“You might say so. I’m a rancher, Donna.”
Something about the way he said her name made her abruptly aware that he still held her hand. She drew free, overlapped the edges of her coat more tightly.
“Right. You mentioned a ranch. If you haven’t eaten you don’t want to go to the diner. It’s mostly sandwiches.”
“Your friend will worry if we’re not there.”
She smiled. “Maudie’s a company institution, but she doesn’t have to decide where we eat.”
“Your friend will worry if we’re not there,” he repeated. Apparently that settled it for him.
And she supposed he was right. Maudie would worry. “A sandwich is good for me, but I suspect it takes more to fill you up.”
“It’ll do fine.” He stepped back, raising a palm-up hand inviting her to walk past him, then turned in beside her.
They walked in silence to where this alley alongside the building intersected the sidewalk fronting the theater. She was aware of him slowing his pace to accommodate her. Some men didn’t bother. Some men made a production of it. He simply gentled his pace to match her shorter stride.
“Grover and Maudie said you were here last night.”
“I was.”
“You saw the show?”
“Yep.”
“Both nights?” She turned the corner onto the sidewalk and nearly came to a standstill as a gust of wind hit her in the face.
“Yep.”
She looked up at an angle, squinting against the wind. “You didn’t come backstage last night?”
“I did.”
“But . . . ” Her first thought was of her temptation to look around when they left last night. He had been there. Did that mean — No. It didn’t mean anything.
“You came out with two other girls,” he said, “all talking about how tired you were, how you were going right back to the hotel for hot baths, and a good night’s sleep before today’s two shows.”
“Oh.”
One side of his mouth quirked up. “A smart man knows better than to try to compete with that.”
The wind had eased, letting her look at him without her eyes watering. “Are you a smart man, Ed Currick?”
“Passable smart.”
She laughed at the assumed deadpan humility.
They reached the diner. He moved ahead to open the door.
“Two nights in a row? You must like musical theater.”
“Can’t say. Didn’t pay much attention to most of it. I came to see you.”
She was saved from needing to respond by the business of entering the small restaurant, finding a table, and taking her chair. A tableful of company members waved, eyebrows waggling suggestively at her companion’s back.
She ignored them, arranging her coat over her chair. He’d offered to hang it up, but she liked to keep it close. She didn’t expect anyone to take it, but she’d be so heartbroken if they did that it didn’t seem worth the risk. Then she concentrated on the menu. It didn’t require much time.
Finally, Donna gave Ed Currick of Knighton, Wyoming a stiff smile. What was she doing here with him? Not only were they a pair of Lydia’s ships passing in the night, while she was more of a permanent mooring type — if that meant what she thought it meant — but what did they have in common? What would they talk about?
He looked back. Those steady gray eyes had a darker rim around the edge, and lashes that were long and full, yet took nothing away from the overt masculinity of a strong-featured face.
He’d removed his cowboy hat, and there was a hat-shaped dent in his thick dark hair. Her fingers itched to delve into it — only to fix the dent, of course.
Heat flowed through her.
Oh, Lord, her hormones were not thinking about talking.
“So are you or aren’t you a cowboy?” It came out abrupt. Strange. She was usually so good with people.
He’s a man, not people, some voice inside her head said.
Definitely, certainly a man.
“Ranching calls for some cowboying.”
“What else does it call for?”
“A fair amount of everything.” People who weren’t paying attention, weren’t looking into his eyes might miss the glint of humor.
“That doesn’t tell me—”
The solitary waitress, harried by the influx of theater people, rushed up. He ordered two beef sandwiches, a salad, fries, and a milkshake to her sandwich and cup of soup.
“Is it always like that?” he asked with the waitress gone.
“Like what?”
He tipped his head backward toward the boisterous table behind him.
“Pretty much. Sort of like when a family with lots of siblings gets together.” She was careful not to make eye-contact with any of the table’s occupants. Especially Lydia or Henri.
“And yesterday afternoon? At the hotel?”
“Not usually that bad.” She laughed. Then made a discovery that stopped her breath in her throat and started her heart hammering like she’d danced back-to-back-to-back numbers.
Steady gray eyes could burn.
She thought it had been a fluke in the lobby. It wasn’t. The spotlight of his eyes concentrated heat inside her like she’d never known. Those eyes could burn . . . and they could ignite.
She sucked in air, but it brought with it the heat from his eyes. So now it was inside as well as surrounding her. She’d go right up in flames completely, if she didn’t . . . didn’t . . .
“They’re letting off steam. We’ve had a hectic week,” she said in rush. “We closed in Omaha Sunday night. Traveling on Monday is normal, but instead of having Tuesday off, we were supposed to rehearse for last night’s benefit and today’s two. A tough schedule even if everything went right.”
“But something went wrong.”
“Exactly. First, road construction. Brad fussed at him, so the driver tried a detour of the detour. Then our bus broke down. Usually our truck travels with, but because of the tight schedule it left Sunday night with whatever crew squeezed in to start on set-up. So, we were alone. It was mid-afternoon before help came. We were all wearing pounds of clothing by then. The mechanic says he can’t repair the bus in time to get us here. They send for another bus, but in the meantime there we all are — well, not the crew that went ahead, or the principals or conductor, because they’re driven separately, but the ensemble, and orchestra, and some of the crew, and — anyway, we’re crammed into this tiny, isolated service station, devouring every crumb from the vending machines, because we hadn’t had lunch or dinner. Then something amazing happens.”
He still watched her intently, but the flame in his eyes had lowered. A smolder now. Not nearly as unsettling — no, not unsettling. She wasn’t unsettled. Just cautious.
“What was amazing?”
She blinked, abruptly realizing she’d been staring into his eyes. And he’d been staring back.
“People.” She swallowed, cleared her throat and started again. “People started showing up, a whole stream of pickups. They loaded us all up, and took us to a church. By now it was dark and cold and we were so hungry, but this church glowed with lights from every window, and when we stepped inside —” She closed her eyes, breathing in remembered aromas and sounds. “— it was like coming home on Thanksgiving, having all those wonderful scents and the swell of welcoming voices. Oh, how I missed that.”
It had been tough last week. Missing her favorite meal, missing her family even more, missing being where she was loved. But that was to be expected. Part of being a professional. Paying those dues.
“You weren’t home for Thanksgiving?”
“Not this year. I got home for Thanksgiving and Christmas last year. I could make my own schedule because I wasn’t steadily employed,” she said dryly.
“What did you do when you weren’t steadily employed?”
“Kept trying to be steadily employed. I had a few small things, then a nice off-off Broadway show last winter. Short run, unfortunate
ly. Otherwise, it’s casting calls and classes and waitressing so I don’t have to beg from my parents — not that they wouldn’t help. They’ve always encouraged us to go for our dreams. It’s just that they worry. You know, New York, the theater.”
“Here.” The waitress plopped a plate with two big sandwiches in front of her. Ed efficiently swapped the plates.
“So folks had gathered at the church because word got around about a busload of people needing help,” he prompted.
“How did you know?”
He shrugged.
“Well, you’re right. People brought blankets, cots, sleeping bags so we’d be comfortable sleeping in the church. But first — ”
“First you ate.” Lines fanned from his eyes like ripples of smiles.
“Now, how’d you know that?”
“It’s the way people are in this part of the world.”
“Oh.” So his — Knighton? — was like the people at that church? She didn’t think it could get any more different from New York City. Though, perhaps, not so very different from Indiana. “Well, you’re right. We ate. Such good food. Even the ones who fuss about weight piled up their plates. And cookies? Delicious. They had Christmas cookies already — What’s your favorite Christmas cookie?”
“Chocolate chip.”
She tsked. “Those are for everyday. You have to have special cookies at Christmas.”
“Christmas is a day, too. Chocolate chip,” he insisted.
“Fine. So, in addition to chocolate chip, what kind of cookies?”
“These chocolate bar things with a little crust under them and nuts on top.”
“Those sound good. What are they called?”
“The chocolate bar things with a little crust — Ow.” Like her light swat on his arm made an impression . . . although she had felt a tingle. “Okay, Mom calls them toffee bars. What’s your favorite?”
“Cutout cookies. And butter cookies we make into tree shapes or wreaths with a cookie press, then decorate.”
“I’d probably eat a few of those,” he said judiciously.
“You’d have eaten more than a few of the ones at that church. We repaid them the only way they’d let us, by literally singing for our supper.”
He smiled, and she had an instant, vivid flash of two images blending together. Like seeing a double exposure, this one held an image of a toddler and another one of an older man with gray streaking his hair. Yet both had the exact same grin, like they were related. And . . . Yes, a third exposure, another image, this one of the man in front of her. And it was his grin she saw. His grin shared with the toddler and the older man. She wanted to wrap her arms around all of them, because seeing them made her heart —
“You okay, Donna?” His low voice reached her from far away, then an electric current connected with her hand. She jolted. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
She looked from where his hand covered hers on the table, to his no-longer-smiling face. Definitely the face she’d seen. As it was now, but also the toddler’s and the older man’s. How strange. How very strange.
“Donna?”
“I’m fine. Really. I . . . ” She slid her hand from under his, picked up her sandwich. “What was I saying?”
“Singing for your supper.”
“Right,” she nodded. “We started with numbers from the show — the parts suitable for a church. I did Charity, since I’m the understudy. And they applauded and cheered, and some sang along. It was like when I fell in love with dancing and singing.”
“And acting?”
“That came later, to wrap it all together. Dad says I came out of the womb dancing and singing. Mom worked like crazy with the lessons and rehearsals and recitals.” Impulsively, she put her hand on his arm. “Do you have something you feel passionately about?”
“The Slash-C. That C’s for Currick. Been in the family for generations. It’s . . . home.”
She caught her breath at the way he said the last word.
He might have felt it, too, because he turned the subject. “So you sang from your show for the people at the church.”
“Then we all sang Christmas carols as we cleaned up. We stood in the doorway, singing “Silent Night” as they drove off, and it started to snow. It was . . . magical. The best experience since — ”
Abruptly she became aware they were holding hands across the table. She drew her hand free to fold her napkin, telling how the replacement bus didn’t arrive until late Tuesday.
They drove through the night and into Wednesday, the hours ticking down toward that night’s show. The scramble, with so little time and a new theater and everyone tired. And then two shows today. “Wildest days of the whole tour,” she concluded.
He asked more about her time in New York, and she answered readily. When he asked where else the tour had been, she rattled off what felt like a Greyhound bus schedule, ending with “. . . then Omaha, then here. My first time to see the Rocky Mountains, even if it is from a distance.”
“New theater every week?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes less, sometimes more. So, tell me about your ranch,” she said. Not the smoothest transition, but a crease had appeared between his strong brows, and she wanted to change the subject to see if it would go away.
“Ranch is in the same place every day,” he said. She thought that was more of his deadpan humor but wasn’t sure since he was looking around, not meeting her eyes.
The final group of her fellow company members got up to leave, talking and yawning and waving.
“Ma’am? May we have our check, please?” Ed asked the waitress. Then he addressed Donna, “You ready?”
She looked at her plate, barely remembering what she’d eaten, and yet with a sudden, odd emptiness. “I guess I am.”
“We’ll follow along with your friends, so you’re not feeling like you’re walking alone so late with a stranger,” he said as he paid.
The emptiness in her disappeared. He wasn’t hurrying their departure for any reason other than consideration.
He stood, holding her coat.
It was a courtesy she appreciated. Not because she wasn’t a capable and independent woman, but because getting into a coat could be awkward, what with heavy layers to contend with. Women should help men with their coats, too.
She slid one arm in, holding the cuff of her sweater with her fingers so it didn’t bunch up.
That was when she felt the warm wall of his chest behind her. Not touching, but so there. He still held her coat while she twisted to insert her second cuff-holding hand into the opposite sleeve, so his arms resembled a ballerina’s in first position with her in the center. Only anything less like a ballerina’s delicacy was hard to imagine. He was solid heat, surrounding her, tempting her.
She missed the armhole.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his breath stirring her hair, adding a shiver to the heat transferring from his body deep into hers.
“My fault.” She bit her lip, concentrating on getting her hand in. She flurried into words. “I love this coat, but it does have narrow sleeves. The price you pay for high fashion.”
Success. Her arm was in the sleeve.
“Is it warm?”
With both arms coated, she continued her motion to pivot, feeling somehow that facing him would remove this sense of sinking into his heat.
Except he didn’t release her coat, so he still was connected to her and the spotlight sensation returned in full force. As bright, hot and direct as before.
Warm? Oh, yes, very warm.
She sucked in a breath, then let it out on a stream of words.
“Warm doesn’t matter. I had fantastic luck finding this coat at a thrift store in New York — designer, with hardly any wear, and I got it for a steal. Of course, it needs a belt for the full 007 trench coat effect.”
“It’s red,” he said, a hand at the small of her back. “Bright red.”
“I especially love that. It lifts my spirits no matter what.”
>
He reached past her to open the door. “Can’t imagine a spy wearing a red coat.”
She laughed. “Maybe not an ordinary spy. But James Bond doesn’t blend in, so why should I?”
“You wouldn’t ever blend in.”
The depth of his voice had a strange effect, threatening her ability to stay upright. A wind from nowhere buffeted her and swung one side of her coat wide, plastering it against his legs.
“You’ll freeze out here. You should button up.”
“Can’t. No buttons.”
He frowned. “Designers make coats with no buttons?”
“Sure, some do. But in this case, someone apparently cut them off. So, until I find the buttons, I do this —” She overlapped the front edges and wrapped her arms around herself.
“You need a warm coat. You’re in Denver, not Atlanta.” That was one of the stops she’d mentioned. Of course they’d been there during a heat wave.
“Only for — ” She didn’t know exactly. “- a few days.”
“Days? You can freeze to death in hours.”
“I’m not going to freeze to death. Look at how nice it is now.” The errant gust was gone, the night still and crisp. There were enough people on the streets to not feel isolated. Holiday decorations enlivened windows of stores and businesses.
“It can turn not-nice real fast. It’s nearly December, and —” He gestured to the poster of a familiar red-clad figure in a nearby window. “— there’s a reason Santa wears fur.”
She chuckled. “He doesn’t care about style, and I do. So, what brings you to Denver?”
He raised his eyebrows. “You know, even a cowpuncher recognizes a change of subject.”
“I’m glad he does, though I have no idea why someone would punch a cow.”
“To get the cow to move. Though cowpoke’s more accurate. Can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone punch a cow, even if Alex Karras supposedly did it to a horse in ‘Blazing Saddles.’ ”
“You’ve seen that movie?”
“Yes’m. Them there talkin’ picture shows came to Wyoming a leetle while back now.”
“I didn’t —” She started to apologize if he thought she’d implied his state was backward. Then she spotted mischief in his eyes. “Okay, I deserved that. Now, back to what brings you to Denver.”
Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning Page 2