you knew my parents. You used to babysit for me.”
Suddenly, Clover smiled. “You’re just like your dad. You’ll tug on any rein to see if it gives.”
“Is that bad?”
“Tell you what,” Clover said, “come back tonight just as a visitor. Have the blue-plate special, play a game of pool, take in the clientele, and then you come tell me if you still think you can handle the job.”
Mariah didn’t have much money left and she really didn’t want to rack up debt on her one and only credit card. Normally, she kept it strictly for emergencies. But what was more urgent than buying clothes that would help her fit in and land a job? A uniform of sorts, if you will.
She remembered the Western wear store she passed on the way into town and headed there. The cowbell over the door clanged when she walked in. Dazed at the array of cowboy apparel options stretched out before her, Mariah stood there a moment, taking it all in.
From the circular racks of Western wear attire a red-haired, pigtailed woman a few years younger than M
ariah materialized. An acre of freckles carpeted her nose, and her lips glistened with a fresh sheen of gloss. Mariah could smell the heavy strawberry scent from where she stood.
The woman possessed a round happy face, a button nose, and almond-shaped eyes the color of unripe olives. She wore an orange denim skirt that skimmed the top of her cowboy boots, a black turtleneck pullover sweater, and a pink suede vest trimmed with white faux fur.
“Howdy!” she exclaimed, “Welcome to Western Wear Palooza. Name’s Prissy Purdue at your service.”
“Um . . . hello, Prissy.”
Prissy advanced on her, the bracelet at her wrist adorned with silver cowboy-theme charms jangling merrily. She grabbed Mariah by the arm and tugged in the direction she wanted her to go. “C’mon, c’mon, you gotta see the new stuff we just got in.”
Swept along by Prissy, the force of nature, Mariah found herself pulled into the depths of the store.
“Look at this. I just opened the box.” Prissy let go of Mariah’s arm and lifted the flaps on a big cardboard box sitting in the middle of the floor. “Will you get a load of these?”
Pigtails bobbing, Prissy started yanking out cow-print purses and leather belts and rubber rain boots with horses printed on them. “Aren’t they adorable. You can seriously get your cowgirl on with accessories like these. Which do you like best?”
Prissy held up two belt buckles. One was silver, embossed with the words: “Texas to the Bone.” The other was gold and had the raised three-dimensional image of a man riding a cutting horse. “I know, I know, the cutter belt buckle is obligatory in Jubilee and gold is shinier than silver, but the Texas to the Bone is just so badass.”
The other woman was yammering so fast that Mariah wondered if she was ever going to take a breath.
Prissy glanced down. “OMG!”
Startled, Mariah followed her gaze, saw a snakeskin belt on the floor, and for a horrifying second thought it was an actual snake. She jumped sideways.
“Are those Manolo Blahniks?”
“Huh?”
“Your shoes.” Prissy said the words like she was exhaling a prayer and sank to her knees to inspect Mariah’s shoes. “Manolo Blahniks.”
She pronounced them Man-ooo-loo Block-niks, but Mariah didn’t correct her. “Yes.”
“Can I touch them?” Prissy’s eyes had taken on a rapturous glaze.
“Um . . . I guess.” Mariah slipped off the stilettos and handed them over.
Prissy petted them like they were cats. “We’re the same size. Seven medium. You,” she announced with conviction, “are not from Jubilee.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re from a big city.”
“I am,” Mariah admitted, wondering what she’d walked into.
“I was born and raised in Jubilee, but I have dreams.”
“Big-city dreams?”
“Oh no,” Prissy said. “I love Jubilee. I just want to wear a pair of Manolo Blahniks at my wedding. I mean I love Western wear and all. As you can see it’s my life.” She waved a hand at the store. “But sometimes a girl just wants something sexy. Am I right?”
“You’re getting married?” Mariah asked.
“I am.” Prissy flashed a one-quarter-carat diamond engagement ring and grinned. “Paul asked me last night. He took me out to eat at the Mesquite Spit and he had them put it in my banana pudding. It was the most romantic thing ever.” Prissy sighed dreamily. “We’re planning to get married the first weekend in December.”
At the mention of a wedding, Mariah’s ears had pricked up. “Why so fast? You hardly have time to plan.”
“Oh, I’m not pregnant or anything if that’s what you’re thinking. Paul’s getting deployed to Afghanistan after Christmas and we want to be married before he goes.”
“Sounds like a great reason to fast-track the ceremony.”
“Fast-track.” Prissy beamed. “That sounds so in the know.”
“I am . . . was . . . a wedding planner.”
“You quit?”
“I was let go.”
Prissy made a noise of distress, shook her head. “Times are tough all over. I’m guessing more people are planning their own weddings on a shoestring budget, huh?”
“They are,” Mariah said, happy that Prissy didn’t ask more questions about why she’d gotten fired.
“So, what in the heck are you doin’ in Jubilee?”
“My father passed away and left me Stone Creek Ranch.”
Prissy gasped, splayed a palm across her chest. “You’re Dutch’s daughter?”
Mariah nodded.
“Oh my Lord, honey, let me give you a hug. You poor thing. It must have tore you right up that you couldn’t make the funeral. Paul and I were there. It was really nice. Half the town got up and said kind words.”
The next thing she knew, Prissy was enveloping her in a strawberry-scented hug. Mariah wasn’t much of a hugger, but Prissy sure was. She squeezed her tight. Awkwardly, Mariah patted Prissy’s shoulder blades.
Prissy pulled back, dabbed at the tears in her eyes. “It’s Mariah, right?”
“Yes.”
“Your daddy, he talked about you every time he came into the store. I know he’d be so proud that you came home.”
“Jubilee’s not my home.”
Prissy waved a hand. “ ’Course it is. Now that you own Stone Creek.”
“I’m selling it back to Joe Daniels.” She didn’t know why she was telling Prissy this.
“Oh that Joe.” Prissy sighed. “Isn’t he gorgeous? Like Jubilee’s version of a black-haired Brad Pitt. Except younger and sexier. It’s so sad about his wife. He and Becca were a dream couple. They looked like figurines on top of a wedding cake. They were so cute together you could just eat ’em up with a long-handled spoon.”
“Sounds . . . cannibalistic.”
Prissy’s high-pitched laugh resembled squealing bus brakes. “You’re so funny. Seriously though, before he hooked up with Becca, that rascally Joe was a real ladies’ man. But once he was with her, he never even looked at another woman. She was his world. And then Becca goes and gets herself killed.”
Morbid curiosity took hold of her and Mariah couldn’t stop herself from asking, “How did it happen?”
“It was so sad. She was barrel racing at PRCA rodeo in Duncan, Oklahoma. She’d been burning up the circuit, was all set to win the finals again like she’d done the year before, when her horse stumbled at top speed and threw her out of the saddle. She landed—boom.” Prissy smacked her palms together. “Right on the top of her head. Broke her spine like Christopher Reeve, but she died on the way to the hospital. Just one of those horrible freak accidents.”
Mariah felt as if all the blood had drained from her head to her feet. She thought of Joe and what he’d suffered, and her heart wrenched. She couldn’t begin to imagine the level of his grief. “That’s so awful.”
“A bunch of us thought he might do something stupid.”
“Like suicide?” Mariah whispered.
Prissy nodded solemnly. “They were so in love. It was that special kind of magic, you know,” Prissy said. “Like me and Paul. First time we laid eyes on each other, we both just knew. It’s killing me that Paul’s going to the Middle East, but he keeps telling me that freedom isn’t free. Somebody has to fight for it. I just don’t know why it has to be him.”
The cowbell over the front door tinkled.
“ ’Scuse me a minute,” Prissy said, and bounded for the front door.
Mariah looked at the purses and belts and buckles strewn across the counter where Prissy had been stacking them.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Prissy boomed to the new customer. “We were just talkin’ ’bout you.”
“We?” Joe said.
The sound of Joe’s rich, dark voice sent an excited shiver over her skin, and Mariah had an impulse to run right out the back door. She just might have done it too, if Prissy hadn’t shown up, trolling Joe behind her much as she’d done with Mar
iah earlier.
“Ta-da,” Prissy said. “Your new neighbor is on a shopping spree too.”
“Hello,” Joe said, his gaze meeting Mariah’s.
She raised a hand, smiled faintly.
“What were you looking for?” Prissy asked him.
“I need some new chaps. She Devil got me with her horn and split my old chaps right up the leg.”
“She Devil?” Mariah arched an eyebrow.
“An ornery Brahma I own,” Joe explained. “She doesn’t take well to being cut by Miracle. Those two get along like Tom and Jerry.”
“Miracle bested her I’m sure,” Prissy said.
“He did, but She Devil took it out on me.”
“Let me just go find those chaps. Same kind as before?”
“Yep.”
“Be right back.” Prissy disappeared.
“So,” Joe said, resting his arm on a support column that was very close to where Mariah stood. She could feel his radiating body heat, his mouth crooked like a question mark. “You decided to go country.”
“It was an issue of survival. Conform or be mocked.”
He tilted his cowboy hat down lower on his brow and leveled her a cocky stare. “You need any help?”
“Prissy’s taking care of me.”
Joe lowered his voice. “About that, you might want to reconsider. Prissy’s taste can be a bit . . .”
“Over the top?”
“I wasn’t going to say it, but yeah.” His grin could drop a buckle bunny at fifty paces. Cassie used to say the same thing about Dutch. Mariah wondered for the first time if her mother had been a buckle bunny in her youth.
Joe was standing too close. That alpha man thing. Closing in. Mariah hugged herself, putting her arms up for protection.
Against what? An outrageous smile?
But what got to her, what really screwed with her equilibrium, was that on the other side of the teasing smile, she knew the pain he struggled so hard to hide. Two sentences scrolled through her mind. One was sympathetic: Hands off he’s a widower—the other was pure selfishness: Wonder what he tastes like. That last thought gave her an electrical jolt.