The Great Montana Cowboy Auction

by Anne McAllister

  "Now we'll pay the bill and go dancing," the tape promised.

  "Dancing?" Joyce almost laughed.

  "Dáme la cuenta por favor," said the native speaker.

  "Dáme la cuenta por favor," Joyce repeated.

  "Give me the bill, please," the tape translated. "Vamos a bailar."

  And then the music started. Mariachi music. Accordions and violins, maracas and marimbas.

  Joyce twirled the mop. "Vamos a bailar."

  "Me gusta la musica latina."

  "Me gusta la musica latina." Joyce parroted, dancing her way into the last corner.

  "Yo quiero bailar un fandango—"

  "Yo quiero—"

  "Well now—" Joyce whipped around.

  Though she hadn't even heard the outside door open, Walt Blasingame stood leaning against the doorjamb. Walt, who'd been a friend of Gil's for years, pushed back his black felt cowboy hat and scratched his head, perplexed—as if he'd never seen a woman dancing with a mop before.

  Joyce's face flamed. "I was just … studying Spanish."

  "Spanish, is it?" Walt looked doubtful.

  Joyce lifted her chin. "That's right." And even if he thought she was crazy, she wasn't going to apologize. "I'm learning Spanish," she said firmly. She shut the recorder off and turned back to him. "Can I help you with something? Celie's at the hardware store. She won't be cutting hair until this afternoon."

  Walt took off his hat and rubbed a hand over his already short, neat gray hair. "Don't need a haircut. Got me one in Livingston last week. I just came into Loney's to get the exhaust manifold welded, and Caity asked me to stop and see if you had Gallagher's new video."

  "The official one is checked out," Joyce said. "And has a waiting list a mile long. But Celie has one. I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you borrowed it."

  Celie and Cait, Walt's daughter, had been best friends since they were old enough to toddle. The Blasingame ranch had run between McCalls' and the place Gil's grandfather had home-steaded. Joyce and Walt's late wife, Margie, had been good friends when the girls were in high school.

  "Well, if you're sure Celie won't mind," Walt said. "But we ain't borrowin'. We'll rent it. You got a business here."

  "You will not rent it. You'll just borrow it and return it whenever. We've all seen it. And," she added, "we'll be seeing the real thing before too long."

  Walt grinned. "Yeah, ain't that somethin'?"

  "Hard to imagine that boy growin' up to be a movie star," Joyce said.

  "Hard to imagine him growing up, period," Walt countered with a grin. "He was a hellion."

  "And now he's Celie's dream man."

  Walt's brows lifted. "No foolin'? Well, here's her chance."

  "If she'll take it," Joyce said. "Celie's not one for risks. Not after…" Her voice drifted off. They both remembered the aborted wedding.

  "Time she put that behind her," Walt said firmly. He paused for a second, doubtless remembering things he'd had to put behind him. He squared his shoulders. "A feller—and a gal—has gotta get on with life."

  Joyce went into the living room and got the tape, came back and handed it to him.

  Walt tucked it inside his jacket. "That's real nice of you. I reckon Cait and Charlie will watch it tonight and get it back to you tomorrow."

  "No hurry."

  It would do Celie good not to spend every evening watching the celluloid Sloan.

  Walt zipped up his jacket, then opened the door and went down the steps. At the bottom he turned.

  "How you doin' on that Spanish?"

  Joyce blinked. "What?"

  He shrugged. "I wondered if it's hard to learn a new language at our age?"

  "Well, it's probably not as easy as for kids. You know Mace and Jenny Nichols's three learned English so fast I couldn't believe it. But it's not that hard. Why?"

  "Just curious." Walt smiled. "Don't you go steppin' on that mop's toes now," he said. Then he winked and ambled off down the street.

  Polly convinced herself that the television segment would be a five-minute wonder.

  Or four. However long a segment of morning television lasted.

  She never watched it herself, so how would she know?

  Then she told herself that the whole business couldn't possibly be any more annoying than having a root canal or being audited by the IRS or dealing with one of the pompous postal bureaucrats who beleaguered her life at regular intervals.

  She and Harry Hyena—wrong again.

  The television crew didn't simply turn up five minutes before air time and stick a mike in front of her face—which was what had happened the only other time she'd been interviewed, when she won the goat-tying event at the Montana State High School Finals Rodeo in her junior year of high school.

  Big-time network broadcasts, she soon learned, ran a different sort of ship.

  The Friday before the Monday Sloan was scheduled to appear, a production staffer called Astrid rang to discuss "logistics."

  "Logistics?" Polly, sorting the morning's mail and listening to Alice Benn read her the latest article on Sloan from yesterday's Bozeman Chronicle, didn't think in those sorts of terms. "What logistics?"

  "The nearest lodgings for one thing. A place for the interview. The nearest airport and television station. I've had some trouble locating Elmore in my media facilities guide," Astrid said.

  Elmore? Lodgings? Television station? Airport? "It's Elmer."

  "Right. Elmer. Thank you. Odd name," Astrid muttered. "We also need a list of suggested sites associated with Sloan's boyhood and a list of potential interviewees. Ten or twelve should suffice. It's an auction, I understand, to save a ranch? So we'll want historical background on the ranch. And of course we'll speak with the rancher. The photographer will want to shoot some footage there. So if you could suggest some particularly picturesque spots, perhaps with a few cattle? He'll want to see where the auction is being held. And if you could hang a few of your decorations to set the mood—" she paused for breath for the first time "—and if you could have several other cowboys who will be auctioned off available all afternoon on Monday, that would be helpful. It's very simple, really. Nothing major."

  The woman obviously had the lung capacity of a Navy SEAL. Polly wondered if they had hired her specially because of it.

  "Anything else?" Polly asked in her most sarcastic tone.

  Astrid didn't hear sarcasm. "I'll need the information by three in order to see to the arrangements before five."

  "Three? Today?"

  But Astrid was already rattling off a telephone number. "Got that? Good. I'll be waiting for your call then. Bye-eeee."

  Polly stood staring at the suddenly silent phone feeling as if she'd been run over by a very efficient truck.

  "Trouble, dear?" Alice queried. "It's not one of the children, is it?"

  "No," Polly said. "It's not. It's that flaming Sloan Gallagher."

  Alice's grandmotherliness vanished in an instant. She did a credible imitation of a maiden going into a swoon. "That was Sloan Gallagher? On the phone?"

  "No, that was some slick city chick called Astrid wanting me to organize the entire town for a spot on a morning talk show next week."

  "Oh, my stars and stripes!" Alice looked positively delighted. "We're going to be on TV?"

  Not if I can help it. Polly sighed. "Apparently."

  She glanced at her watch. It was not quite eight-thirty. The flag was out, the scanner on and half the mail was in its boxes. She had the rest of the mail to sort and all her bookwork to do. She had forms to fill out, customers to deal with, training material to go over. And it was Friday so she had to inspect the car of Earl the rural carrier.

  When he'd hung up from their last conversation, Sloan had said, "If you have any problems, give me a shout and I'll take care of them."

  She wondered what he'd do if she called him and told him to get his butt out here right now and sort the mail.

  And when he'd finished, he could decorate the town hall, find out the
history of Fletchers' ranch, find lodging for a film crew, and, by the way, round up a dozen interviewees who had known him way back when, not to mention a few cowboys who would have work to do on Monday and couldn't be expected to stand around twiddling their thumbs. She wouldn't call him, of course.

  She hadn't juggled her kids, her job, her mayoral duties, her mother, her sister, her house, her dogs, her cat and God only knew how many Christmas rabbits only to admit defeat at the demands of some superefficient city chick.

  She felt like Marshal Dillon on an old Gunsmoke rerun when the outlaw gang was about to invade the town.

  "Alice," she said, "how would you like to be a deputy?"

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  Sara glanced at her watch.

  It was only a minute and a half since she'd glanced at it last. She knew exactly what time it was: three hours and twelve minutes past the time her mother was supposed to meet her and give her a ride home.

  Three hours!

  Sara glowered out the bookstore window as if doing so could conjure up her missing mother. But glower as she might, Polly didn't come.

  This morning, before she'd caught her ride to Bozeman for class, Sara had stood right there in front of her mother in the kitchen and said, "Gregg will give me a ride to Livingston on his way to Billings this afternoon. Could you bring me home after Jack's dentist appointment?"

  And Polly, in the midst of scraping the charred bits off a piece of toast while she tried not to step on the tail of Sid the cat who was threading himself through her legs, had blinked nearsightedly because of course she didn't have her contacts in yet and said, "Dentist? Jack?" as if she'd completely forgotten, which she probably had. Then she'd turned and yelled up the stairs, "Jack, you have a dentist's appointment this afternoon! Thanks," she'd said cheerfully to Sara.

  "You're welcome. So will you?" Sara had persisted. "If I meet you at the Page and Leaf?"

  Polly was writing the appointment in ink on her hand. "What?"

  "Give me a ride. This afternoon. If I wait at the Page and Leaf?" Sara spelled it all out slowly, knowing if she didn't, her mother would forget.

  "What? Oh, yes. Sure. Of course I'll pick you up."

  "The Page and Leaf," Sara had persisted, wishing her mother would write that down, too. "I'll wait there. I've got econ to read and notes to make for my paper, so I'll have plenty to do if you're late. But you will be there?"

  "I'll be there," Polly promised through a mouthful of toast. "When have I ever forgotten you?"

  Sara raised her brows.

  "Well, besides the time Jack broke his arm." She'd left Sara sitting at Hastings in Bozeman, taken Jack to the hospital and had, after his arm was in a cast, driven all the way home before remembering to go back for Sara.

  "The time at the library," Sara reminded her. "And when the washing machine broke and you went into Livingston to get the part."

  Most of the time, though, her mother was the best mother in the world—with a few small qualifications.

  Polly never used a day planner. She didn't check her calendar. And she hated making lists. She rarely knew what she was going to be doing ten minutes from now.

  Sara knew what she was going to be doing for the next ten years.

  "Waiting for my mother," she muttered now, glancing at her watch again. It was nearly nine. It was obvious that Polly had forgotten her. Actually it had been obvious by seven. No dentist worked that late, especially on a Friday night.

  But Sara hadn't called home to remind her.

  All the other times she had. This time she had poured herself another cup of herbal tea, determined to wait her mother out.

  A little guilt never hurt anyone. And maybe then her mother would learn to write things down on paper!

  At least that had been the idea six cups earlier.

  The Page and Leaf, Livingston's current haven for sandal-wearing, granola-crunching, tree-hugging intellectuals, tolerated long-term customers. As long as you sipped while you read, you could spread out your things at one of the small round tables tucked against the front windows or scattered amongst the bookshelves and stay until the next millennium.

  Probably they hadn't figured anyone would test that out. But as Sara was now past the three-and-a-half-hour mark, they must have been wondering.

  It was what happened, Sara told herself, when you deviated from routine. Sara habitually stayed in Bozeman after class on Friday nights, cooking dinner for Gregg at his apartment and then either studying with him until late or, once a month, going with him to the movies.

  They followed a strict schedule because if they didn't, they might do other things—things which might well get in the way of their goals. And while Gregg had said frequently he wouldn't mind at all if she would just sleep with him, Sara wasn't about to do that.

  Her parents had had to get married because of her. She wasn't having any surprises like that in her own life!

  She wasn't having any surprises at all. Not if she could help it.

  But sadly she couldn't control everything—like her mother.

  Now she tapped her pen on the tabletop, chewed on a fingernail and glared out into the snow-packed street. She couldn't see much, mostly just her own annoyed reflection silhouetted against the rest of the Page and Leaf's well-lit interior. Every now and then a couple would amble past, coming from Sage's, the restaurant down the block. And periodically she caught sight of a cowboy or two headed for The Barrel to spend their paychecks on buckle bunnies and beer.

  Sara had never been in The Barrel.

  Of course she wasn't twenty-one yet. She'd only turned nineteen last month. But other girls she knew tried to get into The Barrel regularly to see what it was like, to flirt with the cowboys, to live dangerously. Sara had no desire to do that.

  Now she scowled out at the empty street and wondered once again where her mother had got to.

  She'd moved to a table by the window an hour ago so while she worked she could watch for Polly's truck—and so her mother could see her patiently waiting when at last she drove up. But now, two econ chapters, one Spanish translation, six cups of herbal tea and three trips to the bathroom later, Sara was moving beyond impatience into worry.

  Maybe her mother hadn't simply forgotten her.

  Maybe something had happened. Maybe there had been an accident.

  Sara found a phone. She called home, preparing a 'remember me? I'm your firstborn,' speech in case Polly answered. She got the answering machine.

  Now she was really worried. Someone was almost always home. Celie never went anywhere. Neither did Lizzie, except for play practice.

  Maybe she should call the hospital. But if she did, she would get her grandmother who would be working in reception. She couldn't upset her grandmother when chances were there was nothing wrong. Sara bit down another fingernail.

  She tried working ahead in Spanish, but they were just starting past subjunctive—contrary-to-fact statements—and her mind was far too contrary at the moment to deal with them. So she fetched another pot of hot water, more tea bags and went back to her table to stew.

  By ten o'clock she had hypered herself into a frenzy. She couldn't work at all. So she gathered up her books, buttoned up her coat, pulled on her hat and mittens and shouldered her way out the door. She would find her own way home.

  The street was basically deserted. There were a few cars and trucks parked near Sage's, the trendy restaurant next to the outfitter's shop. A block in the other direction there were a lot more trucks outside The Barrel.

  Sara headed straight for Sage's.

  "I don't want a table," she told the hostess when she went in. "I need to find my aunt," she said, which sounded better than "I'm just looking to see if I know anyone." "I need to give her a message."

  The hostess hesitated.

  Sara, who wasn't her mother's daughter in most respects, but who also knew how to get things done, thrust her backpack into the woman's arms. "Hold this," she co
mmanded, and ducked past her into the dining room.

  Of course she only had a moment before the hostess came to her senses, dumped the backpack and came striding furiously after her. But by then Sara had seen all she needed to. She didn't know any of the diners.

  "Young lady!" The hostess's voice rang out and her nails bit into the sleeve of Sara's coat.

  "Shh," Sara put a finger to her lips and glanced around at the startled customers. "We don't want to disturb the diners. I'm afraid she's not here." She peeled the woman's fingers off her sleeve and headed for the door, grabbing her backpack on the way out.

  On the street again, with a north wind biting into her cheeks, she looked for signs of her mother's Jeep. But the only movement at all was two blocks down. Truck doors banged and she spotted a couple of cowboys heading into The Barrel.

  The Barrel was a wilder, wickeder bar than Elmer's Dew Drop. It offered occasional honky-tonk entertainment to a cowboy clientele. It sponsored pool tournaments, free nachos on snowy days, something mysteriously called "progressive pitchers," and, if her friend Tina could be believed, monthly wet T-shirt contests at which a girl could win a considerable amount of cash—not to mention notoriety.

  Sara might not have known anyone in Sage's, but she was virtually certain she'd find someone she knew at The Barrel.

  Slinging her backpack over one shoulder, she headed down the street.

  Friday night at The Barrel always got a little western. Jace knew that. In fact, he'd been looking forward to it.

  He'd had a bad week. A rotten week. A hellish week.

  On Monday the doc had said he'd need extensive physical therapy on his leg—even if he never went back to rodeoing. On Tuesday the ground froze so hard that last week's slight thaw was only a memory and post-hole digging for the corral came to a complete halt. On Wednesday, Thursday and this morning, he'd gone down to Gilliam's to pick up stuff he'd forgotten—and Celie O'Meara had treated him like The Invisible Man each time.

  He'd gone back to the ranch and taken out his frustrations hammering on the old corral—which meant he was now not only angry, gimpy and horny, he had two hammered nails and split knuckles, as well.