The Cowboy Way

by Linda Lael Miller

  Tom, already signaling to turn onto Ashley’s street, cast a quizzical glance in her direction. “Really?” he asked. “You worked pretty hard to earn that law degree and pass the bar exam and then build a resume. What would you do if you weren’t a lawyer?”

  As the alley between the Crocketts’ and the B&B came into focus, toward the end of the block, cell memory must have kicked in, because Melissa felt the impact of her fall all over again, as if it had just happened.

  “Interesting question,” she murmured in response. Before the breakup, she and Dan had agreed on a general plan: she would take a few years off from her career when she felt ready, help raise his two boys, have at least one baby, try out some of the domestic arts, like cooking and decorating, à la Ashley. “And I don’t think I know the answer.”

  And that was probably the whole problem, she reflected. She not only didn’t know what she would do if she didn’t practice law, she didn’t know who she would be.

  She’d been so sure that she loved Dan, wanted to make a life with him, but when it came time to set a date and to actually get married, Melissa had panicked. Dan, who’d been patient for a long time, had been coldly furious, and then he’d delivered an ultimatum; she had forty-eight hours to make a decision, one way or the other: marry him, or call it quits.

  Melissa hadn’t needed forty-eight hours, or even forty-eight seconds.

  She’d called it quits.

  Of course, she’d expected Dan to come around in a day or two—a week at the longest—with flowers and sweet talk, the way he had every other time they’d ever disagreed about anything, large or small, but that time was different. There was no soft music, no steamy makeup sex, no anything. Within a week, in fact, Dan was dating a waitress, the woman he’d since married.

  “Well,” Tom said, drawing the cruiser to a stop in front of the B&B. “We’re here.”

  “Yes,” Melissa said, squinting her eyes and peering at the front of her sister and brother-in-law’s gracious house. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Tom chuckled, unfastened his seat belt and got out of the car. Reaching the sidewalk, he opened Melissa’s door for her, then released Elvis from the back.

  Even from where they stood, the sounds of merriment coming from behind the house were clearly audible. There was spritely guitar music, laughter, cheering and loud, enthusiastic applause.

  “Damn,” Melissa muttered, shaking her head, as Tom opened the front gate and waited for her to walk through ahead of him.

  “You can wait here if you want to,” Tom offered, as Elvis trotted happily ahead, nose to the ground.

  “It isn’t as if I’ve never seen a naked man before, you know,” she said.

  Tom laughed. “Huh?”

  Unwittingly, she’d just revealed her secret fear: that the B&B guests were naked again. “You know what I meant,” Melissa replied, with a little snap to her tone.

  Tom remained amused. “By the way,” he went on, “what’s the matter with you? You flinched every time I took a corner on the way over here, and I’d swear you’re limping a little.”

  He’d taken the lead, following the walk that ran alongside the house and into the backyard with its high fences and sheltering trees, but he looked over his shoulder at her as he spoke.

  Melissa raised and lowered her shoulders. Carefully. “I took a little spill when I was running this morning,” she said. “It’s no big deal.”

  Elvis, having reached the backyard, began to bark. The sound was the purest joy, and Melissa had to smile.

  Tom stopped in his tracks as soon as he’d rounded the far corner of the house, and Melissa, bringing up the rear, almost collided with him.

  “I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

  She peeked around him.

  And there was the Wild Bunch, the men dressed like matadors, except for their hats, the women in flamenco outfits and holding roses in their teeth, tangoing like mad across the wide stone patio.

  The music, pouring from a boom box, was deafening.

  Elvis stood near the edge of the patio, a delighted witness to the festivities, barking his brains out as he followed the action.

  Spotting Melissa and Tom, John Winthrop hurried over to crank down the volume on the boom box. He was wearing one of those round hats trimmed with tiny pom-poms.

  The other man in the group finished up the dance by dipping his partner.

  Melissa, more impressed than she would have admitted to Tom Parker or anyone else, could only assume that osteoporosis wasn’t an issue in this particular crowd.

  Tom cleared his throat, then summoned Elvis to his side.

  Melissa stepped up next to him, concentrating on one thing. Not laughing.

  “Why, it’s Melissa,” said Mr. Winthrop, beaming, taking off his hat and bowing deeply. “How nice to see you again!”

  “That’s quite a costume,” Melissa said.

  “Rented,” Mr. Winthrop replied. He drew in a deep, robust breath and let it out in a whoosh. “We got to talking about our trip to Spain—we went three years ago—and I guess we got a little carried away by all the memories.”

  “There’s no costume-rental place in Stone Creek,” Tom said, sounding suspicious.

  “We called a shop in Flagstaff,” Winthrop explained jovially. “They were kind enough to deliver.”

  “Oh,” Tom replied, clearly at a loss.

  “The neighbors are complaining about the music,” Melissa told the gang. “It was too loud.”

  The women looked annoyed. The men were crestfallen. Melissa felt like the original wet blanket.

  “Well, I guess there’s no harm done,” Tom allowed. “If you’ll all just keep the noise down a little, everybody will be happy.”

  “Not everybody,” said the woman in the red dress, trailing ruffles behind her and fiddling with the Spanish comb in her hair.

  “We’ll behave,” Mr. Winthrop promised.

  The woman in the red dress harrumphed, arms folded.

  “Fair enough,” Tom said agreeably.

  By then, Melissa was wondering why she’d come along on this mission, since Tom didn’t seem to need her help. If asked, she would have said it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  She smiled apologetically at the croquet/tango team. Winced when Tom took a light grip on her arm.

  “That does it,” he said to Melissa, as they walked away, Elvis ambling along behind them. “I’m taking you over to the clinic in Indian Rock.”

  Melissa sighed. “I’m just fine,” she protested. “In fact, I was thinking I might like to try the tango—”

  Tom flashed her a grin as he opened the door of the squad car for her and helped her to ease inside. “No way,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” Tom said, with a wicked light in his eyes, “it takes two to tango, and I’ll have no part of it, thank you very much.”

  Melissa groaned. “That was such a bad joke,” she said.

  But then she laughed.

  Tom turned serious. “I still think you should see a doctor. I could run you over to the clinic in Indian Rock in no time—”

  “I’m fine, Tom,” she insisted. “And I’m not going anywhere but back to the office.”

  Tom didn’t answer until he’d gotten behind the wheel again. “Not much going on there,” he observed. “Andrea can probably hold down the fort. Why not stay home for the rest of the day, if you won’t go to the doctor, and take it easy?” He indicated her purse with a nod of his head and another grin. “You could take care of all those phone messages. Reassure Bea Brady that you won’t allow the toilet-paper contingent to get out of hand when it comes time to decorate the floats for the big parade. Tell Steven Creed you’re hot for him and he’s welcome to come by for supper anytime.”

  Melissa punched her old friend in the arm. “I’m going back to work,” she told her friend. “If I have to feel lousy, I might as well do it at the office as at home and, besides, my car is there.”

&nbs
p; “Never argue with a lawyer,” Tom sighed, heading for the center of town.

  “Maybe I will invite Steven over for supper again, though,” she said, after musing a while. “Care to join us?”

  Tom pulled the cruiser into the usual parking spot behind the courthouse and looked over at her. “I smell a setup,” he said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MELISSA GOT OUT of the squad car, opened the back door for Elvis, who leaped nimbly to the ground, and semi-hobbled toward the side entrance to the brick courthouse. Tom’s words echoed in her brain.

  I smell a setup, he’d said, when she’d invited him to supper, moments before.

  “You have a suspicious mind, Tom Parker,” she accused.

  “Part of the job,” Tom admitted, holding open the heavy glass door for her.

  It occurred to Melissa then, as it might have to Tom as well, that it was a shame their relationship had always been platonic. They’d have made a good couple, she guessed, but there was no spark on either side. Hanging out with Sheriff Parker was like being with her brother, Brad—easy, low-key and safe.

  Keeping company with Steven, on the other hand, had the same charge as bungee jumping off a high bridge or riding a unicycle across the Grand Canyon on a tightrope.

  “Taking risks is a part of your job, too,” Melissa replied briskly, as they moved—man, woman and dog—along the corridor. “But when it comes to romance, you’re nothing but a coward.”

  “So it was a setup,” Tom said, with a note of triumph. “I knew it.”

  “I might have been thinking of asking Tessa Quinn to join us,” Melissa answered, as they reached the outer door of her offices.

  Melissa O’Ballivan, Prosecutor, read the faux-metal sign affixed to it.

  She waited out a small rush of frustration. Once, she’d loved her work. Now, she was just marking time, it seemed, waiting for someone to break the law, so she could try them in court. Was that any way to live?

  Tom frowned down at her, though there was a benevolent light in his eyes. “I’m looking forward to a platterful of Ashley’s spare ribs,” he said.

  “You haven’t won yet,” Melissa pointed out. “In fact, the way you’re dragging your feet—you’ve had plenty of time to ask Tessa out, it seems to me—you’re looking more and more like the new chairman of the Parade Committee with every passing moment.”

  “I’ll ask her,” Tom said.

  “Fine,” Melissa retorted. “Let’s see some action here. I’m not going to let you drag this bet out until we’re all old and gray.”

  He huffed out a loud sigh. “Here’s an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you just run your love life, O’Ballivan, and let me run mine?”

  Melissa didn’t have a reply ready, since neither of them actually had a love life, so she pushed open the office door and stepped inside, leaving Tom and Elvis in the corridor.

  “As far as I’m concerned, the bet is off,” Tom called after her.

  “You wish,” Melissa called back.

  Andrea, though puffy-eyed, looked as though she’d rallied while Melissa was away. She smiled, pushed back her chair and hurried into the tiny break room, returning moments later with a steaming cup of coffee.

  The fragrance was tantalizing.

  “I made it myself,” Andrea said, sweeping past her, into the inner office, and setting the cup down on Melissa’s desk.

  “I thought making coffee was against your principles,” Melissa said lightly, extracting the stack of messages from her purse before putting the bag away in its usual cubbyhole.

  “You’re the one who said it wasn’t in my job description,” Andrea said.

  Melissa smiled. “Nevertheless, Andrea,” she replied, with a touch of irony that was probably lost on her assistant, “thank you for making the coffee. Did anyone call or stop by while I was out?”

  For a fraction of a second, Andrea looked almost coy. “Mr. Creed was here,” the girl responded. “About fifteen or twenty minutes ago.”

  Melissa’s heart raced, though she was all-business on the outside.

  Or so she hoped, anyway.

  She sat down, reached for the cup, took a sip of coffee before saying anything at all. “Oh? Did he say what he wanted?”

  Be casual.

  “Lunch,” Andrea said.

  Lunch—an ordinary enough concept. When connected with Steven Creed, however, even the suggestion gave her that runaway roller-coaster feeling again.

  Melissa merely nodded. She fanned the phone messages out on the surface of her desk, just to give herself something to do.

  “I could get Mr. Creed on the phone for you,” Andrea offered, her tone eager, almost breathless.

  Melissa didn’t look up from the messages. “I’ll do that myself, Andrea,” she said. “But thank you.”

  “He’s pretty hot,” Andrea commented.

  Melissa sighed. Agreeing that Steven was hot would have been like agreeing that the sky was blue.

  Andrea hurried out of the office and closed the door behind her.

  Melissa picked up the telephone handset, squinted at the written message with Steven’s name on it and dialed.

  While she waited, a miniature Cirque de Soleil sprang to life in the pit of her stomach, performing death-defying spins and leaps and dives.

  This was ridiculous. Maybe Steven Creed was attractive—okay, he was definitely attractive—but he was a mortal man, not a Greek god, for heaven’s sake.

  Then again, that was the problem, wasn’t it? He was all man—too much man—maybe even more man than she could handle.

  As if.

  “Steven Creed,” he said suddenly, startling Melissa. She realized she hadn’t actually expected him to answer the call—she’d planned on leaving a message. Counted, inexplicably, on that little buffer of time.

  “H-hello,” she responded, all but croaking the word. Get a grip, she told herself silently. You’re a grown woman, dammit, not a teenager.

  “Melissa?”

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat. Squeezed her eyes shut tight. “It’s me. I’m sorry—I was planning to answer your call earlier, but then something came up and I had to leave the office and—”

  “I just wanted to invite you to lunch,” Steven said, with a smile in his voice, when she bogged down in the middle of her sentence. She’d have sworn he knew how rattled she was, and that only made her more so. “I’ll understand, of course, if you’re busy or something. It’s pretty short notice.”

  Say you’re busy, advised Melissa’s inner chicken little. He gave you an out.

  “I’m not busy,” she said aloud.

  “Great,” Steven responded. “Meet you at the Sunflower Café at noon?”

  Melissa checked her watch. It was quarter after eleven, so she had forty-five minutes to pull herself together. “Perfect,” she said, sounding way more perky than she considered necessary.

  Her “perky” quota was normally zero. Add Steven Creed to the equation, though, and she was about as sedate as a middle-school cheerleader at the first big game of the season.

  “See you then,” Steven said. “Bye.”

  “Bye,” Melissa said, a few seconds after he’d hung up.

  She took several sips of her rapidly cooling coffee, then squared her shoulders, raised her chin and started answering the messages Andrea had given her earlier.

  A big believer in tackling the least appealing task first, she dialed Bea Brady’s number. The older woman answered on the second ring, but not with a hello, or her name, the way most people would have done.

  “It’s about time you called me back, Melissa O’Ballivan!” she snapped, instead.

  Melissa’s temper surged, nearly breaking the surface of her professional composure, but she managed a pleasant tone when she replied. “I’m at work, Bea,” she said. “Parade Committee business should probably be handled after hours.”

  “How do you know I’m calling about the parade?” Bea demanded, every bit as surly as before.

  Me
lissa reread the message, hoping she’d transcribed Andrea’s handwriting correctly. “It says here that you’re concerned about someone purchasing toilet paper?”

  “Adelaide Hillingsley bought a truck load of the stuff at one of those box stores in Flagstaff,” Bea blurted. “She lives by herself. There’s only one bathroom in her house. What would one woman be doing with so much tissue if she didn’t plan on flouting the rules and using it to decorate the Chamber of Commerce float for the parade?”

  Melissa closed her eyes, sat back in her chair and counted mentally until she was sure she wouldn’t laugh. Adelaide was a force to be reckoned with; although she’d originally been hired as a receptionist, she’d been running the organization for years.

  “Maybe you should ask Adelaide about that, Bea,” Melissa said, when she dared to speak at all. “Since it’s committee business and I’m at work—”

  “Oh, don’t give me that, Melissa O’Ballivan,” Bea broke in. “Everybody knows you don’t have anything to do most of the time anyway!”

  Melissa counted again, but this time it was to keep from yelling.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, when she’d reached the double digits.

  Bea backed off a little. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she conceded. She was a nice person, despite being a bit on the pushy side—as president of the local Garden Club, and an old-line Stone Creeker, she was used to being in charge, getting things done, that was all.

  “I’m glad,” Melissa said pleasantly, thinking the other woman’s remark might not have stung so much if it wasn’t so damn true.

  “You’ll speak to Adelaide? Remind her that the Parade Committee specifically voted never to use toilet paper in the construction of a float? It would be so tacky—”

  “I’ll talk to Adelaide,” Melissa said, because she had other calls to make and she needed to move on to the next one. None of them were any more important or pressing than this one but, still. She was drawing a paycheck, and she was on county time.

  “When? When will you talk to her?”

  Melissa’s cuts and bruises tuned up again, all at once, in a dull, throbbing chorus. “Tonight,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow. But soon, Bea. I promise.”