The Cowboy Way. Maisey Yates
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took a step back.
“Andrea tells me you might need somebody to mow the lawn and trim the shrubbery and stuff,” Byron said gravely. He’d filled out in jail, and he was neatly dressed in inexpensive jeans, high-top sneakers and a clean T-shirt. While he was away, his acne had cleared up, too.
He was actually quite good-looking, though still a kid.
Melissa had made a few noises around the office about hiring somebody to whip her yard into shape, but it had never occurred to her that Andrea was listening, let alone planning to bring her recently released boyfriend by to apply for the job.
“Well—” she said, looking at the overgrown peony bushes.
The grass was so deep that small animals could get lost in it, and the branches of the venerable old maple tree were practically scraping the sidewalk in front of her picket fence. Which could use sanding down and painting.
“I can borrow a mower,” Byron said, and there was a catch in his voice. One that gave Melissa a twinge of sympathy.
Times were tough. There weren’t a lot of jobs in Stone Creek, especially for kids with a police record.
Andrea watched Melissa hopefully, chewing on her lower lip before blurting, “Miss Mamie and Miss Marge hired Byron to reline the koi pond in the backyard over at their place. You know, empty it out and put down new plastic and then fill it and put all the fish back in—”
Evidently, this was Andrea’s idea of a sales pitch, but it fell away in midstream when Byron gave the girl’s hand a squeeze.
“I thought I’d ask,” he said to Melissa. There was resignation in his tone, but his gaze was direct. If she’d stepped aside, he would have walked past her, toward the gate.
But Melissa didn’t step aside.
“It’s a big job,” she said, sizing him up again. “And probably temporary.” Mike Smith, the teenager who took care of Ashley and Jack’s grass and flowerbeds, usually did yardwork for Melissa, too. This year, though, Mike was attending summer school, and he was running short on spare time.
Byron’s eyes widened slightly, and a smile tugged at a corner of his mouth. “I’m not afraid of big jobs,” he said. “As for the temporary part, I can deal with that.”
Melissa wondered if Andrea had nagged him into asking her for work, or if he’d thought of it on his own. Either way, it took guts to come over here and make the request, considering past history.
“When could you start?” Melissa asked. She named an hourly wage that seemed to please him.
He shoved a hand through his sandy-brown hair. Considered his answer. “Well,” he said, “Miss Mamie and Miss Marge need to come first, since all their fish are swimming around in buckets waiting for me to clean out the pond.”
Melissa smiled at the colorful image that popped into her mind. “Tomorrow, then?” she asked.
“Sure,” Byron answered.
Melissa finally moved, so he could descend the steps. He paused, facing her, Andrea still clinging to his left hand.
He put his right out to Melissa. “Thanks,” he said.
She hesitated only a moment before taking the offered hand. “If you screw up,” she told him, frankly but in a friendly tone, “you are so out of here.”
He laughed. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
He started toward the gate, and Andrea double-stepped behind him, looking back at Melissa and mouthing, “Thank you!” as she went.
Hoping she’d done the right thing, Melissa went on into the house and walked straight through to the kitchen. There she popped her empty water bottle into the recycling bin and hesitated in front of her old-fashioned wall phone.
It was Saturday morning—early Saturday morning.
Surely no emergencies had taken place while she was out for her run—she hadn’t been gone more than an hour.
Even prosecutors had weekends off, didn’t they?
Melissa’s mind flashed on Steven Creed, standing in front of the Sunflower Café a little while before, when she stopped by for water, not that she expected him to call or anything.
But hot damn, the way he looked in those rancher’s clothes she’d fantasized about seeing him in the day before. It ought to require some kind of legal permit, being that handsome.
Melissa sighed—not being able to ignore voice mail was the curse of the competent, she reminded herself—and reached out for the receiver. If she didn’t check for messages, she wouldn’t relax and enjoy her time off.
There had been one caller.
Ona Frame’s recorded voice rang over the wire. “Melissa? I hope it isn’t too early to be calling you, dear, but I was just so excited when Tommy stopped by this morning and told me you were willing to fill in for me on the Parade Committee this year—” Here, the older woman paused, turned tearful. “You see, I’m going to have to have this darn ol’ gallbladder of mine removed, and there’s nothing for it, but we’ve kicked off the annual rodeo with a parade every single year for nigh on half a century now and I don’t mind telling you, it almost broke my heart to think of canceling—”
While she was out for her run, Melissa had come up with seven or eight really good excuses for turning down parade duty, but they all flew away as she listened to Ona rant on. And on. The message lasted so long, in fact, that Ona had to call back because she’d timed out on the first run.
The essence of it was that the committee meeting had been scheduled for three o’clock that very afternoon, all along. It was to be held in the community room over at the Creekside Academy, and since the whole crew had been planning on attending anyway, she thought it was the perfect opportunity to present Melissa as their new leader.
“Call me and let me know if you can make it!” Ona finished off merrily. “And I do hope you weren’t sleeping in or something, and I spoiled it by calling—”
Melissa hung up, let her sweaty forehead rest against a cupboard door while she drew slow, deep breaths.
There was no getting out of it. She was stuck. Might as well accept the fact and move on, she thought.
She did allow herself one indulgence before returning Ona’s call and committing herself to the job, though. Melissa took her shower first.
* * *
DURING BREAKFAST, STEVEN got a call on his cell phone from the Flagstaff auto dealership he’d contacted several weeks before; the extended cab truck he’d custom-ordered was in, and they could deliver it that day if he wanted.
Steven agreed, relieved that he’d have a backseat for Matt and Zeke to ride in now. Plus, his old rig looked like it had been driven West in the ’30s by some family fleeing the Dust Bowl, though, of course, it wasn’t quite old enough for that scenario.
He smiled, remembering his dad’s apt description of the vehicle.
Steven’s got himself one of those two-toned rigs, Davis Creed had told a friend, tongue firmly planted in his cheek. And one of those tones is rust.
“Do I have to clean up my plate?” Matt asked, anxious to get outside and keep Zeke company.
Steven was still thinking about rigs. In Denver, he’d driven a candy-apple-red Corvette—also unsuitable for carting around a little boy and a dog.
But Melissa O’Ballivan would look mighty fine riding shotgun in the sports car, he thought. He pictured her wearing a blue-and-white polka-dot sundress, strapless, with her hair tumbling down around her bare shoulders and her lips all glossy.
“Steven?” Matt said, waving one hand in his face.
“Go see to Zeke,” Steven replied, with a chuckle, as he pushed away his plate.