Not Your Average Cowboy. Christine Wenger
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“Well, you haven’t been using it,” Karen snapped, and then turned her attention back to Merry.
At just the thought that she’d be staying in Buck’s room and sleeping in his bed, Merry’s heart flip-flopped in her chest, and her face heated as if she were a teenager.
Jet lag. It must be jet lag. Or the low elevation.
Karen gave her another hug. “I am so glad to see you in person. I watch you on TV all the time, but it’s not the same.”
“It’s good to see you, too.” And it really was.
“How’s business?” Karen asked.
“Overwhelming.” She’d hired an additional publicist, Joanne Gladding, to handle the George Lynch fallout. Joanne was a go-getter, but Merry wasn’t sure that Joanne was right for her. She’d hired her anyway, though, because she was leaving on this trip, and the matter had to be deflected immediately.
Whenever Merry thought of the tabloid articles, a new layer of humiliation settled like lead in her chest. Her parents were still absolutely furious with her about the one before George Lynch—her assistant director Mick, who also blabbed to the tabloids about their relationship.
Her parents. They never missed an opportunity to remind her not to get involved with an “underling” ever again, saying that her actions reflected on them and their business, too.
She never could win with them. Yet something inside her still made her want to keep trying.
Merry pushed her parents and the George Lynch fiasco to the back of her mind. She was going to enjoy her time here.
“I have some presents for you from Boston and Rhode Island.” Merry opened the trunk of the car and began to lift out some boxes. “I hope everything made it in good shape.”
She handed Karen a couple of the boxes. “This is chocolate-covered fruit from that shop by City Hall, and this one contains those cookies we lived on in college. And I bought some homemade bagels from Mrs. Jeeter, who said to say hello to you. And…ta-da…some New England clam chowder, packed in dry ice, fresh this morning from Clamdiggers.”
“Be still my heart.” Karen laughed. “But no clam cakes from Rhode Island?”
Merry pulled out a bright purple bag. “Two dozen of them right from Point Judith.”
“You’re a sweetheart.”
Singing the song they’d made up about Johnson & Wales University, their alma mater, they climbed the stairs and entered the ranch house.
Merry stood on the thick, glazed Mexican tiles and looked at the brightly striped serapes over the couches and side chairs, the rough-hewn beams, the beehive fireplace in the corner and the thick wood furniture. She could smell fresh paint.
“Karen, it’s beautiful. The pictures you sent didn’t do it justice. The architecture is magnificent. It’s so homey.”
Peeking out from behind one of the couches was a small, blond-haired girl with big blue eyes—just like Buck’s. She had two straight ponytails that started high on her head and brushed her thin shoulders.
Caitlin. Merry gave a cheery wave and a wink to the little girl, who then disappeared back behind the couch.
Merry raised an eyebrow at Karen.
“Cait, come and meet my good friend Meredith Turner,” Karen said. “You know her. We watch her on TV all the time.”
But there was no sign of Cait again.
Karen turned to Merry and shrugged. “She just loves to watch Making Merry with Merry with me. She even helped me make your chocolate-chip snowball cookies last Christmas.”
“Maybe we can make them together, even though it’s not Christmastime. I like them all through the year.” Merry felt as if she was doing the dialogue from her show.
Merry deposited her tote bag on the gleaming plank floor and looked around again. “It’s perfect, Karen. Your guests could gather here and play cards, or read a book by the fire, or just talk.”
“I can’t wait,” Buck said sarcastically, walking into the room.
“Buck, for heaven’s sake, Merry is trying to help us.” Karen lifted her hands in the air, as if she were giving up.
“And to that end, I was thinking of a feature on my show once the ranch opens, like a ‘before and after’ segment. I can get a crew out here, and they can start filming the ‘before’ segment.”
“Think of the publicity. It’d be fabulous.” Karen clasped her hands together.
“You’ll also need a brochure and a commercial. We might as well take care of both of those, too.” Merry leafed through her notebook. “I have some ideas.”
“Excellent,” Karen said. “I knew you’d help.”
Merry eyed Buck. He seemed less than thrilled. Matter of fact, his face looked like he had just eaten something sour. “Karen, you were the business major, you have to tell me your ideas.”
“Let’s have some chowder and clam cakes first.” She looked into the bags and pulled out plastic containers. “Then we can talk business.”
“It’s a deal, but I’d like to change first, if you don’t mind,” Merry said. “Some burros thought my suit was lunch.”
“I can’t wait to hear that story.” Karen laughed and raised a shopping bag in the direction of a hallway. “Last door on the right. I’ll show you.”
“Don’t bother. I’m fine. You go and find a place for all the goodies.”
“Don’t be long,” Karen said. “I can’t wait to catch up.”
Merry felt a warm feeling building inside and spreading out. She hadn’t felt that in a long time. Real friends were hard to find, and Karen was a real friend.
Merry inched down the hall to the bedroom, stopping at frequent intervals to admire the bold paintings of cowboys and cowgirls at work. She hoped to catch another glimpse of Caitlin somewhere.
“Would you like to join us, Buck?” Merry heard Karen say.
“No, thanks. I’d rather muck the stalls,” he answered. Then the door slammed.
She flicked the light on in Buck’s bedroom. She had to brace herself against the sheer force of masculinity. It was a man’s room with its big, thick furniture and no frills. Her gaze focused on the centerpiece of the room, a bed that looked as if it had been shaped from a fallen tree.
Merry was instantly drawn to the bed. She inspected every inch of it, and reminded herself to ask Karen who the artist was that had created such a masterpiece. For heaven’s sake, it looked as if there were some buds ready to bloom on some of the branches that were twisted to form the headboard. More branches formed a canopy above. It was almost as if the wood were still alive.
She imagined lying on the bed as green leaves and flowers cascaded above.
Exquisite.
A vivid blanket in blocks of stripes and arrow designs covered the bed, and she couldn’t resist inspecting the workmanship. It was handmade, and unless she missed her guess, it was the genuine Native American article.
She noticed a huge bleached-wood armoire that was the focal point of one wall. A matching seven-foot-long dresser lined another, and on each side of the bed were matching nightstands accented with saguaro cacti ribs in the doors. She had seen similar pieces in galleries in New York City and Boston, but nothing as magnificent as these.
Against another wall was a couch, but on closer inspection, she saw it was actually a futon or a daybed. The arms were of thick wood with inserts of some kind of long, spindly, bleached wood on the back for ornamentation. Lying on one of the colorful cushions of the futon