Great, My Heart May Be Broken but My Hair Still Looks Great

by Dixie Cash

“Don’t fret,” Debbie Sue said, “you’re spending the night with us. We’ve got plenty of room and we’ll get a chance to get to know each other. Your stuff will be safe, too. Our place is way off the beaten path.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience.” She frowned and bit her lip. “This is all my fault—”

  “Don’t apologize. You’re our guest and that’s final.” She gave Buddy a kiss on his cheek. “Sweetie Pie, could you go by the house and let those painters know they have to finish up tonight for sure?” She turned back to Paige. “Our place is easy to find. It’s ten miles out of town. Ed’s an artist, so she can draw you a map. Plan on being there for supper around seven. I’m not much of a cook, so all I can guarantee is there’ll be plenty of food and it’ll be filling.”

  Lighthearted, map drawn with an eyebrow pencil in hand, Paige returned to her SUV. Everyone she had met was so friendly. A good feeling about her move to this small town washed over her. Maybe taking care of Harley’s horses wasn’t the same as having a gold-embossed degree hanging on the wall, maybe it wasn’t a position with a prestigious law firm, but it was something in which she could take pride and something she would do on her own. She had every intention of continuing the practice of random acts of logic and senseless acts of unselfish self-control.

  “Mom,” she said, looking up at the sky, “I wish you were here. You’d be so proud of me.”

  Today was the first time Paige had ever uttered those words.

  DEBBIE SUE AND EDWINA watched as Paige left the parking lot.

  “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Edwina unwrapped a chocolate Tootsie Pop. “For somebody superrich, she seems down-to-earth. Did C.J. say why she came to a place like Salt Lick and why she’s shoveling horseshit for low wages?”

  “Just that her dad and Harley have some kind of connection. And something about her wanting to follow in her mother’s footsteps.”

  “Hm. Wonder what life would be like if your daddy was the richest man in Texas.”

  “Different from ours, that’s for sure. By the way Ed, who was on the phone just now?”

  “A call for the equalizers. Javelina Huffman from Ozona. Been married ten years. Eight kids. She’s convinced her husband’s having an affair.”

  “What makes her think so?”

  “He’s started taking baths and brushing his teeth. She says that’s foreplay for Joe Eddy, and it ain’t her he’s playing with.” Edwina shoved the lollipop into her mouth.

  Debbie Sue shook her head. “You know, some people just don’t recognize a good thing when it happens to them. If nothing else, we should find out who the lucky woman is so Javelina can send a thank-you note.”

  “You got that right. Hey, when you invited Paige to spend the night, did you forget that good-looking new vet is coming to your house tonight for supper?”

  Debbie Sue curled her lips into a wicked grin. “Nope, I didn’t forget.”

  Edwina grinned, too. “Are we adding matchmaking to the equalizers’ duties?”

  “Why, whatever do you mean, Ed?”

  nine

  By nature Paige maintained an upbeat attitude, and today she had something about which to be truly positive. She had been given a new job doing something she knew she would love and had stumbled onto new friends who seemed to like her for herself instead of her daddy’s money.

  But as she headed toward the Overstreets’ home, humming along with the radio, everything felt almost too grand. Her history pestered her and threatened to undo her positive thinking. She was having difficulty defeating the feeling that something was set to go horribly wrong.

  Passing through town it occurred to her she would be showing up empty-handed to a dinner in a private home. She should take a gift. A bottle of wine would be appropriate, but Paige saw no place in town that looked like it sold alcohol. Flowers would be suitable, but she didn’t see a floral shop, either. Drat.

  The quickest and best thing to do was stop and ask someone where she could buy wine or flowers. At the edge of town, she saw a business that appeared to be open, Salt Lick Veterinary Medicine. Oh, good. Here was her chance to not only get information, but also to introduce herself to a person with whom she would be working closely—the veterinarian.

  Door chimes pinged her arrival, but she found the reception room empty. Instead of a smiling, welcoming face, what she saw was a hand-printed sign. RECEPTIONIST NEEDED. REQUIRED TO LIKE ANIMALS AND PEOPLE. IN THAT ORDER.

  A male voice called out from the back, “Be with you in just a minute.”

  While she waited for someone to come into the reception room, she scanned the framed documents on the wall, noting that the vet, Dr. Miller, had graduated from Texas A&M. The graduation year meant he was likely in his late fifties or early sixties.

  Moving around the room, she continued her perusal of the walls. As she reached a corner, she stopped in the nick of time. Apparently a large dog had been in the room earlier and left a sizable deposit on the floor. “Yuck!”

  Recoiling, she stepped backward and felt the three-inch knife-blade heel of her Manolo Blahnik boot make contact with something soft.

  “Sonofabitch,” a male voice cried.

  She did a one-eighty and found herself face-to-face with the libido-enhancing mystery man. Her breath caught. “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?” Even red faced and in pain he was still sexy enough to warm her panty hose. “I mean…uh…how badly did I hurt you? Why aren’t you wearing shoes?” She pointed at a red circle that had formed on the top of his socked foot. “That isn’t blood, is it?”

  “Naw,” he ground out from between clenched teeth, “that’s not blood. I drew a big red dot on top of my foot so you’d have a target.” He yanked off his sock and examined his foot, his face twisted into a grimace. “If you must know, I took my boots off ’cause I’ve been tromping in cow shit all day.” He straightened, dangling his sock from one hand. “You seem determined to do me bodily harm with those things you call shoes.”

  Oh, hell. Hadn’t she made an impression on him at all? The shoe she had threatened him with out on the highway was a red pump. Tonight, she was wearing black ankle boots. Correcting him probably wasn’t the best thing to do at this time, but she couldn’t let the misconception stand. “These are different shoes,” she said and held up one foot.

  “And your point is?” He hobbled over and braced a hand against the wall.

  “Well you don’t have to be sarcastic. I said I was sorry. If you’d done your job and cleaned up this mess and if you hadn’t sneaked up behind me—”

  “Paige, the only sneaking I’d do in your presence would be to escape in the opposite direction from where you’re headed. I’ve been in tornadoes less dangerous than you.” Testing pressure on his foot, he grimaced again. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to my trailer to take care of this. Please show yourself out.”

  Short of setting herself on fire she could think of nothing more she could do to get this guy to pay attention to her. The real frustration lay in the fact that he was the first man she had ever met who kept sneaking back into her thoughts.

  She watched him limp away. Well, there was a bright side. He had remembered her name.

  As she turned to leave another thought came to her. He probably worked here cleaning stalls and cages. Would his injury prevent his doing his job? Would it mean lost wages? Perhaps he needed medical attention.

  She had to make amends, had to help this man who had helped her.

  Clinging to that noble intention, she followed him out the building’s back door. A battered travel trailer huddled a hundred feet away on the far side of a gravel parking lot. With its rounded edges and faded green color, it almost looked worse than the beat-up pickup he drove. He pulled open the door and climbed into the trailer.

  Paige lifted her wallet from her purse and counted her cash. One hundred fifteen dollars. She had hoped it would last until payday, but her needs no longer mattered. She tucked fifteen dolla
rs—the gas guzzler she drove demanded as much—back into her purse, then picked her way across the parking lot, a hundred dollars tightly gripped in her hand, the high heels of her four-hundred-dollar boots sinking into the gravel with every step.

  When she reached the trailer, on a deep breath she reached up and knocked on the door. “Hellooo?…It’s Paige McBride.”

  No response.

  “Uh, sir? Could you please tell me your name?…You know, we’ve never been properly introduced.”

  Another moment of silence. For all she knew he could be loading a gun.

  “Spur, dammit! My name’s Spur!”

  The loud voice carried a distinctly unfriendly tone. Paige winced and frowned. “Uhm…Mr. Spur?…If you’ll open the door, I’d like to talk to you.”

  She heard rustling. He was definitely loading a gun. She stood frozen.

  A few thumps that sounded like heavy footsteps and the door flew open, almost striking her square in the face. The man looked down at her, laughing…Laughing!…

  …And filling the trailer’s doorway. And he was beautiful.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry I was mean. I promise, sarcasm isn’t the only side I have. It’s just that my foot hurt so damn bad. I know you didn’t step on me on purpose.”

  Hypnotized by his dark eyes filled with mirth, unable to tear her gaze from his perfect lips, Paige’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Finally she found a smile of her own. “I just wanted to see if you needed help with your fuck—I mean, your foot.”

  “My what?”

  Oh my God! She gasped and slapped her fingers against her mouth. She felt as if she had been thrust into a vacuum, felt the earth turning on its axis. Please, dear God. Please, tell me I didn’t say “help with your fuck.”

  Mr. Spur threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Now that, lady,” he said when he stopped for a breath, “is an original question.”

  If it were possible to know how red felt, Paige now knew. She fumbled for words. “I’m—I’m so sorry, Mr. Spur…. What—what I mean to say—”

  “Thanks for the offer. I think my foot’ll be fine.”

  Driven by her mission, Paige stepped forward. “Just in case you need medical attention I want you to have this.” She extended her hand with the money. “It’s a hundred dollars. I can get more if you need it.”

  As quick as a slap, the smile fell from his face “That how you handle all your problems, Miss America? A simple ‘I’m sorry’ won’t suffice? You gotta toss some of daddy’s money on top? Smear that green salve on every boo-boo. Thanks, but no thanks.” He leaned out and grabbed the door that had swung back against the trailer’s side. “Take your money and get away from me. And, by the way, just for the record, my name’s Spur. Not Mister Spur. Who the hell ever heard of anybody with a last name, Spur?”

  Crash! The metal RV door slammed, leaving her standing alone. She felt like the sole survivor of a plane crash, surrounded by horrific destruction.

  Dejected and confused, she turned to leave but was gripped all at once by a fierce anger. How dare he address her in that tone when she had been trying to help? “Well, oh yeah?” she yelled at the door. “Whoever heard of Spur for a first name? I happen to know there’s a town named Spur and it was probably named after somebody.”

  She attempted to take her dignity and march away, but as if the gravel parking lot were quicksand, her heels kept sinking and she found herself hobbling. “Asshole,” she mumbled.

  “AND NOW, FOLKS, the number one tune on the Cow Country Countdown is a collaboration of Virginia Pratt’s pen and Deana Carter’s music. Here it is, boys and girls. ‘My Heart May Be Broken, but My Hair Still Looks Great.’”

  A thrill coursed through Debbie Sue every time she heard it. Deana Carter singing one of her mother’s songs. She knew the lyrics by heart. After finishing beauty school and passing the state’s test for her license, her mother had written the song for her. She squealed and turned up the volume.

  Using the spatula as a microphone, she belted out the tune she and her mother had sung in duet many times. C.J. should be here. As kids, Debbie Sue and C.J. had put on imaginary Grand Ole Opry shows, with Mom playing the piano and Debbie Sue and C.J. singing her lyrics.

  After the song came to a climactic end, Debbie Sue checked the pork chops baking in the oven. She had made great strides the last year in competence in the kitchen. Resuming her role as Buddy’s wife, she had vowed to be a more traditional spouse, which included learning to cook without burning the food and doing laundry without shrinking or fading every garment.

  In her cooking endeavors she stuck with the tried and true, only occasionally venturing into something as exotic as a recipe with more than four ingredients. Luckily, Buddy’s tastes were simple, and he didn’t expect much.

  Tonight’s menu was breaded, oven-fried pork chops Vic had told her how to make. She had no problem with doing mashed potatoes, fried okra, and a green salad on her own. She also had yeast rolls Vic had baked. She debated for a fleeting moment if she would reveal that the homemade bread had been baked by someone other than herself. Nah, she decided at last.

  Dessert was a chocolate pan cake made from a store-bought mix. Again, only four ingredients. What would the world do without Betty Crocker? She didn’t know if she would ever master a layer cake, but weren’t goals what made life worth living?

  She heard the slap of the screen door closing and called out, “Sweetie, is that you?”

  Buddy stepped into the kitchen with a big grin on his face. “That’s a safe question for either me or the mailman, isn’t it?”

  Debbie Sue grinned. “The mailman would never come around this time of day. He’s strictly a morning person.”

  Buddy enveloped her in his arms. “I’m a morning person, too.” He nibbled on her neck. “Or have you already forgotten about this morning?”

  Her body responded, and if they had the time to spare, the kitchen table would have served. Again. If she and Buddy could spend all their time on sex, they would never have a problem. Rolling her eyes, she pushed him away. “C’mon. Let’s not start something we can’t finish.”

  “Oh, I intend to finish.” Buddy reached for her again.

  Debbie Sue did a quick side step. “I don’t want our company to come in and see you standing here with a hard-on.”

  “Flash, I couldn’t agree with you more.” He made another attempt to grab her.

  “Stop it.” She giggled and put distance between them. “We’ve got time for that after everybody goes home.”

  Just then the sound of tires crunching gravel announced the arrival of one of their guests.

  “See there? Now how would it look if they’d caught us?”

  TEETH CHATTERING, Spur stumbled from the undersize tub-shower combo and straddled the commode. The hot water heater must be the size of a five-gallon bucket, because the choices in water temperature were cold and colder. But he had to endure. He couldn’t show up for dinner at his new friends’ without a shower and clean hair.

  Banging his injured instep on the side of the fiberglass tub, he cussed a blue streak as he grabbed a towel. Whoever designed showers for RVs should be shot. No damn way could a man who was six three take a decent shower in a three-by-four bathroom. Jesus Christ, he practically had to get on his knees just to put his head under the shower spray.

  The furnace blew at full blast, but he continued to shiver, certain the trailer had no insulation. Well, it could be worse. He could be in North Dakota.

  He dried quickly and briskly, thinking about a home-cooked meal at a table with real silverware. Being a small-town girl, Debbie Sue Overstreet was probably a good cook. Hogg’s Drive-in did serve good cheeseburgers, but how many could a man eat? His tiny microwave was capable of heating only the smallest size of TV dinners, which he ate with plastic utensils.

  He tugged on his briefs and added a T-shirt. Fall evenings in the high plains of West Texas were chilly. To wear with one of his two pairs of newer
Wranglers, he dragged out a maroon sweatshirt, the only one he owned that didn’t have A&M or AGGIES splashed across the front.

  Sitting on the side of the bunk-size bed and working his sock on, pain re-reminded him of his injury. Four years of college football, playing against the toughest, biggest defensive players a quarterback ever faced and never a sidelining injury. Mostly bruises and turf burns. Now, one statuesque blonde with big blue eyes and a heart-stopping smile had shattered that record and damn near fractured his instep.

  The wound’s tenderness told him he wouldn’t be wearing cowboy boots tonight. That left only an athletic shoe. He slipped on the shoes, left one unlaced, then grabbed his pickup keys and headed for the door, humming the A&M fight song. Nothing ever got the best of a Texas Aggie.

  STILL SHAKEN FROM her third disastrous encounter with the mystery man, Paige brought the Escalade to a stop in front of a vintage home at the end of a long driveway. Welcoming lights glowed in the windows, and after what had just happened, she needed that.

  As she scooted out of the Cadillac, Buddy came out of the house and stood on the front porch that wrapped around the house. “Hey, Paige. Glad you found the place. Have any trouble?” The serious, all-professional manner of earlier in the day had disappeared.

  “None at all. Edwina drew me a perfect map.”

  Debbie Sue walked up. “Hi, Paige. We’re so happy to have you.” Before Paige could speak Debbie Sue enveloped her in a hug. “I hope you don’t mind simple cooking. Even if I’m not the best, my effort’s sincere. My mom always said that had to count for something.”

  “I couldn’t agree with your mom more. I never cook myself, but my best friend in Fort Worth has gone to a bunch of culinary schools. Unfortunately, she still can’t cook.” Debbie Sue laughed, so Paige added, “I do mix a margarita that will make you forget your troubles. Six years in college wasn’t a total waste.”

  “That’s good to hear. We’ll make good use of that education.” Debbie Sue took her by the arm and guided her onto the porch. “Did you bring a suitcase or something?”