Colorado High

by Joyce C. Ware

  Tessa groaned. Garland was her daughter, for God’s sake! What place did envy have in regard to a relationship she herself had encouraged?

  Is it because, after all these years, I again see myself as having nowhere else to go but down ?

  “Hey, there, Tessa Wagner . . . are you really the small-town girl Shelby made you out to be?”

  She looked up, startled. The man wheezing alcohol-laden breath down at her was the same one who had taken exception to Scott’s comment to his brunette companion. A temporary one, apparently, since she was nowhere in sight.

  “I am,” Tessa said, drawing back, “but in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a woman, not a little girl.”

  “Oh, I noticed all right,” he said. Her skin crawled as his bloodshot eyes toured her from head to booted toes. “I like a female with a little meat on her bones. What do you say we go riding together sometime? I can make it well worth your while . . . ask anybody.”

  His leer left Tessa in no doubt of his meaning. “Well, I dunno about that,” she drawled, moving round behind him. “I like my mounts to have well-muscled hindquarters, and it appears to me you have a way to go in that department.” She picked up the tails of his cashmere jacket. “A long way.”

  His lumpy face reddened. “Bitch,” he muttered.

  Tessa thumbed her nose at his wide retreating back. Feeling more like her familiar cocky self, she started towards the buffet table. “Excuse me, excuse me,” she murmured, smiling and nodding, wishing that people who had already filled their plates would get the hell out of the way.

  “Ms. Wagner?” A hand gripped her elbow, abruptly halting her forward progress. She pulled away, whirled, and stumbled. The man who had spoken reached out to steady her. “Sorry if I startled you. We met in town a couple of weeks ago?” Tessa looked at him blankly. “The day you were riding that big horse with the spotted rump? Scott introduced us.”

  Tessa’s confusion evaporated. “Now I remember. You were on your way to lunch to celebrate the recording of his deed to this house. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t recall— “

  “Alan Baumgartner,” he supplied. “Have you eaten?” Giving him a mournful look, she shook her head.

  “Neither have I. Look, if you’ll let me in ahead of you, I’ll clear the way.”

  Which he did, blandly ignoring the glares of those he displaced. He handed Tessa a plate and a linen-wrapped package of cutlery, and they began inching their way along the table, selecting from the opulent array of delicacies.

  “That horse of yours really caught my eye,” Alan said, adding a trio of prosciutto-wrapped chicken livers to his plate. “My wife likes to ride, and now that we’ve settled here . . . well, I’m wondering if maybe you’d consider selling— “

  “Whoa,” Tessa said, holding up one hand. “That wasn’t my horse. In fact, I wouldn’t give him stable room. The guy who owns him wanted a flashy horse to ride in parades, but he didn’t reckon on him going into orbit when faced with more than two or three people at a time.” She shook her head. “A real knothead. I did what I could with him, but I’d as soon train a donkey for dressage. Sorry, Alan.”

  He sighed. “No more than I.”

  Tessa added a selection of exotic-looking olives— a nice change, she thought, from the standard pimento-filled green ones—to the slice of poached salmon on her plate. “Is your wife an experienced rider?”

  “She rode a lot in her teens back East—that’s where she is now, visiting her family. She did some show riding and jumping, but mostly on a fairly local level of competition. I don’t think she’s ever done much trail riding . . . certainly not in rugged country like you have here.”

  “Has she ever owned a horse?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Would that make a difference?”

  “Well, starting out, it would be best if you could find what we call an easy keeper . . .” Tessa added shrimp salad and tiny dill-seasoned new potatoes to the salmon and balanced a couple of flaky spinach-filled pastries on top. “Do you suppose Scott will supply us with doggy bags if we ask real nice?”

  “Hey, that’s a thought! It’d sure make my meals easier while Betsy’s away,” he added wistfully.

  Nice guy, Tessa thought. Not like that creep with his let’s-go-riding routine. “You know, I do have this palomino mare. I had high hopes for her as a cutting horse—Lord knows she has the bloodlines for it—but I’m thinking maybe she’s a little too placid to ever be top rank. The really good ones have the same urge to win that top human athletes do.”

  Alan’s expression brightened as she spoke. “Palomino? Golden coat and cream mane and tail? Like Roy Roger’s horse?”

  Tessa laughed. “Yep, just like Trigger. Except my mare is smaller and prettier. She’s not cheap, though. I’ve already invested a lot of training in her, and as I said, her bloodlines are the best.”

  “Good enough for breeding?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Betsy might like that. When you say not cheap…”

  This guy’s a lawyer, Tessa reminded herself. “Twenty thousand,” she said, crossing her fingers behind her back.

  “That much,” he murmured.

  Tessa looked him straight in the eye. “You could find a nice horse for a lot less.”

  They fell silent. Alan pointed to a crystal bowl cradled in ice and filled with small black globules.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Tessa asked.

  “The real thing,” Alan said. “It’s not cheap either.”

  “I’ve never had any,” Tessa admitted.

  “Alan?” a vaguely familiar-looking man called across the well-laden table. “Can we talk? Something’s come up.”

  “In a minute. My partner,” Alan explained. He spooned some creamy cheese onto Tessa’s plate and topped it with a generous portion of the caviar. “Eat them together,” he advised. He closed his eyes and kissed his fingers to his lips. “Perfecto.”

  “Hey, Alan!” The partner was losing patience.

  “Look, I’ve got to go. You’re in the Ouray book?”

  “In the Cottonwood section,” Tessa said. “If the pages stick together, you’re liable to go right past it.”

  “I’ll give you a ring next week when Betsy comes home. If anyone else expresses interest in your mare in the meantime— “

  “I’ll put them on hold,” she promised. It was a safe enough pledge. Buyers of twenty-thousand dollar horses didn’t come along every day.

  She eyed a silver platter heaped with little cheese biscuits. Was there room enough on my plate? Deciding there wasn’t, she turned into the path of a young man intent on reaching the buffet table. The dazzling straight-arrow smile he flashed her in apology put her in mind of whatshisname, the lead actor in that movie about the Southern law firm fronting for the mob. Quite a look-alike, she mused. Just then, a lovely young dark-haired girl moved in beside him. Look-alike, hell! That was Tom Cruise, and the girl was his new wife, Katie something Awestruck in spite of herself, Tessa shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other, trying not to gawk. Snatches of conversation about people and events she knew nothing of swirled around her, and as she searched in vain for Garland’s familiar face, the falsity of the Southwestern ranch decor became more and more apparent. For one thing, it was too clean and simple. The decorator of choice for genuine ranch people like her in-laws was Sears, a prime source for the voluminous ruffled window treatments favored for Cottonwood’s master bedrooms. Here, there were no drapes or curtains of any sort, nor was there any furniture remotely resembling the leatherette-covered Barcaloungers favored by Lloyd and Pauline. Instead, the vast living room’s soaring stone fireplace was flanked by couches that were obviously custom-made, each large enough to comfortably accommodate the theatrical gesturing of a half-dozen chattering guests. The museum-quality Navajo chief blankets carelessly draped across the oatmeal-linen upholstery had little in common with the garish Taiwanese knockoffs stocked by local gift shops. It pained Tessa to see them misused this w
ay. Envisioning the smears of food and spills of wine the light of day would reveal, she wondered if she should say anything to Scott.

  “Keep it to yourself,” she muttered. She’d been away from this scene too long, she decided. Resolutely turning her back on it, she collected a glass of wine from a tray offered her in passing, and wandered into the wide corridor leading off from the living room, in search of a quiet place to enjoy her supper.

  The contrast between the delicacies on her porcelain plate and the spicy sauce-slathered beef being served up in Cottonwood that evening made her smile. The annual 4H barbecue was a local tradition dating back fifty years. Observed on the second Saturday after the Town Hall thermometer first hit seventy degrees, it was the way Cottonwood folks told themselves summer had finally arriuved.

  It didn’t take much imagination to picture the crowded village park, the laughter, and the cries of distress as wandering dogs, lured by the heady aroma, snatched tidbits from the hands of wide-eyed toddlers overwhelmed by their first encounter with this crowd of large, noisy people.

  The ranchers contributed the meat, the firemen did the cooking, the women brought the rest. Tessa closed her eyes as she mentally ticked off the list. Homemade breads and biscuits; baked beans and pickles; fresh sweet corn—the first of the season— trucked in for the occasion; more kinds of salads than one could dream of, and enough pies and cakes and cookies to ensure a weekend-long, sugar-induced high.

  By six, the long tables were filled; after the blessing, the mayor delivered a few words of welcome, ignored by everyone except for the ritual closing phrase, which was taken up in a full-throated roar.

  . . . And as usual, folks, it’s all you can eat!

  The room Tessa wandered into, cool, quiet, and dim, was a far cry from that Cottonwood mob scene. A drafting table stood uptilted against the wall, flanked by matching stands holding an impressive array of electronic equipment. She recognized a computer and printer; the rest of it, much of it blinking, confounded her. She reached out a tentative finger, then withdrew it, fearing erasure of ... well, whatever could be erased. Financial records. Business phone numbers— scratch that, email URLs. Design notes. Maybe even the designs themselves.

  Tessa backed off and headed across the gleaming plank floor for the softly lit leather-upholstered couch at the other end of the room. The cushions creaked disconcertingly as she sat, but the freshly saddle-soaped smell of them— Scott must have had an army in here yesterday getting this place ready— made her feel at home.

  Not that anyone could feel like really kicking back in a showplace like this. It was the spickest span she’d ever seen. The drafting table was bare save for sectioned containers of sketching materials neatly sorted according to general type—pencils, pens, and colored markers—and further sorted by particular function or color.

  What was that disgusting term Gavin had used to describe a compulsive fellow student? Anal-retentive. Tessa idly wondered to whom that applied here. Scott? His housekeeper? She reminded herself to ask Garland.

  Above the table was a long shelf of reference books whose spines had been rigidly aligned, and the magazines on the low table in front of her were stepped, one atop the other, according to size. She peered hopefully over the rolled-back top of the couch. Not a dust bunny in sight. Scott’s cleaning crew had done its search-and-destroy work well. Too well, for her taste.

  Tessa’s stomach gently rumbled. She circled her fork above her laden plate as she tried to decide what to try first.

  All you can eat.

  When you came right down to it, she reflected soberly, the same policy applied here, despite the differences in the setting, the menu, and the diners themselves.

  Except no one here would be willing to admit it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tessa looked up from her plate to see a trio of young faces peering in at her, obviously weighing the advantage of a place to sit against having to make nice with a middle-aged stranger. Not feeling in the mood for forced chit-chat herself, she met the inquiring eyes with a hostile glare that elicited a huffy “Sorry!” and the desired retreat.

  Tessa leaned back, eyes closed, the better to savor the last morsel of caviar. A moment later she heard a sigh, followed by a shifting of the cushion as someone settled in beside her.

  “I’d just about given you up, Tessa. Had about as much as you can take?”

  Tessa opened her eyes to see Sam Englehardt’s hound-dog face turned towards her. The pouches under the sad brown eyes contemplating her were new since she last saw him twenty years ago; his hair—what there was left of it--had gone gray, but his expression remained that of a man who, having seen everything, is surprised by nothing.

  “I could sure take more of those little black fish eggs, Sam.”

  “Considering that the going price for Beluga caviar is in the neighborhood of fifty bucks an ounce, I don’t think Scott would appreciate your calling it fish eggs.” He grinned. “Sounds like something your good ol’ boys use to bait a hook.”

  “If they’re after carp or catfish, that’s just what they do, except the eggs they use are big and red and strictly domestic. Been a while, Sam . . . how’s it going?”

  “Not bad, Tessa. Yourself?”

  “Not bad. I think I sold a horse tonight. Alan Baumgartner? For his wife.”

  “Nice kid, for a lawyer. Smart, too. He can handle just about anything and is good about supplying referrals when necessary, but he specializes in entertainment law.”

  “Isn’t Telluride a little far from where the action is?”

  “Not anymore it isn’t. The ski slopes and summer festivals are star-studded, and faxes and Email fill in the gaps the rest of the year. I understand he’s drawn up some very creative contracts for his clients.” He skated a shrewd, heavy-lidded glance at her. “He can afford to pay a good price for a good horse.”

  Tessa laughed. “That’s what I figured, so that’s what I asked. Didn’t seem to faze him none. Course, it won’t buy me a place like this.”

  Sam turned to look at her. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d want one, Tessa. On the other hand, that blow-hard husband of yours— “

  “Barry died two years ago, Sam.”

  He grunted. Back in the Wild Western days, Barry had tried passing himself off as Tessa’s manager when Sam came with a camera crew to take some footage of her on her home ground. Angry words were exchanged, and Tessa finally had to step between them.

  “You’re right, though,” she added. “I can’t imagine wanting a house this big. For one thing, I could never keep up with it. Why, I bet changing the bed linen takes Scott a whole morning.” Sam hooted. “What’s so funny?” Tessa demanded.

  “The thought of Scott making hospital corners.”

  “Yeah, I guess that is pretty silly. With the money he’s piled up over the years, he must have an army of bedmakers.”

  “He hasn’t got all that much, Tessa. Besides, by Telluride standards, this is hardly more than a pool house.”

  “God, has he got a pool, too?

  “Hasn’t everybody?” he said dryly. “But that’s not my point . . . you’ve heard of Oliver Stone?”

  “Well, I know he’s a hot Hollywood director,” she said, “but I’m not into that kind of thing these days. In fact I never really was.”

  “I know that, Tessa. That’s one of the things I liked best about you. I think you’re the only woman Scott never managed to charm into his bed.”

  Tessa turned to stare at him. “How in hell would you know that? Did Scott—“

  “No, no. Scott probably thinks he did. He’s very good at altering past realities to suit his present needs. Some of the big names you see here came tonight because, well, Scott’s a charmer and people like him, but unless he makes it big again with Wildings, Scott Shelby will soon be very old news. That’s where Oliver Stone comes in. This house is, what, five thousand square feet? Stone’s is sixteen.”

  “Sixteen thousand? You’ve got to be kidding! Nobody
could possibly use that much space.”

  He reached over to pat her hand. “Bless your innocent heart. Bigness is what counts. Being bigger than anyone else counts even more.”

  “But that’s so ... so dumb.”

  “Sure it is, Tessa, but that’s show biz! Ha-cha-cha.” He flashed her a big Jimmy Durante smile. “And these days the fashion business is part of it. Hot rock groups set the beat for the models on the runways, and it takes a lot more than a good design to sell a line to the fashion press. This Bluegrass singer Scott signed for Wildings?” Tessa nodded. “She’s a greedy, self-absorbed little slut, but she projects like gang-busters, and that’s what it takes now. If it works, the first thing he’ll do is triple the size of this place and throw another party.” He tapped the back of her hand gently. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t count on being invited. Once he recoups, he won’t need you to remind people how good he was.”

  Tessa blinked at him. “Wow. You sure don’t beat around the bush.”

  “I can’t afford to, Tessa. I have a knack for persuading people to part with their hard-earned money to buy my clients’ products. I work my aging tail off to earn some of it for myself, and I’m damn good at it, but I’m a realist. What I do may look arty, but basically I’m a pitchman and the bottom line is sales. Aesthetic inspiration is only one means to that end, and a minor one at that—people in my game can’t afford to loll around waiting for the muse to strike.” The lines curving from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth deepened to furrows. “It takes a toll, Tessa. Someday, when I’ve finally run dry, I’m going to write a book.” He yawned and stretched. “But right now I think I’ll crawl off to bed. I wasted most of the day with a difficult client in LA, and by the time I got here I didn’t even have time for a reviving shower.” He lumbered to his feet. “Good to see you, kid.