A Cowboy To Keep: A Contemporary Western Romance Collection

by Hebby Roman

  She would do her best, as she knew how difficult it was to deal with loneliness. Understanding how he felt, she didn’t want to disappoint him, but unfortunately, immigration would have the final say.

  Chapter Two

  “Leticia Villarreal!” A man called to her from the box seats on her right and two rows below them at the Sam Houston Race Track. He stood, removed his cowboy hat, and waved at her. She narrowed her eyes and tried to place him. And then she recognized who he was—John Clay Laidlaw.

  She waved back and smiled, a big fake smile.

  Her daughter, Camila Villarreal, leaned over and asked, “Who is that man? Do you know him?”

  A herd of tightly-packed Quarter horses roared across the finish line. Damn! She’d missed the outcome of the race, and she’d placed a wager. Gazing at the back of John Clay’s head, she frowned.

  “Mamá, I asked if you knew the man.”

  She ignored her daughter’s question. Yes, she knew him, had known him for most of her life, but she hadn’t seen him in a long time—not since she and Eduardo had attended a Christmas dance at the San Felipe Country Club in Del Rio over ten years ago. And given John Clay’s past track record, she couldn’t understand why he’d hailed her as if she was a bosom buddy.

  “Who won the race, Camila?”

  “I don’t know. I was watching that man fall all over himself to get your attention.”

  She turned to Ramos, who was seated on her left side. “Did you see who won the race, Señor Ramos?”

  “Corona Dawn came in first, Miss Jesse was second, and Holland Breeze finished third.” Ramos leaned over her shoulder and pointed at the racing form she held in her hand.

  She glanced at him and nodded. He’d dressed for the occasion, in a new pearl-buttoned cowboy shirt, creased jeans, and with his inky-black hair slicked back. His cologne was strong and musky. Personally, she preferred the way he smelled at the ranch, of starched shirts, leather, and horseflesh. But he’d obviously wanted to be well-groomed for their outing.

  She turned back and scanned her wager ticket. “I picked Holland Breeze to win. Oh, well.” She shredded the ticket and stuck the pieces in a Styrofoam cup filled with torn tickets. She kept getting close with her picks, but she’d yet to win.

  She squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Señor Ramos.”

  Rusty Douglas leaned over from the other side of Ramos, asking, “Camila, do you want a Coke or a drink or anything?”

  “No, I’m good,” Camila replied.

  Ramos turned to her and asked, “Would you care for a refreshment, Señora?”

  She faced forward again, watching Corona Dawn being led to the winner’s circle. And she couldn’t help but stare at John Clay. From the back, his dark-brown hair, streaked with silver, was unfashionably long, curling around his ears.

  Making a quick decision, she said to Ramos, “Yes, I’d love to have a rum and Coke.” She touched his arm. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not, my pleasure,” he said and rose from his seat.

  Camila glanced at her from the corner of her eye, and Leticia smiled, lifting her lips a fraction.

  “Hey, Rusty,” her daughter called back to her fiancé, “I’ve changed my mind. Why don’t you go with Señor Ramos and get me a rum and Coke, and some nachos with extra cheese and lots of jalapeños.”

  “Anything else, Squirt? How about a four-course dinner?” Rusty’s drawl dripped with sarcasm.

  Camila licked her lips. “Don’t call me squirt! Nah, I think that will do it.”

  Rusty grimaced and stood. “Okay, Princess, coming right up.” He nudged Ramos, “Let’s go, amigo. The ladies want to talk.”

  Ramos frowned, and a look of bewilderment clouded his eyes. He glanced at John Clay, his frown deepening. Then he got to his feet and followed Rusty toward the tunnel that led to the concessions inside.

  Camila sighed. “What’s the deal, Mamá?” She jutted her chin in the general direction of John Clay, as if pointing. “Who is that guy?”

  “He’s from Del Rio, though, I haven’t seen him around town much. He probably stays on his ranch mostly, like I do.” She folded her arms across her chest. “He was a year ahead of me in school. I helped him with his Spanish class, and we went out a couple of times. But later … right before I met your father, he was a jerk. A prick.”

  Camila giggled and covered her mouth with her hand. “Mamá, such language! I’m stunned.”

  “He deserves that and more.” She tossed her head. “When I needed an operating loan from the local bank to keep Rodriguez’s Furniture Store from closing, he turned me down. He and I were both recently divorced, and I knew he wanted to date. But I wasn’t ready to date anyone—until I met your father.” She smoothed her hair with one hand. “And when I turned John Clay down for a late-night ‘booty call,’ as your generation would probably put it, he refused my loan.”

  “Aw, Mamá,” Camila said and patted her hand, “that was a long time ago. Sounds like chauvinism was alive and well in Del Rio in the 1990’s.”

  “You can say that again.” She shook her head. “It was one of the things that drew me to your father, he respected and treated me as an equal.”

  “So, you haven’t seen this John Clay since?” Camila asked.

  “Oh, I’ve seen him, but not for a long time. Last time I saw him, I was with your father, and he was with his second wife, Cathy Hutto. They have two girls who must be grown. Like you.” She gazed at John Clay again. “But I don’t see his wife here. And I don’t know why he was so keen on waving me down.” She shifted in the hard, wooden folding seat. “It’s not like we’ve kept up with each other.” She shrugged. “Who knows.”

  “Maybe he still carries a torch for you.”

  She snorted. “His kind of torches, I can do without. Besides, as far as I know, he’s still married to Cathy.”

  Her daughter nudged her. “I get it.” She winked. “Señor Ramos is pretty hunky, just like I said from the first. Is this trip like the time you sent me and Rusty to Ponder and—?”

  “Camila!” Her voice rose, but she tried to keep a lid on it. “That’s not the purpose of this trip, and you know it.”

  “I know. You explained about Stormy Knight, and how Chuy and Ramos presented you with a fait accompli, and now you’ve got to decide what to do. But trips can have two purposes. You’re the one who taught me that.”

  Leticia laughed and tapped her daughter’s shoulder. “I guess I did, but you’re incorrigible. You know that. Don’t you?”

  “I try hard enough. Anyway, Rusty says so.” She fiddled with her square-cut diamond engagement ring, twirling it around her finger. “Now I understand why you asked me and Rusty to come. I kinda wondered. Are we impromptu chaperones?”

  Leticia smiled. “My daughter has all the answers. Don’t you? And you’re right, I’m attracted to Señor Ramos or … maybe, I’m just lonely. But I’m his employer and it could be tricky if—”

  “Hey, Mamá, I get it. But don’t let the situation spoil it for you, if you really want to be with him.”

  She shook her head. “That’s the problem, I don’t know if I want to have a relationship. Sometimes, I think so, and other times, I don’t. That’s a kind of answer, I guess.”

  She turned to Camila and uncrossed her arms. “Okay, enough about me, let’s talk about you. Have y’all gotten any closer to setting a date?”

  Camila put her finger across her lips. “Shssh, here come the guys.”

  Leticia huffed. Her daughter was great at avoiding questions about her relationship with Rusty. But they were a committed couple, and Camila did have a lot of school to finish before she would be a vet and could start a family.

  Ramos joined her with two identical drinks in his hands and sat down. He handed her one of the drinks, a dark-Cola with a slice of lime riding the rim.

  She took the drink from his hand, their fingers brushing. Touching him didn’t set off any alarm bells like with Eduardo, but she did enjoy the fee
l of his warm, work-roughened hand.

  “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

  “De nada, Señora.” He smiled, his white teeth dazzling against his swarthy skin.

  Rusty passed down another rum and Coke, along with a gray-foam-formed plastic container, filled to the brim with chips coated in pseudo-cheese and bright, green slices of jalapeños.

  Camila accepted the nachos and drink. “Hmmm, yummy. Thanks, Rusty. I hope you brought plenty of napkins, too.”

  “Don’t I always?” He fished a handful of paper napkins from the pocket of his red-plaid cowboy shirt. “I know what a slob you are, Princess.”

  Camila stuck her tongue out and accepted the napkins.

  “Now, children,” Leticia said, not able to keep the grin from her voice, “let’s settle down and decide what horse to bet on for the next race. I’m determined to win at least one race before we go. Though, it’s tricky. Seems like, no matter how good the horse is, if they don’t get out of the gate fast enough, they can’t win. Different from Thoroughbred racing.” She scanned her program.

  She took a sip of her drink and almost choked—it was that strong. She squeezed the lime into it, hoping the citrusy flavor would cut the liquor taste. She grabbed her racing form and studied the next race, looking at the horses’ track records, breeding, jockey, and even their trainer.

  When she’d gotten to the fifth horse, a strange feeling skittered down her spine, pulling at her, making her glance up. She looked up and found herself staring into John Clay’s eyes.

  He’d stood up again and turned around to stare at her.

  She hoped he wasn’t thinking about approaching them. If he did, she didn’t have the faintest idea of what they’d say to each other, besides introducing him to everyone. She wanted to lower her gaze and not encourage him, but she couldn’t help but satisfy her curiosity and look him over.

  She noticed he wasn’t wearing glasses. Hadn’t he always worn glasses? He had on a white straw Stetson, pushed onto the back of his head, a dark blue Polo shirt, open at his throat, designer jeans, and a hand-tooled leather cowboy belt. He’d always been a classy dresser and too handsome for his own good.

  Now that he wasn’t wearing glasses, she noticed his eyes were a deep blue color, almost a lavender hue, and the exact shade of his designer shirt.

  They stared at each other for what seemed like a long time. A tiny frisson of pleasure thrummed through her, just looking at him. Then she silently chided herself for feeling anything for a married man who was also a conceited prick.

  She took Ramos’ arm and said, “Want to help me pick the next winner?”

  * * *

  Franco helped Leticia into the driver’s side of her Cadillac. She’d insisted upon driving them to Houston, the track, and to dinner with her daughter and Rusty. For a man, he felt strange having her chauffeur him around. But then again, she was his employer, and she liked to call the shots.

  He settled in the passenger side. Rusty and Camila were in the back seat, holding hands. He wished Leticia would let him hold her hand. Sometimes, she let him touch her or she touched him, but the contact was usually brief and casual.

  He’d never met a woman like her before—so sure of herself. Not conceited or arrogant, just confident. And for him, coming from a country where most women were subservient to men, her self-confidence intrigued him, making him want her that much more.

  She was beautiful, too, as well as shapely. Her features were handsome with an aquiline nose and full-lipped mouth. Her long, russet hair spilled around her shoulders in curls. But her eyes were her most beguiling feature; they were tawny colored, brown with gold flecks in them. Almost the shade of a dark palomino.

  From the first time he’d met his new employer, he’d been attracted to her. Couldn’t help himself. He knew it wasn’t wise, especially since she paid his salary. He hadn’t wanted another woman since he’d lost his wife, Rosita, six years before. But he wanted Leticia Villarreal, even if it wasn’t the smartest thing, given his situation.

  She pulled into the driveway of the Omni Hotel and got out. A valet parking attendant hurried over and gave her a receipt. The four of them walked through the automatic door and stopped in the lobby.

  Camila leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek. “I think Rusty and I are ready to turn in. Would you and Señor Ramos like to join us for breakfast, our treat, before we all leave tomorrow morning?”

  “I’d like that.” Leticia said and turned to him. “Will that suit you, Señor Ramos?”

  “Of course, and thank you.”

  “How about eight o’clock in the coffee shop?” Camila asked. “Is that early enough for you, Mamá?”

  “Yes, good by me, but you don’t have to pay for us—”

  “Hey, you haven’t let us pay for anything, our hotel or dinner at the steakhouse.” Camila nudged Rusty. “Remember, this guy is loaded, my future husband.”

  Rusty grinned and grabbed Camila’s waist, pulling her close and tickling her.

  “Don’t do that!” she screeched, trying to pull away. “I hate being tickled and you know it!”

  Leticia laughed. “Are you two ever going to grow up?”

  They stopped mock-fighting and turned to her. In unison, they said, “We hope not.” They exchanged glances. “At least, not right away.”

  Leticia leaned over and kissed Camila’s cheek and then Rusty’s. “All right, see you tomorrow at eight in the coffee shop. Your treat.”

  “Night, Mamá.” Camila lifted her hand and waved. Then she “goosed” Rusty before running into the elevator.

  Leticia shook her head. “Those two.”

  “They are quite taken with each other. Aren’t they?” he asked.

  “Yes, they are.” She chewed on her bottom lip, watching as the elevator doors closed. Then she turned to him. “Would you care to escort me to my room, since we’re on the same floor?”

  He hesitated. Was that an invitation? Or was she just being polite? He didn’t know, and before he made a fool of himself, he wanted to have a better idea of what her expectations were.

  “How about a drink in the bar before we go to our rooms,” he offered. “My treat.”

  “Why, Señor Ramos, how gallant of you.” She hooked her arm with his. “I’d like that—another glass of wine.”

  They’d had some rather expensive wine with dinner, a deep, full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon. He’d liked the taste of it and had gone along with the rest of them, but he still preferred rum and Coke.

  He would join her in a glass of wine, but he hoped all wines weren’t as expensive as the one they’d had at the steakhouse. He didn’t have unlimited money like his employer.

  He led her to a booth, a little distance from the piano player, who was performing an unfamiliar but catchy tune. He helped her to be seated and took the bench across from her.

  A waitress came over and took their orders. Leticia ordered a simple red house wine. He sighed with relief and followed her lead.

  “I didn’t know you were a wine drinker, Señor Ramos.”

  “I’m not really, but I thought it would be nice to join you.”

  “How kind.”

  The waitress came back and set down two glasses, half-filled with wine. “Can I get you folks something else? The kitchen is still open.” She handed them bar menus. “We’ve got some delicious hors d’oeuvres. The crab cakes are excellent and fresh.”

  They glanced at each other. He thought she would take the lead, but she seemed comfortable with allowing him to answer. “Thank you, but we’ve just had dinner.”

  She nodded, agreeing silently.

  The waitress inclined her head and took back the menus. “Of course, I’ll check later to see if y’all want another round.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Leticia glanced around the bar area. She lifted her glass with one hand. “Señor Ramos, this is so nice of you. Should we toast to Quarter horse racing or Stormy Knight or something else?”

 
He leaned forward and covered her other hand with his. “I wish you’d call me Franco.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He squeezed her hand, and she didn’t pull away. “Yes, I’m certain.”

  “Here, it seems right, but what about at the ranch? Won’t it seem too familiar?”

  “You call Chuy by his given name and all the other hands, too. Why am I different?”

  She gazed into his eyes. “I think you know why you’re different … Franco. Or am I reading something into the way you—?”

  “The way I look at you. The way I want to touch you.” He shook his head. “No, you’re right.”

  “More reason to be formal and call you Señor Ramos at the ranch.” She pulled her hand free. “I would like to call you Franco away from the ranch.”

  He wished she’d let him hold her hand, but at least, she had acknowledged his attraction and agreed to call him by his given name. Though it was a hollow victory. The two times he’d summoned the courage to ask her out, she’d turned him down. Still, he didn’t want to appear disappointed.

  “I’m glad,” he said.

  “Now about that toast?”

  “To Stormy Knight?” He lifted his glass and clinked it with hers. He took a sip of the wine and almost grimaced.

  The taste of it was not of the quality they’d had at the steak house. Even he, who knew nothing about wine, could tell the difference. But he schooled his features because she was watching him, and he didn’t want to spoil the moment.

  She touched her glass to his. “To Stormy Knight.” She sipped her wine. “I guess you want to race him.”

  “I would be honored to do so. Didn’t you find the races exciting?”

  “Yes, they are exciting, but it’s all about gambling. I mean, you spend a lot of money to see if your horse can win. But if he doesn’t, you have no return on your investment. Same as the wagering we did today. Just bigger and different and with more at stake.”

  “That’s true.” He had to agree. Even though he knew she had more than enough money to take the plunge, she didn’t strike him as much of a gambler. Today, she’d placed only modest bets of four or six dollars, nothing more.