The Heart Won't Lie. Vicki Lewis Thompson
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“Hey, Jack, you’re not the one forcing me into this. The publicity department is to blame.” He blew out a breath. “No, that’s not right, either. I created this stupid situation all on my own. I chose to write about a world I don’t know firsthand, and then I accidentally became a big success at it.”
Jack nodded. “I noticed. Your name keeps getting bigger on the cover.”
“If my books weren’t selling so well the publisher would never pay for a video of me playing cowboy. My secret would be safe. But they made it clear I need to do this video if I expect continued support from the marketing team.”
Smiling, Jack glanced over at him. “Cheer up, little buckaroo. It won’t be so bad.”
“Easy for you to say. I’m going to make a damned fool of myself, and you know it.”
“Maybe so, but I’ll be the only one who’ll know it. Your lessons will be as private as I can make them.”
“Thank you for that.” Michael relaxed a little. “Bethany told me I could trust you.” He’d met motivational author Bethany Grace on the Opal Knightly TV talk show and they’d kept in touch. When he’d needed riding lessons on the QT he’d thought of her, because she’d grown up in Jackson Hole.
“Bethany’s good people,” Jack said. “Did you catch her wedding to Nash Bledsoe on Opal’s show?”
“Sure did. Nash is a friend of yours, right?”
“Yep.” Jack checked his mirrors before pulling around a slow-moving semi. “Nash owns a little spread next door to the Last Chance.”
“Bethany mentioned that. She inherited it, sold it to Nash and the rest reads like a romance novel.”
Jack chuckled. “It does, at that. Poor Nash, though, having to get hitched on national TV. There was some talk of me being the best man at that shindig, but it was way better for Nash’s dad to have that honor.”
Michael was beginning to get a bead on Jack’s personality so he made a calculated guess. “You didn’t want to do it, did you?”
“Hell, no. Not after I found out I had to wear makeup.” Jack grimaced.
“It’s not so bad, little buckaroo.”
“Maybe not for a city slicker like yourself, but real cowboys don’t wear makeup.”
“What about your friend Nash? I guarantee he had on makeup during that wedding.”
“Only because otherwise he wouldn’t get to marry Bethany. Bethany was beholden to Opal for letting her out of her TV contract, and Opal was determined to stage that wedding on TV.”
“What a guy won’t do for love.” As he said it, Michael realized he had no personal experience to go by, and that was a damned shame.
“Ain’t it the truth. My wife, Josie, has got me wrapped around her little finger. Between her and my kid, Archie, I’m like a bull with a ring in its nose. They can lead me anywhere.”
Michael grinned. “I seriously doubt that.”
“No, really. They’ve got me hog-tied. How about you? Is there some citified lady calling the shots in your life?”
“Nope.”
“Too busy?”
“Kind of, but that’s not really the problem. The highsociety women I meet don’t interest me, but I can’t date the ones I meet as Jim Ford because they think I’m a cowboy, which I’m not.” He didn’t like being caught between worlds, not belonging in either one, but he hadn’t figured out what to do about it. He envied a guy like Jack, who knew who he was and where he fit in.
Jack tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “But you will be a cowboy.”
Michael felt a jolt of pleasure at the possibility. But he had to be realistic. “In a week? Not likely.”
“Are you doubting my ability?”
“No, I’m doubting mine.”
“Well, cut that out right now. First and foremost, a cowboy faces every challenge with an air of quiet confidence.”
“Of course he does, especially if he’s a hero in one of my books.” Michael looked over at Jack and expected they’d share a laugh over that. Instead, Jack seemed totally serious. “Wait, you’re not kidding, are you?”
“No, I’m not. Being a cowboy is a state of mind. You can start working on your attitude before you ever put your booted foot in a stirrup.”
“I see.” Michael was fascinated. For years he’d assumed that the larger-than-life cowboys in his books didn’t exist in reality. But Jack Chance was proving that assumption had been dead wrong.
AFTER A YEAR working as the housekeeper at the Last Chance’s main house, Keri Fitzpatrick, former Baltimore socialite, could wield a mean mop. She’d learned the basics from her boss, Sarah Chance, and the cook, Mary Lou Simms. Following their instructions, Keri could clean windows like nobody’s business and polish bathroom fixtures until they sparkled like fine silver.
But she’d challenge anybody, even a professional armed with power equipment, to eliminate some mysterious smell left by eight adolescent boys. They’d been part of the Last Chance’s summer program for disadvantaged youths, and they’d moved out early that morning. She’d been cleaning nonstop ever since except for a short lunch break with Mary Lou.
The second floor, where the boys had slept in two rooms fitted with bunk beds, was warm, and she dripped with sweat. Putting her hair in a ponytail to get it off her neck hadn’t helped cool her off much. She’d opted for jeans instead of shorts because she’d anticipated getting on her hands and knees for this job.
Sure enough, she’d had to clean some gunk off the baseboards. God knew what it was. She’d dealt with this last August right after being hired, but she was sure the previous year’s batch of kids hadn’t left a stink this bad. She’d noticed a slight odor yesterday, but had thought it would leave with the kids. Instead, it was worse.
Glancing at her watch, she gasped. The wealthy tenderfoot from New York City was due any minute. She’d been told very little about him, but Jack had said the guy was used to the best.
Keri had been raised in luxury, too. Although she didn’t live that way now, she knew exactly how to prepare guest quarters for a wealthy man. She’d spit-shined his room, which was at the other end of the hall, right across from her room. The crockery vase of wildflowers she’d placed on his dresser gave off a delicate aroma.
The poor things couldn’t begin to compete with the stench coming from the boys’ rooms. She’d already tested the situation, and the entire top floor, including the tenderfoot’s room, smelled like a garbage dump. Opening all the windows hadn’t made a dent in the foul odor.
Desperate to find the source, she went through everything again—closets, drawers, even under the bunk beds. Finally she found a kitchen matchbox crammed so far under one of the bunks that she’d missed it when she’d swept and mopped. Using a broom, she nudged it free and nearly gagged. She’d found her culprit.
She shouldn’t have looked, but after all this effort, she wanted to know what was in that box. As she slid open the matchbox, the smell got worse. She stared at a very fragrant, and very dead, mouse. It rested on a carefully folded tissue, and a second tissue covered the lower part of its body, so only the head was exposed.
Guessing what had happened wasn’t hard. She’d been around the boys enough to understand how their minds worked. They’d found the dead mouse, decided it deserved a decent burial and put it in the matchbox. Then they’d forgotten all about it.
Now what? She could throw it in the trash, but that seemed wrong. They’d folded the tissues so carefully, and she was touched by their concern for the little creature’s