Enchanted by the Rodeo Queen--A Clean Romance

by Melinda Curtis

“Barking up the wrong tree, Granny,” Em mumbled as she hurried past her and inside, hanging up her hat and pulling off her boots. She needed to wash up and change before cake.

  “I’m thankful I’ve got trees to bark at,” Granny teased. “Jonah, dearie, I thought you weren’t moving in for another day or so. What brings you by?”

  “Cake,” Jonah said, as big as brass.

  Emily gritted her teeth as she traipsed to her room.

  * * *

  “CARROT CAKE.” Jonah Monroe sat at the dining room table at the Bucking Bull Ranch soaking up the chaos created by three rambunctious boys, Jonah’s cousin Shane and the Clark women. “My favorite.”

  Shane gave Jonah a sharp, disbelieving look.

  “It’s my favorite,” Jonah said again. He just didn’t eat it anymore.

  “How many candles, Mom?” Davey was the oldest of Emily’s nephews, at nine. He rummaged through a kitchen drawer, holding up his finds in one hand. A birth defect had left him without the other, not that the kid let that slow him down. “We have two boxes.”

  “I don’t need thirty candles on my cake.” Emily opened a cupboard and brought out a mismatched stack of dessert plates. Although she’d checked her straw cowboy hat and brown boots at the door, she was country through and through, from her blue checked shirt with pearly snaps, to her blue jeans, faded in intriguing places. Her honey-brown hair tumbled to her shoulders, and her mouth was full of sass. “Three will do.”

  “But we have enough.” Grinning, Charlie swiped the candles, possibly unaware that one box said it was trick candles that didn’t blow out, possibly very much aware there was a joke afoot. Although he was only seven, he was a mischief-maker with brown hair as wild as his nature.

  This is going to be good.

  If Jonah had to extend his stay in quiet Second Chance, he had a right to find life’s little pleasures. These three young cowboys were going into a script someday. He could see it now.

  EXTERIOR. MOUNTAIN RANCH. Three boys run through a field chasing a gleeful Labrador with a slobbery baseball in his mouth.

  Jonah caught the family Labrador’s eye as the black dog squished a slobbery tennis ball. He snapped his fingers to call him over.

  “You can light a signal fire with thirty candles, Aunty Em.” Adam hopped in place as if he was on a pogo stick. “And then send out smoke signals. I. Am. Thirty. I. Am. Thirty.”

  Emily’s smile became strained and she looked everywhere but at Jonah.

  “Go for thirty, Aunty Em.” Jonah had to get in on the fun even if it made Emily’s brown eyes narrow when she finally looked at him. “I enjoy a good bonfire.”

  “Why you’d want to witness a bonfire is beyond me.” Emily’s grumble was more like a junkyard dog’s first growl at an intruder. “Since someone might decide to roast you instead of marshmallows.”

  “Everybody loves s’mores,” Jonah said with barely contained glee.

  Their repartee inspired more hops, chortles and shoulder shoving from Emily’s nephews.

  This woman.

  He wanted her.

  He fell back in his chair.

  As my assistant. Only as my assistant.

  He wanted to be inspired by her snappy dialogue. He wanted to be invigorated by their back-and-forth rivalry. Being with her was worth more than the former rodeo queen could know.

  “What’s all that racket?” Gertie asked from her easy chair, which was a safe distance away from all the hopping and mischief-making. She closed a small music box.

  “Quiet down,” Shane shouted over his soon-to-be stepsons’ excitement.

  “Boys.” That was Franny, Shane’s fiancée, and the mother of those three budding cowboys.

  When the three boys were nearly calm, Jonah couldn’t resist sighing and saying the trigger word once more, “S’mores.”

  It had the desired effect—chaos.

  “Cake and s’mores. Cake and s’mores,” Adam chanted and bounced.

  “I’m so hungry I can eat three of everything,” Charlie boasted, hands on hips like a triumphant superhero.

  “And gack all over the back porch after.” Davey gave his younger brother a look that challenged superheroes to prove their superness. “Just like you did when you ate all your Easter candy at once.” He made a gagging noise. Repeatedly.

  Jonah was in heaven. Being with the Clarks reminded him of the trips he and his eleven siblings and cousins used to take with Grandpa Harlan.

  “You’re evil, Jonah.” Emily did a not-so-good job of not smiling. “Burn-at-the-stake evil, even for a Monroe.”

  Shane shot Jonah with another look of disbelief. “You don’t even like s’mores.”

  Could his cousin butt out? Just this once?

  Emily’s grin disappeared. “And I bet Jonah doesn’t eat cake, either. Just look at him. Skinny enough to slither through a dog door.”

  “Touché.” How could Jonah take offense at such a brilliant line? Or at his crafty cousin—the main reason he was in sleepy Second Chance—for feeding Emily the opportunity that had inspired her?

  Dog door? Jonah chuckled.

  Turned out Second Chance had redeeming qualities.

  He’d seen it the day Shane had guilted him and Bo into visiting, telling them they had to contribute to the town’s well-being before year’s end when they were scheduled to decide what to do with Second Chance—keep or sell. He’d walked up the long set of steps to his cousin Sophie’s curiosity shop and seen Emily on the porch. She’d been slack-jawed at the sight of Cousin Bo—couldn’t fault her for that since Bo had that effect on most women. Since Emily had been running Sophie’s store while Sophie was on her honeymoon, Jonah had gone in as a courtesy. She’d been tossing lines at him ever since.

  “Good boy, Bolt.” Jonah patted the Labrador’s head, keeping him near.

  Another redeeming quality? Merciless Mike Moody, the century-old legend about a stagecoach-robbing desperado. Talk about a reason to stay a while. The myth had everything a screenwriter wanted—action, violence, greed. Unlike fool’s gold in the Old West, Mike Moody had turned out to be worth something.

  There was gold in them thar hills.

  And last month Jonah had been there when Shane and the Clarks had found Mike Moody’s stolen gold. Here was Jonah’s chance to break out of the box and break into mainstream film. Gritty Westerns were all the rage.

  “We’re not having cake and s’mores,” Franny said with a heavy sigh.

  “Can we not argue on my birthday?” Emily had swung Adam onto her hip. She was very sturdy, which was good considering she worked with horses and bulls.

  Charlie and Davey were each armed with a box of candles. They loaded the cake, seemingly without counting.

  Shane handed Jonah a glass of water, retaining a bottle of beer for himself. “How’s that script coming?”

  Killjoy.

  Jonah’s mood deflated. “It’s coming.” As a writer, he was good at the bluff. “You know, first drafts are always difficult.”

  That was the same thing he’d told his agent this morning, to which Maury had replied, “Get me a treatment.” Meaning a story overview. “Too big a gap between projects to promote and people will think of you as a has-been, especially since your dad sacked you in January. I don’t represent writers with the stink of failure.”

  Sensitive guy, his agent.

  Jonah should’ve had a rough draft of the script done by now or at the very least a decent treatment. He’d listened to Gertie recount the Mike Moody myth several times. He’d been there when they’d discovered the gold. But the characters were flat on the page. The dialogue uninspired. His gut was in constant turmoil because his future was riding on the success of his interpretation of the story. And what had he done? In a moment of weakness, he’d sent a treatment to his father for feedback.

  His father. The he
ad of Monroe Studios. The man who’d fired him.

  The man who hadn’t replied yet and might not ever.

  “Don’t waste your time developing new ideas, Jonah. You’re a script jobber. You write what I tell you.” His father’s words had been like bumpers on the bowling lane of Jonah’s life.

  Write me a teen ensemble series, Jonah, one with three spunky leads who are also high school nerds.

  Write me a teenage witch movie, Jonah, one with a lead whose warlock boyfriend has died.

  Write me...

  Jonah could write anything given tight parameters, but what he wanted right now was to read something—a reply from his father that confirmed he was on to bigger and better things.

  Speaking of replies, Shane was waiting to hear more about the script about Mike Moody’s adventure. Nonwriters asked questions like this all the time. They wanted a snippet of story, an example scene, a bit of dinner conversation.

  Jonah deflected. “How’s that search for a town doctor coming, Shane?” No doctor wanted to work and live at a small crossroads town in the middle of the Idaho mountains.

  “Yeah, Shane.” Franny, the concerned mother of scrape-prone boys, perked up. “How’s it going?”

  In the kitchen, Emily spun one way and then another, back and forth, Adam still on her hip.

  “I’m dizzy.” Adam giggled.

  “If I was a bull, that’d be my goal.” Emily swung the little boy off her hip and to the ground, making a buzzer sound. The Clarks sold bucking bulls to rodeos. Big, mean fellas. “Sorry, cowboy. You didn’t last eight seconds.”

  Jonah grinned. He never felt uninspired around Emily. She had an energy about her. And when she was near, sparks flew.

  Not romantic sparks, thank Hollywood.

  Unlike his sister Laurel or his cousins Shane and Sophie, Jonah wasn’t interested in setting down roots in Second Chance with a significant other. His life was in Hollywood. Besides, he was still smarting from his last venture in dating, which hadn’t ended well.

  Well... He’d written a script about the experience, but that was more catharsis than career move. It was a romance and possibly a harder sell than a gritty Western. At least, as written by him.

  Jonah joined Shane and the Clarks in singing “Happy Birthday.” There were enough candles on the cake to burn the place down. And, of course, no matter how many times Emily huffed and puffed, the candles relit.

  Priceless.

  Franny took pity on the birthday girl, removed the trick candles and doused them in a bowl of water.

  “I get Aunty Em’s frosting.” Adam scurried out of the kitchen and sat on his knees in the chair next to Jonah, elbows on the table. “She promised.”

  “She can have Jonah’s frosting.” Shane smirked at Jonah. “And his cake.”

  Emily eyed Jonah as if he was one of those bucking bulls she helped train and couldn’t be trusted. “I thought you said carrot cake was your favorite.”

  “And it’s homemade.” Gertie took a seat at the head of the table. “By Emily. She insisted. She can cook up a storm.”

  “The most bestest cake-maker in the whole wide world,” Charlie said, spearing a bite of cake.

  Shane quirked an eyebrow at Jonah.

  Jonah quirked one right back. “Wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings by not eating the cake of the most bestest cake-maker in the whole wide world.” Even if he paid for it later. His digestive system didn’t process fats easily, but if it won him favor with Emily...

  “Don’t push your luck, Jonah.” Shane slid an arm around Franny’s waist and returned to his agenda. “When will that script of yours be done?”

  “When I write the end.” Jonah held back an eye roll. “Didn’t we just have this conversation?”

  “Oh, to have the luxury of wealth and leisure.” Emily rolled her eyes at Jonah. “Imagine if we, the Clarks, got around to training our bulls whenever. Nothing would get done.”

  This woman.

  Jonah sighed contentedly.

  Her dialogue.

  If he could only harness that special quality in a script. Jonah leaned forward in his chair. “The creative process doesn’t keep a schedule, although Shane would prefer it to—if he had his way, I’d hack it up. Transcribe my notes and say done deal.” Never. He had too much pride.

  Emily chuckled. “The reason for a secretary becomes clear. Transcription.”

  “I need an assistant, not a secretary,” Jonah said without taking his eyes off Emily.

  “You need help?” There was a frown in Shane’s voice, but there often was. He considered himself a fixer.

  “I need an assistant,” Jonah repeated, reluctantly taking his gaze from Emily to scowl at Shane. “I want to capture some of the flavor of Western life. I want to hire someone—” Emily “—to take me on the trails Mike Moody would have traveled on horseback.”

  “You’re looking for an out-of-work cowboy.” Shane frowned again, but it was his there’s-a-problem-that-I-need-to-solve frown, not his I-don’t-understand-you frown. “Remind me, Franny. What’s the name of that old man out by Remington Creek?”

  Jonah didn’t want an old man and his cowboy wisdom. He wanted Emily and her take-no-prisoners attitude. He wrote his best scenes after their sparring matches. The rest went in his scrap file. Frankly, most had been going in his scrap file, quality or not, because he couldn’t figure out the angle to take to tell Mike Moody’s tale. It was Emily or nothing.

  Jonah transferred his frosting onto Adam’s slice of cake and then discretely slid his plate to the floor under the table where Bolt inhaled his portion of the celebratory dessert.

  Later, when Jonah carried his plate to the kitchen with Bolt at his heels, Emily took one look at it and snorted. “Finally. We get some decent carbs in front of you and you polish the plate clean.”

  Bolt gazed adoringly at Jonah and licked his chops.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I’M OFFICIALLY OVER THE HILL.” Emily stared at the flames in the backyard firepit, one hand resting on Bolt’s broad forehead. She gave him a pat. “At least I’m not alone, fella. In dog years, you’ve got decades on me.”

  They were aging, but nothing was changing around them. Behind her stood the family home, which had weathered more than a hundred winters and still looked solid. A circle of gravel surrounded the concrete firepit, built for permanence. Above her, the inky sky was dotted with bright stars. Tall, slender pines reached for their brightness, reminding her of tall, slender Jonah and his need for an assistant.

  She wasn’t the type of cowgirl who took greenhorns on trail rides. Emily chased down bulls on Razzy, her cutting horse. In her spare time—ha, like she had any—she rode Deadly until he was spent.

  If Kyle was alive, he’d have laughed off Jonah’s request, end of story. And she should do the same.

  A crunch of quick footsteps and Franny sat down in a webbed chair next to her. She wore Kyle’s thick denim jacket and Shane’s large engagement ring. “There’s nothing like a birthday to wind my boys up. I had to threaten to bathe them in the horse trough behind the barn just to make them take their showers.”

  Em rubbed Bolt’s velvety ear. She loved her nephews. But she wanted some stubborn little cowpokes of her own. “I’ve been thinking...”

  “About leaving the ranch?” Franny had been her best friend since Em had been in kindergarten. Of course she’d know Em was restless.

  “It’s time.” Emily’s chest constricted. She didn’t want to leave. But there were her aging eggs and...dreaming of Bo falling in love with her was just that—a dream.

  “I appreciate you staying and helping after Kyle died.” Franny reached over and gently squeezed Emily’s arm. “I couldn’t have trained our new Buttercup for the rodeo circuit so quickly without you.” Buttercup was what they named every signature bull, the one that would carry the fort
unes of the ranch on his back for the next decade or so—tossing cowboys to the dirt and earning exorbitant breeder fees. They’d just sent Buttercup Five out for his professional rodeo debut. “I’ve leaned on you these past two years. Everyone has. It’s time you thought of yourself and found a place of your own. We’ve got Shane now.”

  Replaced. Em couldn’t breathe.

  It was one thing to think about leaving and another to hear Franny talk about Emily’s new reality. A week ago, she’d been training her nephews to rope, a skill they often worked on. She’d challenged the three boys to rope her. Three stiff lariats around her chest later and she’d been bursting with pride.

  Replaced. Emily drew in a deep breath.

  The week before her brother died, Emily had accepted a job with the stock distributor who bought their bucking bulls for the rodeo. After the accident, there was no way she’d have left Franny and the boys until they were settled again.

  Replaced. Em drew another lungful of air.

  She’d put her life on hold for her family, for this place. She’d been like the old farmhouse and sturdy trees—an unchanging fixture. And now... It was as if she was turning over the family reins to Shane, the reins she’d grabbed hold of after Kyle died. From this point on, Shane would be Franny’s rock. He’d be there for Granny and the boys. He wasn’t a true rancher, not yet anyway, but he made Franny happy.

  She had to trust that was enough.

  “I won’t leave right away.” Emily covered Franny’s hand, feeling the bulky shape of her engagement ring, feeling the distance grow between them. “I’m coaching a junior rodeo queen for the next few weeks and I haven’t even begun to ask around to see who might be hiring.”

  “You aren’t going to work for a rodeo, are you?” Franny used her motherly voice. “That’s a gypsy life. Cowboys on the circuit are like tumbleweeds and you’re looking to set down roots.”

  “I can’t get picky. Few ranchers have separate rooms for female cowhands.” Emily had enough saved to buy a horse trailer with a camper feature up front. She could live in it until winter. “There’s a cowboy out there for me. I just need to find him.”