Colorado High

by Joyce C. Ware

  “Then what the hell are you talking about?”

  Unprepared for her gentle daughter’s challenge, Tessa found herself momentarily at a loss for words.

  “Well, Mom? Enlighten me, please.”

  “Opportunity,” Tessa finally said. “Unless Scott has changed a whole heap, there’ll be a lot of famous names on hand to help him warm his house. Fashion types. Hollywood people. Think new frontiers, Garland. A chance to go— “

  “Where no one’s ever gone before? C’mon, Mom, I’m just an ordinary person, not a weirded-out character like those in that TV space series Dad was so crazy about— “

  “ ‘Star Trek,’ “ Tessa broke in. “Not all the characters were weird, Garland.”

  Sensing her mother’s hurt. Garland’s expression softened. “I know. Mom,” she said gently. “But I’m not like you, either. ‘Fess up now, was it really all that great being the Wild Westerns girl? There must have been a lot of pressure ... and a lot of guys putting the make on you.”

  “Working under pressure teaches you a lot, Garland. You find strengths you never knew you had, and— “ she shrugged— “you learn how to cope with your weaknesses ...”

  Her gaze drifted beyond Garland to the long lacy spill of water down Bridal Veil Falls at the end of the valley. “Your dad and I ... it’s no secret our marriage wasn’t the greatest, but I never cheated on him. Garland.” She turned in the saddle to look at her daughter. “Never.”

  “I know that, too. Mom.” Garland tapped Sunset with her heels, closing the gap between them. Her smile coaxed a reluctant one from Tessa. “But I gotta admit,” she confided, “Scott Shelby sure must have put your moral fiber to the test.”

  Tessa’s smile broadened. “You think so, huh?”

  “Oh yeah. He’s a seriously sexy guy. Not the soulful, hand-holding type of sexy . . . you know, the kind who takes you on long walks for meaningful conversations?” Tessa, not knowing, gave her daughter a blank look. “God, Mom, Boulder’s full of them! Sure, they may bring a blanket along with the picnic basket, hoping for more than just talk, yet willing enough to bide their time. Nice boys at heart, you know? But that Scott Shelby!” She grinned and shook her fingers as if singed. “He puts a girl in mind of hotel rooms and rumpled sheets.”

  Her matter-of-fact delivery made Tessa blink. “I would have thought . . . that is, someone your age ... I mean, he’s not exactly a kid, sweetie.”

  “Look at the herd animals. Mom. It’s always the mature bulls who dominate, right? Of course, it isn’t as simple as that when it comes to the human species, but real sex appeal is timeless. Look at Scan Connery. Clint Eastwood. Uncle Jed.”

  This time Tessa couldn’t hide her shock. “Jed? For God’s sake. Garland!”

  Garland looked at her mother in consternation. “I was speaking theoretically, Mom. I mean, Uncle Jed is ... Uncle Jed.”

  Embarrassed, Tessa ducked her head. “Honey, I never thought— “

  “On the other hand,” Garland drawled, “if old Sean came to town, for a film festival, say, and we just happened to hit it off . . .” She rolled a roguish eye. “Well, now, in that case— “

  “In that case,” Tessa warned, “I’d nail your hide to the barn door!”

  To emphasize her point, she gave Sunset a smart slap on the rump. The mare’s suddenly quickened pace proved infectious. One after the other, the excited horses veered into the space between the crawling lanes of cars and, to the delight of the lunchtime crowd of tourists thronging the sidewalks, thundered in tandem down the wide avenue.

  Chapter Eight

  Monday morning, just after Tessa finished confirming the delivery of the feeder calves at the end of the week, the phone rang. It was Jeannie.

  “So how was the Nothing Festival?”

  “Not bad. Not bad at all. You might even call it a something festival.”

  “Don’t play coy with me, Tessa Wagner. C’mon, give.”

  “Well, I saw Scott Shelby.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  “You were right. He looks terrific.”

  “And?”

  “He invited us. Garland and me, to his house-warming. In a fortnight.”

  “Fortnight,” Jeannie repeated slowly. “Let’s see now ... is that four nights from now or forty?”

  Tessa laughed. “Neither, you ignorant person. It means two weeks.”

  “Garland told you, right?”

  “Damn it, Jeannie! You know me too well!”

  “A fact of life I suggest you henceforth keep in mind,” Jeannie observed in a mincing tone. Their joined laughter resounded tinnily over the miles. “What are you planning to wear?”

  “I knew you were going to ask that!” Tessa declared. “Either that or something about my hair. There’s more to life than hair and clothes, Jeannie.”

  “Hair is my profession,” Jeannie protested, “and clothes are Scott Shelby’s. If I were a scientist, maybe we could exchange ideas about global warming, but—“

  “Okay, okay. To answer your question, I haven’t decided yet. Scott wanted me to wear my Wild Westerns gear. I told him I didn’t have it anymore.”

  “Liar,” Jeannie observed mildly.

  “What else could I do? Admit flat out it no longer fit me? It was bad enough him seeing me side by side with Garland.”

  “Hmmm-mm. I see your point. What did Garland have to say about him?”

  “She said, and I quote, ‘he’s a seriously sexy

  guy.’“

  “No kidding? I’d’ve thought-”

  “But she said the same thing about Sean Connery and Clint Eastwood,” Tessa added with a rueful chuckle, deliberately omitting Garland’s inclusion of Jed. “Anyway, Scott wants to meet with her ... to discuss the festival he’s sponsoring.”

  “Yeah, sure. In a rear booth in some dark bar, I bet. You didn’t encourage it, I hope.”

  “No, I didn’t . . . but I didn’t discourage it either. Why should I? It’s like an open . . . open . . . Shoot! I can’t think of the word! What are those little seeds they put on hard rolls?”

  “Poppy?”

  “No, no, the flat white ones . . .”

  “Sesame?”

  “Yeah! Open sesame! We’re talkin’ oppor-damntunity here, Jeannie.”

  “Are you sure that’s what Garland wants?”

  “She’s twenty, for God’s sake! Who knows what they want at twenty?”

  “You did,” Jeannie ventured.

  “Oh no. I thought I did. I was wrong. If Scott can open doors for her like he did for me . . . Don’t you see, Jeannie? By the time my chance came it was too late. I don’t want that to happen to Garland.”

  “She’s not you, Tessa.”

  “I’m her mother!” Tessa cried. “It’s what mothers do! Especially mothers of girls whose fathers abandoned them.”

  “C’mon now . . . Barry may have been a shit, but he didn’t run out on his kids.”

  “It might have been better if he had. That way I could have made up some nice-sounding story about him. The way it was, he might as well have been a ghost. If it hadn’t been for Jed--”

  Reminded anew of how beholden she was, Tessa’s lips clamped down, cutting her sentence short. The debt weighed on her like an ox yoke. She hunched her shoulders, unconsciously seeking relief. “Jeannie, I—“

  “Gotta go, Tessa! Someone’s at my door . . . yeah, it’s Angie. If I don’t let her in quick, she’ll panic. As usual, she’s waited too long for a trim and touch-up. Not a pretty sight.”

  “Is she ever?”

  “Meow, meow. Look, about that housewarming—you know what you should wear? I’ll get back to you. Coming, Angie!”

  The receiver slammed down on the other end.

  Tessa stared into the mouthpiece. She really hadn’t had anything else to say, but the breaking of the connection spun her back into a whirlpool of troubled thoughts. She filled the kettle from the tap and dropped a tea bag in the Snoopy mug surviving from a pair Jed had long ago given th
e twins.

  She had been looking forward to seeing Scott again. Had plotted it, in fact. Her very own scenario. It was fun. Harmless. And it worked: scene and sequel, playing out just like she remembered the process being described by a screenwriter she met during one of her whirlwind visits to Los Angeles back in the Wild Westerns days. Trouble was, it had brought back more than she intended, and this time there was no Barry to apply the brakes.

  The kettle whistled. Garland was right, Tessa conceded as she poured the boiling water into the cup. Sex was what Scott was all about. A woman didn’t think of him in connection with walks in the park or dinner by candlelight or raising kids. Maybe, she mused, that’s why his designs were so successful. Not that there was anything obviously sexy about them— no glitter; no satin; no slits up to here or down to there. The clothes Scott had designed for her had seemed straightforward enough—leather and suede, cashmere and silk, but while wearing them she had felt , . . what? Blonder? Prettier?

  Yeah, but there was more to it than that...

  Tessa frowned. She spooned the sodden tea bag into the sink, added sugar to the tea, and went to the refrigerator for a splash of milk. Readier to take chances, maybe?

  She paused, milk carton in hand. That was it. He made a woman readier to take chances. All kinds of chances. And the effect was even stronger in the line that followed hers. Soft luscious pastels and clingy fabrics. Water Babies, he had named it. Not her type, really, but oh my . . .

  As Tessa stirred the sweet milky mixture, she idly wondered who had given him the inspiration. She knew someone had . . . someone as slim as she had been. Younger, probably.

  Sipping her tea, Tessa gazed out the window. A breeze stirred the pale grasses growing among the sage. Seeing the languorous bending of their tall stems, Tessa felt the sudden bite of envy. Why couldn’t a person shrink-wrap her life? life, she reminded herself, she ought to be damn grateful for: ranch owner, breeder of good horses and great kids. No need for unsettling yearnings; no room for doubts and loose ends.

  Tessa trickled the cooled dregs of tea into the sink. “Except,” she muttered to herself, “the twins are grown, my brother-in-law’s got his beady eye on my land, and horses don’t keep a girl’s bed warm.”

  Who am I kidding? I’m a woman, not a girl, and have been for a helluva long time.

  “A grown-up, fifty-year-old woman,” she continued doggedly under her breath, “plagued by doubts and the yearnings of a teenager. As for loose ends—”

  A smart rap at the kitchen door rattled the glass panes, cutting Tessa’s monologue short. She wiped her hands on the towel hanging under the countertop and narrowed her eyes against the light streaming through the newly Windexed rectangles. It was Jed. Talk about loose ends. She opened the door with a sigh.

  “Hi, Jed.”

  He looked at her frowning face. “I can come back.”

  “You’re here now.” She stepped back. “You might as well come in.”

  “You took the storm door down, I see.”

  “Miguel said it was past time. He keeps me in line,” she admitted. “If it weren’t for him, I’d probably spend my days squatting in here like a toad, slurping in flies the spiders I keep forgetting to dust out of the corners. “

  “That’s quite a picture,” Jed said. “I guess you’re feeling a little down this morning.”

  Tessa stared at him, first thinking of all the comparisons she might make— down as . . . downer than— then thinking, why bother? “What can I do for you? If you’re expecting an apology- “

  Jed threw his forearms up, palms out. “Hey, you were right. Whatever you and Shelby—” She thrust out her jaw. “I was just going to say I agreed with you, Tessa. It’s none of my business.” He slowly lowered his arms. “Friends?”

  Tessa sighed. She clasped the blunt-fingered hand he extended. His callused palm felt rough and warm against hers.

  He smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes. The extended forecast is mighty nice for a change, so what I thought was, maybe you and Garland could use some help taking the feeder calves up into the high country this weekend.”

  “How’d you know I was planning to?”

  “I figured since you didn’t this past week-end—well, you’ve never been one to put your ranch plans on a back burner.”

  Not like Barry.

  The unspoken words hung between them. Tessa glanced away. “No, I’m not,” she murmured.

  “So, how was it up in Telluride? Lots going on?”

  “Not while I was there. Lots of people though. Nice for the merchants, I suppose, but too many for my taste.”

  “Turkeys by the flock, huh?”

  Tessa smiled at his use of the local term for those who made the annual summer pilgrimage from the hot Texas panhandle to Colorado’s cool mountains. “Not just Texans, Jed. Turkeys, chickens, ducks . . . take your pick. I never heard such a variety of accents . . . some of them foreign.”

  “C’mon, Tessa, to you anyone living east of Denver is a foreigner.”

  “Denver, hell! Anyone east of Ouray County!” They grinned at each other. “I’d appreciate your help, Jed. It’ll be like old times.”

  “Not like all of ‘em, I hope. Remember the time that crazy critter got himself hung up in a juniper?”

  Tessa laughed. “I never could figure how he got that high. Must of been part kangaroo.”

  “Sure kicked like one ... I have the scar on my thigh to prove it.”

  “Lord, I’d forgotten that!”

  “You bound me up with a scarf of yours,” he reminded her. “Blue and yellow, with a swirly kind of pattern. It got soaked with blood. Boy, you were fit to be tied!”

  “I guess both of us were,” she teased. She cocked her head to one side. “Oh yeah, now I remember. It was that paisley print . . . my favorite. I never did get your blood out of it.”

  “Like you said, Tessa. Old times.”

  His dark eyes smiling into hers, reminding her of what they’d shared over the years, warmed her like chocolate. Scott’s scrutiny was more like a jolt of rotgut whiskey. Intense. Carnal. Nothing the least friendly about it.

  “Yeah, Jed. Like I said.” She looked beyond him through the window. “You’re welcome to sit a while, have a cup of coffee if you’d like, but Miguel’s waiting on me out in the corral. A guy’s coming down from Montrose next week to pick up that buckskin you admire. He’s paying top dollar for a good cutting horse, and I want to be damn sure that’s what he gets.”

  “He’s a grandson of Thor’s, isn’t he? Cutting horses don’t come any better than that.”

  “Damn right, and in most ways this fellow’s a genuine chip off the old block, except when it comes to backing. Then he turns balky.”

  “He’s young, Tessa. Young fellers don’t much like being asked to go back where they just came from.”

  “Older ones don’t, either, far as I can tell.”

  “Maybe not, but us older guys are quicker to recognize when we don’t have a choice in the matter.”

  Suspecting that Jed’s observation wasn’t as casual as it seemed, Tessa pursed her lips. “Well, in the buckskin’s case, I don’t have time to wait on wisdom.”

  “And I don’t have time for coffee, Tessa, but thanks for the offer. I just stopped by on my way to the Shelby ranch. Turns out it’s his ex-missus that wanted the grazing fee raised; Scott was just acting as a sort of go-between. I talked on the phone with her yesterday—nice-sounding woman— and she asked me over to see about renegotiating. Said that now she’s lived here a while, she’s learned that the reliability of the person you rent your grazing land to is as important as the money you get paid for the privilege. Seems I qualify.”

  “That hardly surprises me,” Tessa said, “but why should her opinion matter? It’s Scott’s ranch, after all.”

  “Seems it isn’t. Not anymore, anyway. The point is, I get the feeling she has money of her own. Talks like it, anyway.”

  “And you talk like a man fixing to set his cap
,” Tessa teased.

  “According to the grapevine, she’s more of an age for Pop than me.”

  Tessa stared at him. “Since when do you take Cottonwood gossip for gospel?”

  “Shelby’s not exactly a kid himself, Tessa.”

  “Well, no,” she conceded, “but . . .” She hesitated. Not exactly a kid ... hadn’t she said almost the same thing to Garland? “If you knew Scott you’d know he was too . . . too— “

  “Predatory?”

  “It’s not that ... I mean he is, but if it were just that, anyone would be fair game, right?”

  “What you’re saying is he’s hipped on youth.”

  Tessa felt herself flush. Unwilling to admit he might be right, she changed course. “Tell you what, instead of taking the grapevine’s word, why don’t you see for yourself?”

  “That’s what I’m about to do,” he drawled. He walked towards the door.

  “I’ll be interested in hearing what you think,” she called after him. “Well, not this very day,” she amended. “I mean, I’m not about to stand here holding my breath.”

  He turned back, grinning. “Thought you didn’t hold with gossip.”

  “An eyewitness report isn’t gossip,” she snapped.

  “Whatever you say, Tessa.”

  “Damn it, Jed!”

  “I’ll call you about the weekend . . . and please, this time choose a decent-looking horse to ride. Turnip’s a terrible advertisement for your business.”

  * * * *

  “Miz Wagner,” Miguel called, “it’s past noon. Maybe you take time now to eat something?” Tessa reined the buckskin up, pushed her straw hat off her sweaty brow, and gazed down into her foreman’s narrow, deeply furrowed face. His taut brown skin looked tough as old boots, but his liquid eyes expressed concern. “Maybe a little siesta, too?” he added.

  “I guess we could all do with a rest,” Tessa said, correctly interpreting his tactful phrasing. “This fellow’s so eager to work, it’s easy to forget how young he is.” She threw her leg over and slid to the ground. “So, what do you think?”

  “He’s coming along fine, Miz Wagner. Muy bueno. Still wants to throw his head up, but he’s not fighting the bit no more, and he tracks back nice and straight. Good horse. Best of the young crop.”