Rodeo Baby. Mary Sullivan
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Unreasonable, Vy. What’s your problem? He’s done nothing to you, so why the big push to destroy a man you don’t even know?
Bits and pieces of memories, of another time and place threatened to intrude, and she turned them aside with a firm resolve.
Nope. She wouldn’t be going down that road.
Suffice it to say, she disliked liars.
“Do you think we can trust him in our home?” Rachel asked. A reasonable question.
“Yes. I’m certain he isn’t dangerous or I wouldn’t have called. Besides, he has his daughter with him. She’s either a teenager already or a tween and has some attitude, but don’t we all?”
“You do,” Rachel retorted and Vy laughed.
“True.”
“Why are you so upset about this man?” Rachel asked.
Vy didn’t want to look too closely at that. She brazened it out. “Anger is my natural response to any kind of charade or dishonesty. I dislike fraud with a passion.”
“I know,” Rachel said quietly, “but you’ve never shared why.”
Vy sidestepped the deeper issue. “I just don’t trust any man who comes to my town with an agenda. If this guy doesn’t have a scheme up his sleeve, I’ll eat every one of the six coconut-cream pies I made first thing this morning.”
She wanted to see him brought down. No! Not true. She wanted to bring him down personally.
Too strong a response, Vy. Cool it.
“Tell you what, Vy.” Rachel interrupted her thoughts. “We’ll give the guy a trial run, but only if you bring out one of those pies this afternoon.”
“Deal.”
* * *
SAM SAVORED THE last bite of an exquisite pineapple upside-down cake.
“This is incredible,” he said, sighing.
“I know, right?”
“I could eat here every day.” He put down his fork and rubbed his stomach. “Take that last bite of chocolate layer cake.”
“Are you sure, Dad?”
He smiled. “Honey, don’t you know I’d give you my last dollar if it would make you happy?”
For a change, a genuine smile lit Chelsea’s face and, while it might be tiny, it reminded him of her smiles of old. And, God, he loved it.
He smiled in return and watched her enjoy the cake.
“Everything’s taken care of.”
Sam started. The waitress-cum-manager-cum-owner had appeared beside the table without making a sound. He didn’t like surprises.
“What do you mean?” he asked, but he knew, and all the good feelings at the table evaporated.
“I called a friend. Her husband’s ranch is brand-new. He hasn’t hired any hands yet and they could sure use some rent on a couple of spare rooms in the house.”
She slapped a paper with directions on it onto the table and picked up the cash he’d left for their meal.
Sam was trapped.
He’d left New York too quickly and without enough preparation. He hated this feeling.
But how could he leave without solving Gramps’s dilemma first?
He needed to blend in. He’d done research online. Successful no matter what he took on, he could do this.
But damn, he didn’t know a thing about working on a ranch. He’d be as naive as Chelsea if he thought he could be any good as a cowboy after one night of research. This had been a crazy idea from the start.
Sam opened his mouth to object, to halt this mad process before it went too far, but Violet raised her hand.
“No need to thank me. It’s what people around here do. Help each other out.” An odd smile hovered at the edges of her full red lips, as though she were having a laugh at his expense, reminding him of his daughter’s smiles these days. “Travis is a newcomer himself, so he’ll make you feel welcome. His wife, Rachel, will take good care of Chelsea while you’re working. Or will she be enrolling in the local school?”
“Not yet,” Sam replied, not expanding on the subject. No need to air dirty laundry here.
Sam wondered why Chelsea didn’t object to having a babysitter, this woman Rachel, before realizing his child enjoyed his discomfort. She knew he was trapped.
Gramps. Think of Gramps. This is all for him.
“Sure,” he said weakly. “Sounds good.”
“By the way, in case you didn’t realize, I’m Violet Summer.”
He figured as much, and Rachel’s last name must be McGuire, one of the women Gramps had told him about. Before his time in this town ended, he’d meet all six of the women resurrecting the fair and possibly ripping off his grandfather.
“I’m Sam—” He’d almost said Carmichael. He’d been christened Carson Samuel Carmichael like his father and grandfather, but his mother had always called him Sam to distinguish him from his father. That part was easy, but changing Carmichael to Michaels had nearly caught him up. “I’m Sam Michaels. This is my daughter, Chelsea.”
“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around town.”
He had to start thinking of himself as Sam Michaels or he’d never pull this off.
Chelsea shot him a look of censure at his name change but he ignored her.
Sam picked up his hat on the way out of the diner, stepping onto Rodeo’s Main Street and standing a minute to look around town. Might as well know what he was getting into.
So this was his father’s hometown, the one Dad had left at nineteen when he’d headed east to attend college. He’d made, and married into, a lot of money in New York City. Carson II had never returned to Rodeo, which meant that Sam himself had never been here, either.
Sam craned his neck to take it all in, curious about his dad’s town. Dad had never talked much about Rodeo, but Gramps sure had.
Rodeo, Montana. Gramps’s favorite spot on earth.
He’d described everything to the avid little listener Sam had been as a boy. Two stoplights on Main Street and one small shop after another with names like Jorgenson’s Hardware and Hiram’s Pharmacy and Nelly’s Dos ’n’ Don’ts.
Angled parking ran all along a wide street filled with plenty of pickup trucks heavy with rust, dust and dirt.
He drank in every detail, his avidity surprising him with its intensity. He hadn’t realized until arriving how much he’d wanted to see Gramps’s town.
Why hadn’t Dad ever talked about Rodeo? It didn’t look so bad. Just the opposite in fact, charming but real, unpretentious and normal compared to Manhattan, where people seemed compelled to jump on every trend.
In this town, every man, woman and child wore well-used denim. Sam detected not a single pair of designer jeans.
Thank God the jeans he’d bought before they left home were plain and would fit in. He’d gone to a work-wear clothing store to find denim without embroidered pockets or slashed knees or distress wash thighs or fake-faded creases or any of the other fads going around.
Certain he fit in, he adjusted his cowboy hat. Here, almost everyone wore a cowboy hat.
Sam soaked it all up like the proverbial sponge. Gramps hadn’t lied about his good-looking, if rustic, town.
And Sam was immediately smitten.
“What