Champagne and Cowboys

by Donna Michaels

  “This is not good, this is not good at all,” I whimpered, trying to maintain my balance on the slick surface under my feet.

  A Stop sign marking the spot where two streets intersected loomed in front of me. I slammed into it, clinging to the metal pole as I tried to get my bearings. I’d never visited this gentrified suburb before today.

  I’d walked from the T-Line up the street, but the houses looked a lot different under snow and ice than they had earlier in the day with their elegant holiday decorations displayed under a warm sun.

  I squinted through the snow, identifying a group of people on the other side of the street. Lights suddenly cut through the storm as a taxi fishtailed its way to the curb and the huddled group lunged for the handle.

  I lunged too. But before I could reach the spot, they’d all climbed inside. Whether they saw me or not was a moot point. The last one inside slammed the door and the cab took off.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” I muttered as the vehicle surged out of a rut and dirty snow hit me in the face.

  Halfway down the block, another taxi idled in the middle of the street. Maybe my luck had changed.

  “Mine,” I vowed and plunged through the storm, moving in the direction of the blurry beacon on top of the car.

  I slid to a halt on one side of the vehicle at the same time two figures, one man leaning heavily on another, loomed out of the storm’s fury and reached for the same cab from the far side.

  I attempted to jerk open the back door but a gale force wind threatened to knock me off my feet. Nevertheless, I clung to the handle, determined to get inside and stake my claim.

  “I’ll share,” I gasped when I finally won my struggle and wrenched it open.

  “No, you won’t.” One of the men on the other side shoved his companion into the seat before I could slide inside.

  I glared at both men clearly outlined by the dome light in the cab, ready to fight for space in the cab.

  But the first man sprawled drunkenly all over the seat. I was ready to climb in and make room for myself anyway when the driver chimed in. “Cab’s taken.”

  Ready to argue, I leaned in farther, but the driver accelerated, rocking his tires enough to threaten me.

  I gave up, backed away, and let the force of the blizzard rip the door from my hand. Instead of climbing into his stolen ride, the second man closed his door, and rapped on the top of the taxi.

  “Take off.” Spinning tires and lurching heavily, the vehicle moved away, leaving me staring across the open space at the cab thief. The next gust of wind whipped the hem of his trench coat and he slid on the ice-covered pavement.

  I peered through the swirling snow, uncharitably glad to see him fall on his rump. He gave me such a dark look, I had no desire to offer assistance as he began to rise.

  The wind took away the decision to help him when it slammed me with enough force to send me sliding down the sloping road.

  Hope there’s no traffic at the bottom of the hill. I slowed my descent down the twisty, narrow road by grabbing cars that residents had parked in the street. In more than one, the security alarm blared and lights flashed, warning the homeowners that a demented artist skidded down their hill.

  Once, the wind shifted and carried the sound of a man’s curse. I realized that someone, probably the cab thief, followed in my tracks. That freaked me out, and instead of concentrating on keeping my balance, I tried to increase my speed, which turned out to be a mistake.

  I fell, landing on the canvas tote, which acted like a sled, shooting me downward at an alarming speed until I collided with a garbage can covered in snow. I’d rounded the bend in the road before I crashed, and as I leaned on my elbows, catching my breath, I could see the lights from the T-Line in the distance.

  I could also see the F-150 idling in the middle of the cross-section between streets. The door opened and a size thirteen set of boots, followed by a sinewy length of hardened steel, stepped down.

  I silently willed the wind to catch Gable Matthews’ trademark Stetson. But it didn’t. He pulled it lower, stepped closer, and peered down at me.

  “Need some help?”

  “How’d you know where to find me?” I croaked, reaching up a hand so he could pry me out of the drift.

  “Lights flashing and horns blaring. Knew it was you.” He pulled me up and sheltered my body with his as he walked me to his truck.

  I ignored his oblique reference to the time he’d deactivated my car alarm after it had blared loud enough and long enough to wake my neighbor—one of those six degrees of separation things—his sister, Beth.

  I didn’t miss his drawled sarcasm. But, I didn’t have the breath for a snappy response left in me. Being not much more than five feet tall, it was always a struggle for me to reach the running board on the giant’s truck.

  This time I lost my battle to climb up. Cold had settled in my knees and I thought they might never work again.

  Gable slid his arm under my legs, lifted me into the big Ford pickup, parked my fanny on his heated seat, tucked my canvas tote in the back, and shut the door before I knew what he’d planned.

  Ahh… I moaned out loud as he jogged around to his side.

  The door opened, the truck tilted toward the driver’s side, and a blast of cold air accompanied Gable as he swung up and inside. As soon as he settled under the steering wheel, he handed me a towel.

  I’d been melting. Water puddled around me on his leather seats. Embarrassed, I wiped my face, and tried to blot the ice from my hat. He pulled the hat off, unleashing the mess of brown hair that tumbled out and around my shoulders.

  “Great, now it’s wet, too,” I complained.

  Before I could protest, he gathered it in his hand, pulled it away from my face, and squinted down at me. “Mud, I think.” He brushed my cheek with his thumb. “You been playin’ in a dirt pile?”

  “I’ve been earning money for a new barn roof,” I muttered stiffly, reaching for my hat.

  “Your hair’s a mite damp. Best let it dry.” He laid my knit cap out of reach on the dashboard closer to the heat. “Mind telling me why you’re skating around up here in a blizzard?”

  Beth laughed at Gable’s tendency to micromanage anything he involved himself in. Sometimes he forgot I wasn’t his sister and tried to boss me as well. Apparently, this was one of those times.

  “Kids’ party. I was the entertainment. The mud is from the tires of a taxi I tried to chase down.” I shut up, then thought of more explanation.

  “And if you’ll recall, it was fifty-five degrees this morning.” I decided I’d better tone down my indignation since he’d come out in the storm to find me. Plus, I remembered I had to get home. “You can just drop me at the train station,” I murmured.

  “Quit running a half hour ago.”

  “Oh.” That sounded dumb. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to ask him to drive to the country. The wind whistled and roared around the truck, sounding more like a locomotive than a storm. Home seemed farther away each moment.

  I shivered inside my wet coat. Gable muttered a curse, cranked up the heat, turned on some music, and put the truck in gear.

  I closed my eyes and enjoyed being out of the cold. There was no reason to ask where we were going. We’d go wherever Cowboy Matthews wanted to go. My eyes popped open again when I remembered the other stranded pedestrian.

  “There was a man behind me. We were both on foot.” I waved toward the street where snow already covered my skid marks.

  Gable honked his horn and backed the truck around enough to shine his lights up the narrow roadway. I couldn’t see anything.

  When nobody appeared, he sighed, put the engine back in park, took a flashlight with a megawatt beam from the back seat, and climbed out.

  My gaze followed the light as he walked away. Whether it was Gable disappearing into whiteout or the howl of the wind making me shudder, I waited tense and worried inside the truck. I thought about the cab thief and why he was on foot. We both coul
d have been in the taxi and not on foot. I didn’t like the idea of Gable alone out there looking for a fool.

  I knew he was freezing his tail off since I’d just been out there. Darn it. I gnawed my lip, wondering what I should do. I just wanted to curl up on the leather seat and…

  I drifted, thawing into a muddle of thoughts, one of them wondering if I should climb out and join the hunt. The slam of the truck door jarred me awake.

  “Nobody up the first or second street. I yelled. Don’t know if they’d have heard, but they would have seen my light.”

  The heater inside the cab had steadily kicked out heat, making me toasty warm. I stared blearily up at him. Yep, still had his hat on. But, he used a moment to take it off and toss it in the back.

  He brushed his hand over his military-short burr and met my glance with his own obsidian gaze. I looked away first.

  “You all right?”

  Gable’s rumbled question vibrated through my body, sending warning signals along with something else to my brain. The console I’d been leaning against disappeared, leaving me propped against a hard body instead.

  “I’m okay.” I gave no notice to the arm curled around my shoulders and concentrated on the sweep of the wipers chasing ice across the glass.

  “I’ll watch,” I mumbled. I intended to stay alert and be a help to the driver.

  “Suit yourself. But first, rest a minute, let your body know you’re safe.” He hitched me closer, until I felt his heat from thigh to shoulder. Then he snapped my seatbelt in place and angled my head against his chest. I inhaled his scent and closed my eyes. Just for a moment…

  Chapter Two

  I woke to a neon sign flashing strobe lights not even the blizzard could dull. We were at Church’s Bar & Grill. I wasn’t surprised.

  “Gang all here?” I asked. Gable Matthews maintained the equipment for Smoke Inc., a private company of firefighters, specifically, smokejumpers. Gable lived, worked, and partied with crazy men.

  “As always. Guess you’ll get to say, ‘Howdy and Happy New Year’. Wait here. I’ll come around the truck and carry you through the big drifts.”

  Here again, my connection to Gable could only be described as coincidental links, connecting us. My dad, a fireman, died of a heart attack while suited up and fighting a fire. For him, it had been a perfect ending. For me, not so much.

  My mom died when I was just a kid, so my brother Bud took over managing me when Dad died. Bud is also a firefighter.

  Most of the men I knew during my childhood were firefighters. They were a rough, noisy, brash, bunch of hardheads, then—and they still are. Gable fixes their equipment. As their mechanic, he fits right in. I don’t. And I don’t want to.

  A soon as he shut his door, I grabbed my hat, pulled it on, and scrambled out of the seat belt. I scooched to the passenger side in time to open my door, intending to slide to the ground.

  “Much obliged if you’d hang onto this.” Gable appeared next to the open door and handed me his hat. I looked at it dumbly, wondering what he wanted me to do with it. But then he bent forward and hoisted me in a fireman’s grip.

  As I hung over his shoulder like a sack of grain, I reminded myself why I avoided my neighbor’s brother. He could not be trusted to exercise rational behavior.

  My now dry knit fisherman’s cap slid off and I grabbed it with my free hand. The wind tore at my hair and I had no hands left to catch and tame the mess, so it streamed around me like Medusa’s crown.

  Abruptly, we passed from blizzard into warm, bright light. Raucous disorder waited beyond the swinging door, and maybe food. As Gable set me on my feet, all I could do was stare past him wistfully at the sandwich board menu.

  “I take it you’re hungry.” Again, his deep growl made me tingle all over. I pulled my knit cap down over my wild hair and concentrated on the most important matter. Food.

  “A little bit.” Hunger gnawed at my stomach, reminding me I’d had no lunch and a long-ago breakfast.

  He pulled the cap off, stuck it in his back pocket, and smoothed my hair.

  “What are you doing?” I slapped at his hands.

  “Shush, now.” He frowned as he concentrated on smoothing the tangles away from my face. “Nutmeg,” he grunted.

  “Nutmeg what?” I asked defensively.

  “Color of your hair, Harley-Jane. You, bein’ an artist, should know that.” He pushed open the door and stepped aside as I entered. Shells crunched under my feet and my lungs seized at the smoke in the room. I stepped into the crowded space, expecting Gable to follow. Cowboy’s chivalry had obviously been stretched to the max.

  He’d disappeared, leaving me alone and staring at all the occupied counter stools. Those lucky ones already seated watched me and the other stragglers as if they expected us to wrestle for a chair.

  If I’d had more strength, I might have considered it. Recovering from my manic slide down one of Mount Lebanon’s curvy roads, I only had strength to feel gratitude at being out of the cold.

  The wind roared outside, booming enough sometimes to shake the rafters. My coat dripped water, and melted snow slid down my neck. Grimly, I searched for a seat.

  How about a corner to curl up in. Tired enough to sleep on my feet, I shifted, expecting to feel the usual weight of my canvas tote. Panic hit me when I realized it was gone.

  Then I remembered. I’d left it in the truck.

  It’s probably as safe there as anywhere else tonight. But my anxiety level ratcheted higher as my gaze skated over the room, looking for an empty space along the wall to lean against. My glance shifted back to the bar, searching for a menu as well.

  At the end of the counter, miraculously a stool appeared, pushed there by a man wearing a cowboy hat. Gable stood behind the bar and nodded toward the seat. I didn’t hesitate, almost lunging across the room to accept the offer.

  As soon as I sat, he slid my portfolio around the corner. I slumped, almost giddy with relief. I had the group picture to finish, but the preliminary sketches were secure.

  Gable slid another stool next to mine, squeezing me between him and a one-and-a-half size man, who appeared determined to consume all the freebies on the counter.

  Then again, watching him delve into the shelled peanuts, toss them into his mouth, wash them down with a gulp of beer, burp, and reach again, I decided peanuts weren’t on my menu.

  The guy wasn’t a cop or firefighter, for sure. His overweight sloppiness marked him as a refugee, not a regular. I could feel my stomach drawing into a knot as he leered at me.

  I ignored him, stoically adjusting to discomfort and concentrating on the food issue rather than the cretin next to me. It could be worse—I glanced at the storm’s refugees standing by the wall, waiting bleakly for a seat.

  “Could I get a coffee?” I asked, shivering as a blast of cold air accompanied another straggler coming in from the blizzard.

  “Just brewed a pot. Coming right up.” Church, the owner and bartender who presided over his establishment with a firm hand, eyed every person who entered the building.

  “Been a while, Janie. Good to see you.”

  “Good to see you, too, Church,” I told him when he poured the brew and set the mug before me. The aroma of fresh coffee made my stomach twist with hunger.

  “Talk to Bud lately?”

  “He called me Christmas day. He’s in California, part of an interagency Hot Shot Crew.”

  “Heard that. Didn’t hear why you stayed behind.” Church waited expectantly while I stared into the cup, as if I found the black brew he’d delivered fascinating. I had no words to explain why I’d remained here after things went bad.

  I shrugged. “We’re not joined at the hip. He wanted to leave. I wanted to stay on the farm. Not much else to say.”

  I didn’t want to think about my brother’s defection to the other side of the country. He’d wanted me to sell the place and join him. I’d decided to stay here and live in the old farmhouse instead. Neither one of us had been happy wit
h the other’s choice.

  He’d been helping me get on my feet, but he’d needed money to get situated in LA, a town not known for being cheap. His move had left me paying the farm bills on my own, a feat that had become increasingly difficult to do. Hence, I was out picking up extra money by providing entertainment at kids’ parties.

  “I thought smokers had all quit or, like the dinosaurs, died.” I glanced around the room. Obviously, I’d been mistaken. Despite signs clearly displayed that decreed No Smoking by Order of the Department of Health, ashtrays overflowed on the bar and people puffed noxious exhaust into the air.

  “It is what it is,” Church decreed. “Can’t make ’em go out in that mess to light up.”

  I supposed firefighters have a higher tolerance for smoke. I drank coffee and breathed shallow breaths, trying to distance myself from the other stranded people who’d also found shelter in a Neanderthal’s cave.

  I ignored the first, second, and third brush of my portly neighbor’s thigh against my hip. To be fair, we were packed in tight, and he was here first.

  But, on the fourth pass, when his hand patted my rump, I turned, deliberately jabbing him in the throat with my elbow. The blow, even muffled by layers of clothes, still choked him enough to get his attention.

  “Don’t touch me again.” Then I turned and slammed against Gable’s side. The day just kept getting worse. My slim hold on rational behavior unraveled more.

  “Excuse me.” I apologized, not looking at him.

  He waited until I turned to him. “Seem to be having trouble managing your space.” His grin took the bite out of his words and I apologized again and then looked away from him and at the mirror above the bar, trying to regain invisibility.

  What I do not want right now is conversation. I want food.

  Then my desperate gaze spied the bad news. A sign hung over the bar announcing, Out of Eats, Sorry! I thought I might cry. Instead, I folded my hands around the mug of black coffee and stared into the mirror.