Aiming for the Cowboy. Mary Leo
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after having spent the past hour getting her stomach to settle down long enough so she could eat a bowl of vegetable soup he’d prepared for her that was now getting cold on his coffee table.
She’d driven in the previous night, and ever since she’d arrived her already sensitive stomach seemed to be in a continual state of agitation.
Sort of like her nerves.
“How could you think this information wouldn’t get back to Colt?”
Milo plopped down in his recliner across from her, the chair groaning under his weight. He was one of those big guys, not really fat, just big-boned, with a six-foot-five height that would intimidate almost anyone who came his way. He had a sweet face that told anyone who came near him that he was a teddy bear, until you got him riled. Then he was a force to be reckoned with.
Still, Milo was a gentle giant, and Helen loved him to pieces...until this very moment.
“She’s the one who asked me why you wasn’t at the fair. You know it’s Spud Week and everybody’s down to the fairgrounds for the fair. It’s obvious that you’ve been missing. ’Specially since you didn’t participate in the Spud Tug this year. Our team won, by the way.”
The Spud Tug was a tug-of-war over a pit of mashed potatoes instead of mud. Helen usually participated on Milo’s team.
“Your team always wins.”
“I know,” he chided and Helen gazed over at his latest Spudphy, a six inch high golden-colored russet potato man wearing a cowboy hat, cowboy boots on his tiny legs and a belt around his wide midsection. There were at least ten Spudphys perched on Milo’s bookshelf, along with many other potato-oriented awards.
Next to Christmas, Spud Week in Briggs was the biggest celebration going. Schools closed, businesses shut down early and everyone headed out to the fairgrounds in honor of the almighty potato.
“You could have told her that I took a fall and injured myself. That I’m suddenly allergic to potatoes. I don’t know. Anything would’ve been better than telling her the truth. Did she say anything after you told her?”
“All she said was, I understand. And then she walked off to meet up with her sister, Kitty.”
“She said, I understand.”
“Yeah, that’s good, right?” His face lit up, and he looked like a little boy eager to please with his curly dark hair falling over his ears, and down his collar.
Helen stood, anxious to get to the fair to find Colt. She knew he’d be there all day with his boys. There were always a lot of games for kids to participate in and she knew from previous years that his boys liked to join in as many as they could.
“No, that’s very bad. I’ve got to get to Colt before rumors start to fly.”
“Well, I told you to tell him when you visited months ago.” He slid into a reclining position and turned on his favorite TV show on the food channel, its glamorous host, who he would run away with in a heartbeat, popped up on the screen. Today she would be cooking up a backyard picnic and Milo had every intention of sitting and watching the entire show with his notepad and pen at the ready.
“I know, but the timing wasn’t right. Joey had just nearly killed himself.”
The opening shots of the chef’s Texas ranch came up on the sixty-inch flat-screen TV. Milo increased the volume. He loved her Italian theme song.
“She’s chopping pineapples and cabbage today for coleslaw, and I love to watch her chop things. Best part of the show.”
“That’s a little sick.”
“No, it ain’t. Not the way you think anyway. I’m a horrible chopper. She’s a master.”
The theme song ended and the host stood in her kitchen, picked up her chopping knife and began chopping away.
“Look at the way she handles that cabbage, and that big knife. She’s got a real talent for chopping. It’s an art.”
Helen stared at Milo in disbelief.
“Since when do you care about slicing vegetables?”
“Since I entered the show’s contest. If I win, I get to fly to Texas to her ranch for a full two days of cooking lessons, then dinner with her out on her private veranda. That would be heaven.”
“You only eat hot dogs, burgers, spuds and an occasional steak.”
“Yeah, but a man can dream, can’t he?” He closed his eyes as the show went to a commercial. After a second or two, a wide smile creased his lips. “Besides, I’m learning how to cook because of her.”
She stuck a hand to her hip. “Be careful what you wish for, big cousin.”
“As careful as you are, little cousin.” He opened his eyes and turned to her. “Now get yourself over to that there fair and tell your man you’re carryin’ his child. Then let him do the right thing and everybody’ll be happy.”
“That’s not why I’m telling him.”
“Oh?” His eyebrow went up.
“He has a right to know, is all.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve had a crush on Colt Granger since you was kids.”
“Yes, and it’s still a crush.”
He turned, looked down at her belly and grinned. “Seriously?”
“It was just one crazy night. Nothing more.”
“Looks like a lot more to me.”
Helen sighed, turned on her heels, grabbed her purse off the coffee table and headed for the door. Sometimes her cousin could be so dang frustrating.
* * *
IT WAS A PERFECT Teton Valley fall day, a clear blue sky, a cool breeze skipping down from the surrounding mountains and the tall grasses elegantly bending with each breeze. The air smelled sweet, and the sun tried its best to warm Colt, but there was a deep freeze that clung to his heart. His sister-in-law, Maggie, had mentioned that Helen was pregnant. If it was true, he figured the father had to be some no-account cowpoke from the circuit, or why else would she be living with her folks?
But Colt knew Helen fairly well so he absolutely refused to believe it, and wouldn’t believe it until he heard it from Helen herself. Colt knew enough about town rumors to know they were only half-truths, but with this bit of gossip he was hopeful the entire tale was a fabrication. And until he heard otherwise, he intended to try to enjoy the piglet races with his boys, who were somewhat behaved on this fine evening.
Colt and Buddy, his oldest, who had to tell everyone he would soon be eight and a half, sat side by side in the third row on the metal bleachers. Colt’s other two sons, Joey and six-year-old Gavin, sat on the other side of Buddy. Normally, Colt would sit in the middle with his boys flanking his sides, but ever since the roof incident, and Colt’s stern warning before he tucked them into bed each night, his boys seemed to be more agreeable than pups in a basket.
The piglet races were one of the highlights of the fair, and the crowded stands were testament to that fact. Black-and-white silks adorned the small oval track. Wood shavings encircled the floor of the track that couldn’t be more than a hundred and fifty feet around. With five rows of metal bleachers on three sides, it would soon be standing room only.
Four baby oinkers adorned in various colors of brown, green, pink and black, with their big ears flapping, were hand-carried out onto the track from a colorful thirty-foot trailer, introduced to the excited audience, then placed in separate cages that sat on the starting line. Colt, his boys and the audience cheered, clapped and whistled as the Swinemaster, a rugged-looking cowboy sporting a handlebar mustache and a large white classic cowboy hat, announced the upcoming race.
“Racing as piglet number one we have Bob Beboar. Number two is our darling Josephine Hoglarson, number three