Читать онлайн книгу «Cassie′s Cowboy» автора Diane Pershing
Cassie's Cowboy
Diane Pershing
Cassie Nevins longed for someone to save the day, someone like Cowboy Charlie, the hero she'd created for her daughter's bedtime stories–and the hunk who'd starred in a few of her own not-so-innocent fantasies. Charlie followed the code of the Old West: Act honorably, work hard, tell the truth and take responsibility.So who was this stranger on her doorstep, looking exactly like her cowboy…right down to the dimple in one corner of his very kissable mouth? All Cassie knew was this Charlie could make all her dreams come true–including her deeply hidden desire for a happily-ever-after!
Cowboy Charlie was back for a repeat performance.
His appearance this morning was rumpled, and he needed a shave. But so what? Despite Cassie’s bad mood, she’d have had to be comatose not to observe how to-drool-over sexy the man was.
His sun-streaked hair flopped on his forehead. That crooked smile deepened the laugh lines around his Paul Newman eyes. He was tall, and slim, and sturdy, and possessed more animal charisma than ought to be allowed.
She’d half convinced herself that she’d dreamed him up the night before, some combination of stress and overactive imagination at work.
There went that theory….
Dear Reader,
Have you started your spring cleaning yet? If not, we have a great motivational plan: For each chore you complete, reward yourself with one Silhouette Romance title! And with the standout selection we have this month, you’ll be finished reorganizing closets, steaming carpets and cleaning behind the refrigerator in record time!
Take a much-deserved break with the exciting new ROYALLY WED: THE MISSING HEIR title, In Pursuit of a Princess, by Donna Clayton. The search for the missing St. Michel heir leads an undercover princess straight into the arms of a charming prince. Then escape with Diane Pershing’s SOULMATES addition, Cassie’s Cowboy. Could the dreamy hero from her daughter’s bedtime stories be for real?
Lugged out and wiped down the patio furniture? Then you deserve a double treat with Cara Colter’s What Child Is This? and Belinda Barnes’s Daddy’s Double Due Date. In Colter’s tender tearjerker, a tiny stranger reunites a couple torn apart by tragedy. And in Barnes’s warm romance, a bachelor who isn’t the “cootchie-coo” type discovers he’s about to have twins!
You’re almost there! Once you’ve rounded up every last dust bunny, you’re really going to need some fun. In Terry Essig’s Before You Get to Baby…and Sharon De Vita’s A Family To Be, childhood friends discover that love was always right next door. De Vita’s series, SADDLE FALLS, moves back to Special Edition next month.
Even if you skip the spring cleaning this year, we hope you don’t miss our books. We promise, this is one project you’ll love doing.
Happy reading!
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor
Cassie’s Cowboy
Diane Pershing
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Karen Amarillas, for her friendship and expertise
in rodeo lore. And to Ken, who—although he refuses to
wear boots and Stetson—still fits my definition of a hero.
Books by Diane Pershing
Silhouette Romance
Cassie’s Cowboy #1584
Silhouette Intimate Moments
While You Were Sleeping #863
The Tough Guy and the Toddler #928
Silhouette Yours Truly
First Date: Honeymoon
Third Date’s the Charm
Mills & Boon Duets
Hot Copy
DIANE PERSHING
cannot remember a time when she didn’t have her nose buried in a book. As a child, she would cheat the bedtime curfew by snuggling under the covers with her teddy bear, a flashlight and a forbidden (read “grown-up”) novel. Her mother warned her that she would ruin her eyes, but so far, they still work. Diane has had many careers—singer, actress, film critic, disc jockey, TV writer, to name a few. Currently she divides her time between writing romances and doing voice-overs. (You can hear her as “Poison Ivy” on the Batman cartoon.) She lives in Los Angeles, and promises she is only slightly affected. Her two children, Morgan Rose and Ben, have just completed college, and Diane looks forward to writing and acting until she expires, or people stop hiring her, whichever comes first. She loves to hear from readers, so please write to her at P.O. Box 67424, Los Angeles, CA 90067.
Dear Reader,
When I was young, any girl worth her salt had a crush on cowboys…and their horses, of course. On my block you were either for Roy Rogers or Gene Autry. The occasional Hopalong Cassidy booster showed up, but we paid them no mind (if you are too young to know who I’m talking about, trust me, you missed a great time). I was firmly in the Roy camp. Last year, during a difficult family period, I’d been trying unsuccessfully to flesh out a story idea about a pair of truly ugly magical eyeglasses. One night I had a dream in which Roy showed up and told me not to fret my pretty little head, that he and Trigger would take care of my problems for a while. Sigh. It was a lovely dream. Upon awakening, the two ideas meshed, and Cassie’s Cowboy was born. Giddyup!
Diane Pershing
Contents
Chapter One (#udc432e71-0fd0-5baf-919b-9c69788f8a97)
Chapter Two (#uc5ea3ce7-3fb4-5ffe-a35a-421341caf6c6)
Chapter Three (#u704b4a1f-05c4-5091-913c-600f646ae5b5)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
“…and then the bad man with the long, smelly mustache tightened the ropes that bound the hands of Sally and her small child, Missy. Both of his prisoners were very, very frightened, and they would have liked to scream for help but the bad man had put handkerchiefs over their mouths, so all they could do was make noises like murfle hurfle pelp! Suddenly, from over the horizon there appeared a stranger in a Stetson—”
“Cowboy Charlie!” Trish said happily, clapping her hands.
“Yes, my love,” Cassie said, and went on. “Here came Cowboy Charlie, galloping on Felicity, his six-guns blazing. With an oomph! and a pow! he kicked the bad man so he fell and rolled over and over and over, down the mountain. Then Charlie swooped up the woman and her child onto his horse, and the three of them rode off into the sunset, to safety.”
“Oh, Mommy,” Trish sighed, snuggling back against her pillow and pulling her covers up under her chin. “That was so good. It’s my favorite story.”
Cassie Nevins smiled warmly at her seven-year-old daughter. “You always say that, no matter which story I tell you,” she teased, then kissed her child’s soft cheek. “Good night, baby,” she said, gathering her notebook and pens as she left the room. Their nightly ritual was done, the story was told, accompanied, as usual, by one or two pen-and-ink sketches. The drawings she’d come up with this particular evening weren’t bad, even if she did say so herself. She’d really gotten the look of Cowboy Charlie tonight.
He was the Old West heroic type, from the days before Star Wars, when kids used to worship cowboys and the horses they rode. Tall, slim but muscular, his legs slightly bowed from years riding the range, his strong face lined by days spent squinting into the sun. He wore chaps and boots with jangling spurs and a leather vest—all the classic paraphernalia—and rode a magnificent chestnut named Felicity. Cassie was particularly pleased with the arch of the horse’s neck in tonight’s drawing. And she’d finally captured the look in Charlie’s nearly turquoise-blue eyes—reliable, amused. Manly. She was getting better and better at this.
After she closed the door to her daughter’s room, Cassie paused, removed her brand-new reading glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. She contemplated getting a snack, as she’d hardly eaten her dinner. But she couldn’t summon up the energy. She supposed she could go into her small office and stare at the bills there. But that would be all she’d be able to do, she thought wryly—stare at them. She sure couldn’t pay them.
Maybe she could indulge in a hot bath. Had the water bill been paid? Yes. Good, then. A soothing soak, just the thing to loosen tense muscles and strained eyes.
With a huge sigh, she found herself staring at the glasses she held in her hand. Boy, were they ugly, she thought, then chuckled. Past ugly, to be sure. Hideous. Bright turquoise frames with fan-shaped edges, dotted with inlaid rhinestones. So tasteless, so tacky. But they hadn’t cost her a cent; therefore, they were beautiful.
She’d been getting headaches lately when she read, and kindly old Doc Slater, her optometrist, had told her the week before that she needed reading glasses. As he’d had an inkling of her financial situation, he’d offered the frames to her, free. They were an extra pair in a shipment, he’d told her, and waved off her effusive thanks. She’d picked them up this morning.
As she headed for the bath, Cassie rubbed her thumb along the glasses’ earpiece. She was not only tired, she was rapidly on the way to being downright grumpy. And, despite her usual sunny outlook, she was beginning to sense the edges of panic. She needed money, she needed hope, she needed help, none of which were in sight.
Actually, what she needed now was a rescuer, of the knight-in-shining-armor variety.
No, forget the knight. What she needed was a cowboy, one of the good guys, as opposed to the bad guys. How very nice it would be if Cowboy Charlie would come along and make all her troubles disappear.
Right, she thought with a rueful smile. And he could bring the Tooth Fairy with him.
She turned on the hot water tap, then began to unbutton her blouse. Her hands paused as she thought she heard a noise. What was it? Some kind of knocking? Frowning, she turned the water off and listened. Yes, there it went again. Someone was knocking at her front door.
Putting on her glasses, she glanced at her watch. Who could it be at nine at night? Swallowing down the automatic fear reaction of a woman who lived alone with her child, she hurried downstairs before whoever it was knocked again. She went to the door and peered through the peephole.
In the yellow glow cast by the porch light, she could make out the figure of a man. Not just any man, but—
Cassie gasped as her hand automatically flew to cover her pounding heart. Unless she was completely mistaken, standing there, big as life, was none other than…Cowboy Charlie!
Charlie wasn’t real clear on just what had happened. Last thing he remembered, he was riding Felicity along the stretch they called Sagebrush Plain. He’d been admiring the way the setting sun was coating the far-off mountains with the darnedest colors—all purples and reds and golds—and thinking about the juicy steak he intended to have when he got back to camp, when all at once he swore he heard the sound of a woman sighing.
And not just an itty-bitty sigh, but a gigantic sigh, one that echoed and echoed and got louder and louder until he had to cover his ears. And then, Whoosh! there was a new sound, a roar twice as big as the sound of a hurricane. Suddenly, he felt his body being lifted and hurled through some kind of sideways tornado. Round and round he twisted till he could barely catch a breath. And then, just as suddenly, he was on land again, feet first and standing upright.
On a strange porch, facing a strange door.
And knocking on that door, because that seemed to be the obvious thing to do.
Now a woman was opening that door, but keeping the screen door between them closed.
“Ma’am?” he said, removing his hat and smoothing back his hair, then settling it back on his head. He was still breathing pretty heavily from his trip, but that didn’t affect his eyesight. No, sir.
She was just about the cutest thing he’d seen in a long while. Little, not a bit over five feet, he bet. Her head was all over short brown curls, and her eyes were brown too, chocolate-colored and large. Right now they peered suspiciously at him over the top of the strangest looking pair of spectacles he’d ever seen and which were perched on the tip of her small nose.
“Good evening,” he said politely, when she seemed disobliged to say anything welcoming.
The woman checked to make sure the lock was on the screen door, then crossed her arms over her chest. “And just who are you supposed to be?” She had a low, raspy-sounding voice, which didn’t really go with the small, compact body, but it sure did sound womanly, and it sure did set up a little male appreciation-type humming in his blood.
“I figured you would know, ma’am.”
“Why don’t you tell me, anyway?” One of her eyebrows was raised, mistrustful-like, as though he was trying to sell her a steer for stud work.
“Cowboy Charlie, of course,” he said with a smile that usually melted any chill a lady might be sending out. “You can call me just plain Charlie, if you’d like.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, that pretty little mouth of hers set in a real disbelieving line. “And just how did you get here, ‘just plain Charlie’?” She spoke his name like it was something he’d made up.
Which was strange, because she’d been the one to come up with it.
“Well, I was doing what I always do, you know, riding the range on my horse, looking for adventures and folks who need rescuing, and the next thing I knew I was here. Felicity didn’t make it, though.”
“Felicity.”
“My horse. You know. You named him.”
“Him?”
“Yes, ma’am. Felicity’s a he, a gelding actually. But I figured you didn’t know that when you thought up his moniker.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “No I didn—” She cut herself off in mid-sentence then shook her head. She fixed her gaze on him for a long moment, like she was trying to figure out a puzzle. “I’ll say this much. You’re good.”
“Excuse me?”
“Whoever sent you, they chose well. You’re a dead ringer for him.”
Charlie was feeling just a bit confused. “You sent me, ma’am.”
“Did I?” That one suspicious eyebrow shot up again. “And just where did I get you from? I mean, exactly where is that range you were riding on?”
He wondered why she was testing him this way, but figured he’d find out soon enough. “Well, it’s kind of hard to explain. May I come in?”
He reached for the door handle.
“You may not,” she fairly snapped at him. “I don’t let strangers into my house.”
“Oh.”
He thought a bit, pushed his hat back and scratched his head. Then, figuring he might be standing here for a while, he leaned an elbow against the door frame and crossed one booted foot over the other.
A cricket nearby set to chirping, which made Charlie feel a little less strange. There were crickets where he came from, too. And porches, and screen doors—although they had wooden frames back home, not iron ones like this one.
“Okay, now, where is that range?” he repeated, then lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Well, that’s a little complicated. See, there’s a kind of a…well, a place, a section…” He’d never had to put it into words before. “Not here, I mean not here, in your world…”
“So you’re from Heaven?” Now she was being downright sarcastic. With someone else, he might have bristled at her attitude, but he figured this was one part of some kind of test he was being put through, so he’d just have to go along as best he could.
Besides, darned if she wasn’t the cutest, sassiest gal he’d seen in a while. Then there was the way her blouse was open a ways, and how that piece of white lace that peeked out from the opening more than hinted at a sweet pair of—
Charlie coughed and brought himself back to her question. “Heaven? No, not really. But that’s as good a name as any. It’s this special world for what you call fictional characters. We got Oliver Twist back there and Batman, and Romeo and Juliet—poor things are always sighing at each other. And we all sort of…well, kinda live there. Until we’re sent for, I guess,” he finished with a grin. “Which, I figure, is what happened this time.”
Until we’re sent for.
The minute the stranger said those words, Cassie felt an icy shiver skitter up and down her spine, and its effect was terrifying. Mostly because she was starting to believe this guy. No! She shook her head. No. She must be in a dream. Or the butt of some bizarre joke.
But she’d meant what she’d said: the man was good. Really a pro. Exactly as she’d pictured Cowboy Charlie, exactly as she’d drawn him, down to the small dimple on one side of his mouth and the way his sun-streaked hair flapped attractively over his forehead.
Truth be told, she’d always been a little in love with her creation, fictional though he was. She’d invented him not just for Trish but for herself. A fantasy man, one with all the historically classic, manly characteristics. Strength. Trustworthiness. Protectiveness. A hard worker, honest and dependable.
And sexy, too. That part had definitely been for her, not Trish.
A sexy man for her dream life, which was a far cry from the difficult, complex, real world she inhabited day to day.
A fantasy man was the only kind she’d allow entrance into her life. After her late husband, Teddy—a sweet, well-intentioned-but-unreliable man—Cassie had been in no hurry for anyone new to love. Thus Cowboy Charlie: the perfect—not in real life but perfect nevertheless—classic hero.
Gazing at him now, she had to fight the sudden urge to invite him in, whoever he was. He was as appealing as anything she’d seen in a long, long time.
But good sense took over. One did not open one’s door to a strange man. Especially not at night. And not with her precious daughter sleeping upstairs.
Still, he wasn’t the least bit threatening, and Cassie had pretty good instincts that way. There was something comforting about his presence. He felt like…Cowboy Charlie, down to that scar at the edge of his right eyebrow, the one he’d gotten in the tussle with a knife-wielding bank robber down in Baja.
No! This time the icy shiver that zipped through her veins made her jump. Charlie hadn’t run into a knife-wielding bank robber in Baja, not in reality.
Charlie was fictional! She had made up that story, made up all the Cowboy Charlie stories. Had, in fact, made up the man who was standing here now, big as life on her porch and chatting away in his lazy, masculine drawl, easy and likable.
And achingly familiar.
Cassie found her body leaning forward, as though she were being drawn to him. With only the screen door separating them, she could swear she could smell him, and what she took in was a heady mixture of healthy sweat, old leather and pipe tobacco. It was an intoxicating blend.
Wait a minute. Pipe tobacco? Oh that’s right, in a couple of early stories, she’d had Charlie lighting up a pipe as he sat around the campfire with some of his buddies, so that made sense. But she’d cut out the pipe in the later tales, not wanting to send any kind of tobacco-as-soothing message to her daughter. Apparently, this Cowboy Charlie hadn’t gotten the word.
Help, she thought weakly, although she wasn’t sure who the plea was aimed toward. She had to stop this nonsense, pull back from the spell cast by the stranger.
Propping her hands on her hips, she glared at this man, this fake Cowboy Charlie. “Enough,” she said firmly. “The truth now. Who sent you?”
He frowned, then removed his elbow from the door frame and stood up straight. “You did, ma’am,” he said politely. “You’re Miz Nevins, right? Cassie Nevins?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded, so Charlie went on. “I’m not really sure, but those spectacles? The ones on the end of your nose? I think they mighta had something to do with it.” He shook his head. “See, this is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. Now, I’ve heard tales, about others who’ve left, you know, and it was because they were needed, real bad. They were sent for because that person who needed them? Well, that person did something to bring it about, to…make it happen. I’m not real clear on this, as I said, but in the back of my head, there’s this idea that it’s connected to your spectacles.”
When Cassie continued to stare at him with an expression of pure confusion, he went on talking, hoping he’d light on the words that would help her understand, so she could be more peaceful than she seemed.
“Maybe it’s something like Aladdin did—we got him back home, too. Like rubbing a magic bottle? Or when you wish on a star? You must have done something like that.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry. I wish I knew more. I’m kind of new at this myself.”
“I did something?”
He nodded. “I’m pretty sure that before I left, well, before I was lifted, I guess you’d call it, out of my world and into this one, I had a picture in my head of—” he pointed “—those spectacles.” He finished his explanation with an apologetic smile that made his eyebrows turn up at the bridge of his nose. He’d done the best he could; now he’d wait to see if she understood.
As the cowboy pointed, Cassie realized she was still wearing the unstylish turquoise reading glasses. She pulled them off, folded them up and stuck them in the pocket of her blouse. It was then she grasped the fact that when she’d been preparing for her bath, she’d unbuttoned her blouse halfway down her chest.
Which was how it had remained, for the entire conversation with this man. Dear God.
Feeling heat suffuse her cheeks, she quickly remedied the situation, but had some trouble meeting his gaze as she did.
“They sure are funny looking, aren’t they?” the cowboy said.
Her head snapped up. “What’s funny looking?”
“The spectacles.”
“Oh, yes. A true laugh riot,” Cassie muttered.
“Maybe they’re magic. You wished I was real, and I guess you really wished hard, because—” he spread his palms “—here I am.”
You wished I was real. His simple words stunned her once again. Her previous seminaked state forgotten, Cassie could only stare at the man on her porch. Surely this couldn’t be. He was spinning a yarn, yes that was it. That had to be it. He’d seen the ugly glasses perched on her nose and had come up with this whole, ludicrous explanation.
Except how did he know about the wish she’d made not five minutes ago, in jest of course. How could he know? Did he read minds? Was that it?
She closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. She was dreaming, she told herself. She had to be. Even though the man on her porch, chatting easily like an old friend, seemed to be flesh and blood, down to the smell of pipe tobacco.
“So, I reckon I’ll be with you for a while,” he went on. “Until I finish helping you out, of course.”
She opened her eyes again, but she was struck speechless, so all she could do was stare at him and shake her head in wonder.
“And I sure don’t mean to be rude,” he went on, “but I had to travel quite a far piece, and I have a powerful thirst. May I trouble you for a glass of water?”
He waited for her answer, but Cassie was unable to say anything at the moment.
Deterred not in the least, he went on. “Are you sure I can’t come in? I’m plum tuckered out. I can bunk down on your davenport, if you’d like.” He spread his hands and grinned the Cowboy Charlie grin she’d invented for him, based on the way Brad Pitt looked when he was feeling cocky. It was a smile that invited you to be in on the joke with him, the one that always brought sunshine to a dreary outlook.
She shook her head until she was sure her brains were back in place. Then she stood ramrod straight.
Enough!
Either he was insane or she was. Either way, it was time to end this.
“Listen to me, Cowboy Charlie, or whoever you are,” she said with newfound strength and purpose. “If you’re fictional, you don’t get tired and you don’t need any water.”
“But—”
She refused to let him continue. “And no, you cannot stay here,” she added indignantly, positive that someone had slipped her a hallucinogenic drug or that she was in a deep dream state and would wake in the morning, back to her old self again. “In fact,” she added for emphasis, “good night!”
Ignoring the confused look on the stranger’s face, she closed the door and double locked it, clicked off the porch light and stomped up the stairs.
There! she thought. That was telling him!
She was probably sleepwalking—it was the only explanation that made sense—but it was time to seek the safety of her bed.
In the morning he’d be gone for sure.
Chapter Two
The phone rang, followed by Trish complaining, followed by a knock at the front door. All she needed, Cassie thought, on the verge of screaming, was for a bomb to go off. Then her life would be complete.
Setting the bowl of cereal down in front of her daughter with a bang, she picked up the phone and barked into it, “Hold on.” She glared resolutely at Trish. “You know I can’t hear you when you whine.”
“But I don’t like oatmeal, Mommy,” her daughter whined, and pushed the cereal away.
“It’s all we have this morning, so get over it. Yes?” she said into the phone, then pushed the bowl of cereal back before her daughter. “Not interested,” she said to the telemarketer.
“That’s a shame,” an overly bright young voice replied, “because—”
Cassie hung up before she got to hear about the shame. “Where is it written,” she said to no one in particular, “that just because I have a telephone I’m fair game?”
“Do I have to eat this, Mommy?” Trish asked again.
“You betcha.”
Cassie was aware that she was acting and sounding cranky. But it had been a rough night, she had a headache that took up all available space behind her eye sockets—including her brain, she was sure—and the bright sunlight pouring in through the missing slats of the kitchen window blinds was directed straight at her eyes, as though she’d been purposely targeted by the sun gods.
She poured herself another cup of coffee and took a slug. “I overslept and need to get dressed for work, honey,” she went on, forcing her voice to be more gentle, “so eat up before the car pool gets here.”
“But—”
“No buts. Do it.”
Insistent knocking at the door made Cassie jump. Oops. She’d managed to forget that someone had already knocked once, just seconds ago. She glanced at the wall clock. It was ten minutes early for the car pool, but Helen Wasserman, whose turn it was today, was one of those chirpy, “better early than late” type-A personalities that Cassie positively loathed.
“Eat,” she ordered her pouting daughter. “I’ll tell Helen she’ll just have to wait a couple of minutes.”
Determined to check her testiness before she got to the door—after all, it wouldn’t do to unload on the poor woman whose only sin was a terror of being tardy—Cassie hurried to the front door. Before she opened it, she made sure her robe was tied. Then, forcing a broad smile onto unwilling cheek muscles, she pulled open the door.
The smile left her face right away. In fact, her mouth dropped open, wide as the door, at the sight on her porch.
It was him. Again.
Or still.
Cowboy Charlie, in person, back for a repeat performance.
His appearance this morning was rumpled, and he needed a shave. But so what? Despite her bad mood, she’d have had to be comatose not to observe how to-drool-over sexy the man was.
His sun-streaked hair flopped on his forehead. That crooked smile deepened the laugh lines around his Paul Newman eyes. He was tall and slim and sturdy, and possessed more animal charisma than ought to be allowed.
She’d half convinced herself that she’d dreamed him up the night before, some combination of stress and overactive imagination at work. Cassie sighed. Well, there went that theory.
Whoever he was, he was no apparition, that was for sure. One of her friends, that had to be the explanation. A few of them knew all about her Cowboy Charlie stories. Sandy, or Margie, or some other well-meaning person had decided to play a little trick on her, bring a little fun into her stressful life. This, she decided, seemed like sound reasoning, even if the likelihood of finding an exact replica of her Charlie—as exact as this one was—had to be pretty remote.
But still, the whole thing had to be a joke. And she’d go along with the joke, by heaven, because Cassie had a sense of humor.
Like that she found herself relaxing in his easygoing, attractive presence. Not that whoever was responsible wasn’t going to pay, big-time, she amended. Still, for the moment she’d play her part and have a little fun at the same time. And why not? After all, the man was, quite simply, impossible to resist.
Her mind made up, instead of taking his head off, when Charlie smiled, Cassie found herself smiling back.
“Morning,” he said cheerfully. “How’re we doing today?”
“We’re just ducky,” she said, chuckling. “And you?”
There, Charlie thought. He’d suspected that the lady’s smile would warm up her pretty face, would bring that merry sparkle to her eyes, and darned if he hadn’t been right. “I sure could use that drink, ma’am. I spent the night in that shed behind your house, and there wasn’t any water that I could find.”
“You slept in my garage?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She bit the edge of her lip, but he could tell she wasn’t really upset anymore. She wore a long robe, one that outlined that cute little body of hers, letting him know that the curves he remembered from the night before were real. He wondered briefly if he was supposed to be noticing her body and the nice rasp of her voice, if that was part of his quest. But whether or not he was supposed to, he was a man, after all. Some things were not in his control.
Folding her arms over her chest, she asked, but with a smile, “Okay, truth time. Who sent you?”
Uh-oh. We’re back to that again. Charlie pushed his hat back and scratched his head, trying to tamp down the small spurt of irritation her question aroused. “I thought we got that straightened out last night,” he said, determined to be patient, even though his mouth felt like sawdust. “You did.”
“Right. Okay, I sent for you.” She sighed, shook her head. “But if I tell you I don’t have time to play this morning as I’m running late, would you be willing to go back to wherever it is you came from?”
He removed his Stetson and smoothed back his hair, something he always did when he needed a moment to ponder a situation. “I’m not sure I can do that,” he told her, setting the hat back on his head. “All I know is you called me, I’m here and I’m supposed to rescue you, and that’s about it.”
At the perplexed expression on her face, he added, with a shrug, “I’m sure sorry. I don’t know any more than you do what the rules are. I’m afraid the whole thing isn’t up to me. Or you. So, I figure we both better accept it and just get on with it.”
“‘Just get on with it,”’ she repeated.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She studied him for a while, seemed to be deciding something big, then, like that, she sighed, opened the screen door and stepped aside. “Put the guns down—” she pointed to his holster and six-shooters “—and then come on in.”
“They aren’t real bullets, you know.”
“There are bullets in there?”
He popped open the chamber and peered inside. “Not anymore,” he told her, taken aback by the fact. He twirled both empty chambers, to show her.
“Good. Put the guns down, anyway, all right? This is a gun-free household.”
He did as she’d requested, removing his holster and setting it down on a small bench by the door. Then he crossed the threshold just as she said, “The least I can do, I guess, is to offer you a glass of water. If Margie or Sandy or Rosa put you up to this, you’re probably harmless, right?”
“Well, ma’am,” he offered, “I don’t know as I’ve ever been called harmless, exactly. But I know how to behave myself. My mamma made sure all us boys had manners.”
“I’m sure she did. I’m Cassie, by the way.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know.”
It felt nice and cool inside and he was grateful. It was hotter than Hades out there already, even though it was only morning. He gazed down at her. My, she was a little one. Fiery, for all that, but still, little.
“And you can cut out the ‘ma’am’ stuff,” she said, propping her hands on her hips. “I’m not old enough yet.” Grinning one more time, she added, “Though I’m rapidly getting there.”
She turned and he followed her, boots clicking and spurs jangling loudly as he trod her wooden floors. But he didn’t really pay any attention to the sound, because he was watching the way her shapely hips moved inside her robe. And his nose was picking up the scent of—what? Some kind of spring flowers. Lilacs, maybe. It floated behind her and right into his nostrils. The scent of a woman. This woman. Cassie smelled downright savory.
In the kitchen a girl child sat at a small round table, making a face at a bowl of mush. She raised her head when her momma walked in with him following. Her eyes grew huge with wonder as she stared at him.
“Mommy!” she said. “It’s Cowboy Charlie!”
“Morning, miss,” he said with a tip of his hat.
“Mommy!” she squealed again, her high-pitched voice verging on affecting his hearing. The little girl stood, looking excitedly from him to her mother and back again. “It’s Cowboy Charlie! He’s here!”
“No, it’s not him,” Cassie answered, taking a glass from a shelf and turning on the tap. “Not really. Well, yes and no. Oh, heck.” She shrugged her shoulders, seeming to surrender any attempt to make sense. “Whatever. Charlie, meet Trish.”
He offered his hand to the child, who took it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Trish,” he told her solemnly, but the little girl’s face lit up with a grin that made her look just like a fairer-haired, rounder-faced version of her mother.
“Me, too. You’re my hero.”
“Trish, eat your oatmeal,” Cassie said.
Indicating with her head that Charlie should sit across from her daughter, Cassie poured him a glass of water, then set it down in front of his chair. He was dying to drink and wouldn’t have minded resting his feet, but he waited for her to take a seat.
Instead, she selected a cup from another shelf and poured what looked like coffee from a silver-colored machine on the counter next to the sink. “You like it black, right?”
“As tar.”
“Sorry. It’s strong, but not quite that strong.”
A horn sounded outside. Cassie turned to her daughter, who was still grinning at Charlie. “That’s your car pool, honey. I guess you don’t have to eat your oatmeal after all, lucky you. Take some oatmeal cookies with you.”
“But, Cowboy Charlie’s here,” the little girl said, the sparkle in her eyes bright with happiness and wonder. “I want to stay.”
“I’ll be here when you get back, little lady,” he told her.
“Mom?” Trish said with a squeak of joy that made him wince. “Will he be here?”
“We’ll see,” Cassie said.
At the exact same moment Charlie opined, with a wink, “I sure will.”
The little girl looked from her mother to him, then decided to go with his answer. “Goody!” She clapped her hands. “Wait till I tell everyone!” She grabbed a few cookies from a jar on the counter, seized a small pack with straps from the back of her chair and ran out the door.
Frowning, Cassie set both cups of coffee down on the table. Alone at last. She noticed that Charlie waited to sit until she did, and wondered when was the last time anyone had displayed actual manners. It felt quaint…and kind of nice.
She watched as he downed the water quickly, his Adam’s apple darting up and down with each gulp. His hands were deeply tanned, his fingers callused. As she sipped her coffee, she studied him, ignoring the attraction she felt toward him in an attempt at objectivity.
In the morning light he was even more the embodiment of Cowboy Charlie than he had appeared to be last night. Everything about him indicated that he worked with those sun-browned hands, that he spent days on the trail, in the open air. She wondered about his background, how much he was getting paid for this little impersonation, and frowned as she tried to think which of her friends had money for this kind of thing.
And why whoever it was had decided to play a trick on her in the first place.
“You shouldn’t have said that to Trish,” she admonished. “About your being here when she got home.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll get her hopes up. She thinks you’re real, as opposed to me, who knows you aren’t.”
He frowned, obviously perplexed and just a little bit impatient with her. “I thought we’d gotten that all worked out last night. I am real. You can touch me if you’d like.” He put his hand out toward her. “Flesh and blood, just like most men.”
Not even close to most men, at least the ones I know, she could have said, but didn’t. Instead she set her coffee cup down, then folded both arms across her chest.
“Look,” she said firmly, “I may have some Irish heritage and my grandmother may have filled my head with tales of faeries, curses and Fate, but that was then, this is now. I’m a grown-up, and I rebel against being asked to accept some, some…creature of my imagination turning into flesh and blood reality. Okay? It isn’t possible, it didn’t happen, and that’s it!”
There. If that didn’t get through to him, she didn’t know what would.
But he didn’t react, not really, except for a slight tension around the jawline that disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared. No, he just shrugged, sat there and drank down her coffee, a thoughtful look on his handsome, weather-beaten face.
Had she hurt his feelings? she wondered suddenly. Did he mind being called a creature? What in the world was going on? And, more immediate, what in the world was she going to do with him?
“Are you hungry or anything?” she found herself asking him, by way of soothing any feathers she might have ruffled. At once she was disgusted with herself. God, she was such a wuss. Every time she forced herself to act with firmness and strength, in the next moment, she usually wound up taking care of whoever she’d been firm and strong with.
“Don’t bother yourself, ma’am—I mean, Cassie. I’ll get myself some grub later on.”
She reached behind her for the cookie jar. Setting it in front of her, she opened the top and handed him a couple of oatmeal cookies, which he accepted, she noticed.
“Thanks,” he said, then gobbled them down, like someone who’d been deprived of food for a while. He really needed this impersonation job, she figured, wondering again at his background and what had brought him to this point.
Both cookies were disposed of in a matter of seconds, after which he said, “You’re a real good baker.”
“No I’m not. Other people bake. I shop. There’s more, if you’d like. Or I can scramble up some eggs.”
She began to rise, but he stayed her with a gesture. “No thank you. I meant what I said. I’ll eat later. Now I need you to tell me what I can do for you.”
He seemed so sincere, so earnest, she almost laughed, mainly because it crossed her mind that it would be nice if she could believe in fairy tales, in someone sent from another plane of existence to help her.
Maybe she had believed at Trish’s age, but the early death of her mother, followed two years later by her father’s death, had taken away her childhood long before it should have ended, along with any faith in either magic or fantasy. A maiden aunt had raised her to the best of her abilities, but she’d been a sour and strict woman. Cassie had left her home right after high school and had never gone back.
She’d met Teddy in junior college, at age nineteen, married him three months later, had Trish at twenty and been widowed at twenty-six, nearly two years ago.
Since then there had been no room for fairy tales, very little room for much of anything except the day-to-day struggle to just get by. So now this man in cowboy duds sat across from her, all earnestness and manners, asking what he could do for her?
The obvious first answer came to mind. Money would help. Her late husband, who had done enough dreaming for both of them, had always been into some kind of flaky financial scheme. In fact, he’d put the house up as collateral on the final project, something to do with windmills and solar power. It had failed, of course, as had all the others. After that, he’d been so distracted, he’d accidentally stepped into the path of a large truck and been mowed down like a weed.
Cassie hadn’t had the luxury of weeping all the tears she’d felt inside; there was a five-year-old child to raise and bills to pay. There had been no insurance, no savings. Only debt. This small structure in the tiny town of Yatesboro, Nevada, twenty miles outside of Reno, was all that she and Trish had left, and every month they seemed on the verge of losing it.
There was never enough money, not for extras like ballet lessons for Trish or art classes for Cassie, so she could hone the skills to translate what she saw in her head onto paper. Her job at a local dress shop, while enjoyable enough, was not a high-paying one, but she had no training in anything that might bring in a better salary.
Short of winning the lottery—which she couldn’t even afford to enter—she didn’t see a way out.
Not that she’d given up hope, of course. She never did that, not even on grumpy mornings like this, not even metaphorically tied to the railroad tracks and the steam from the oncoming train filling the air above her. Somehow she’d survived tragic childhood losses with hope intact. It Isn’t Over Till It’s Over, was her motto.
But what she knew was that hope had to be based in reality, on what was possible. Not on dreams and what-ifs.
Not on fictional characters being brought to life.
Still, she wished, oh, how she wished, that this Cowboy Charlie was who he said he was, and that he could produce a small pot of gold for her needs.
But she didn’t believe it, not for a second.
“Ma’am?” he said, bringing her back to the moment.
“That’s Cassie,” she reminded him again with a rueful smile as she rose from the table. “And I have to get dressed for work.”
“Oh.”
Rising, as well, Charlie sensed this wasn’t a good time to ask about his living arrangements. While he was doing whatever he was supposed to be doing, he’d have to settle for the garage, he supposed—it sure did seem the davenport was out. And the davenport wasn’t even close to where he’d like to bunk down, which was right next to Cassie, in her own bed.
He drew in a sharp breath. Tarnation. He hadn’t expected there to be these strong feelings when he looked at her, these bodily stirrings. It felt peculiar, somehow, to be experiencing so many potent sensations. There was a hankering for the woman, for sure; that one was at the top of the list. But there were other responses to her. Admiration for her spunk. A feeling of lightness in her presence, happiness almost. A need to protect her.
Then there were all these other human reactions—hunger, thirst, a need to sleep. Just yesterday he’d been fiction, but now he was real.
He didn’t question it, just knew it. Still, it was all new, and he’d have some settling in to do, he figured.
Cassie didn’t accept his human state, not yet. But she would. It was a fact: Cowboy Charlie had been granted temporary personhood. Along with that, he’d also been granted the knowledge that real life was much more complex than his fictional world.
Back home it was simple. The Code of the Old West was to act honorably, work hard, tell the truth and take responsibility. But that might not be enough here. Sure, he’d been sent to, as they’d have said back home, “help the widder woman.”
But he wasn’t back home. To do what he was supposed to do, he’d need to adapt and quickly. It wasn’t only about life versus fiction, it was also about the fact that Cassie’s century was a lot more complicated than his.
He watched as she took both coffee cups to the sink and placed them there. “You’ll have to leave,” she said, following it up quickly with, “Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to get to work and first I have to get dressed. Needless to say I’m not about to do that with you still here.”
“Oh, surely, yes.”
She walked him to the door. It made sense that she didn’t want him in the house while she dressed—she didn’t know him well enough. Not that he’d have minded watching her dress, with her permission, of course, but it looked like that wasn’t in the cards.
She opened the front door. Bright sunshine flooded the entrance, and he remembered the heat outside. “Well then, I’ll just wait for you on the porch, if that’s okay.”
She bit her bottom lip in consternation. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I have a busy day, and I’m sure you have other things to do with your time. Okay?” She offered her hand. “It was nice meeting you.”
Confused again, he took her hand in his. Small and soft, just like he’d imagined. Her skin felt good against his palm and so did the quick surge of desire that shot up his arm and began to spread elsewhere. That surely was one powerful reaction; too powerful.
Abruptly he dropped her hand, then tipped his hat. “Nice meeting you, too,” he said, then walked out into the sunshine.
Cassie closed the door, then leaned back against it. “Whew,” she said aloud, then stared at her hand in wonder. It had tingled at Charlie’s touch. Tingled! My, my, she thought, gazing at the pale skin, shades and shades lighter than Charlie’s, and wondering if it continued to give off the heat she’d felt in that brief few moments of contact.
“My, oh, my,” she said now, climbing the stairs to her bedroom for a quick shower before getting dressed. She had about twelve minutes to get ready, but she used only a little makeup, and her hair did what it wanted to do, whatever else she might intend for it to do, so it was never much trouble.
She paused halfway up the stairs when she realized her heart was pounding loudly and she needed to catch her breath. It wasn’t the stair climbing that had made her heart race and her breathing quicken. No, it was that brief touch from Cowboy Charlie.
Or whatever his name was. For a moment she regretted sending him away. But at least he’d gone. Which was good, she assured herself, continuing her journey upstairs. Yes, much better…for all concerned.
She made it back down thirteen minutes later, which wasn’t bad. After retrieving her purse from the hall table, she grabbed a ring of keys from a hook and pulled open the door.
No Charlie.
She admitted to a brief sense of disappointment. Not that she’d expected him to be waiting there, she told herself. Not that she’d wanted him to be waiting there.
No, that wasn’t it. She’d done the right thing, been firm, set her boundaries, let him know that the water and coffee and cookies were all he could expect from her, and that she had a busy life to lead that didn’t include his presence.
She sure had let him know. Good for her.
She closed the door, then used her key to double lock it. When she turned around again, she gasped.
There he was, standing there, big as life. It was as though he’d appeared out of thin air!
Charlie tipped his hat. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, feeling awful as he took in Cassie’s startled reaction. You should never sneak up on a body like that, and he sure hadn’t meant to do that this time.
“Where…where did you come from?” she asked him, her hand on her throat.
“You said not to wait on the porch, so I was over there—” he angled his head to indicate the direction “—at the side of the house.”
“Oh. Well, then,” she said, and let out a deep sigh. He watched as the color returned to her face. “You took me literally then. You didn’t just…materialize from…nowhere?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good,” she said. “I really don’t think my heart could take that.” She seemed to gather herself together and walked purposefully down the two porch steps and onto the path leading to the street, saying, “Well, I’ll be on my way then.”
He followed. She stopped, turned to him again and offered her hand, just as she had done in the house. In the full morning sunlight, he could see tired lines around her eyes, and he had to resist the urge to run a thumb over them to smooth them away. She was too young to look so worn-out.
“You really can go now, Charlie,” she said with a smile. “Thanks for brightening up my day. It was nice meeting you.”
Again her hand was soft, and this time, when she tried to pull it away, he didn’t let it go. “The feeling’s mutual. It’s just, you haven’t told me yet what I’m supposed to do for you.”
“Are we back to that?”
“Never left it.”
She blew out a breath, and one of her bouncy brown curls lifted momentarily off her forehead then settled back into place. He sure did want to see how that healthy looking hair would feel between his fingers, sure did want to touch some more of her skin. But first he needed to get his assignment.
“Right. Fine,” she said, looking from their still-joined hands and back into his gaze. His gut told him she was dismissing both his request and him.
“You can go to the bank,” she said. “That’s First Yatesboro Savings on Main Street. And get them to give me thirty more days on the mortgage. Okay? If you can do that, maybe I’ll believe in Santa Claus. At least, maybe I’ll believe in you.” Gently she pried her hand out of his and walked away.
He watched her sashay off down the walkway and get into her small blue machine. Car. Unbidden, the word came to his head. He might have come from the Old West, but, for some reason, he now knew that was the name for the machine, same as he knew it ran on fuel made from oil pumped out of the ground.
He was getting this thing now, this transformation; clearly, he would have been granted all the knowledge he would need to function in Cassie’s twenty-first-century world.
Now all he had to do was furnish a miracle.
Chapter Three
Frowning, Charlie watched Cassie drive away. Automobiles sure were wondrous things. Some of the newer characters in his world bragged about the inventions in “real” life, and he had to admit a car was convenient—though of course it couldn’t beat Felicity.
So, go to a bank and deal with a mortgage, that was what he was supposed to do for Cassie, was it? Get her a thirty-day extension. Which meant she was short on money.
It was a classic scenario, the little widow woman with child, the wolf, or mortgage holder, at the door, waiting to pounce. It could almost be one of Cassie’s stories. Starring him.
What would she have him do, if this were one of her stories? A scene flashed through his mind involving heading into the bank and pointing his six guns at whoever handled mortgages there….
No, he knew instinctively. They didn’t do things like that nowadays, he didn’t think, not without serious consequences. And besides, like Felicity, his bullets hadn’t made the trip through time and space, either.
Still, he had to take action, and better now than later. First, though, he removed his spurs. They jangled too much and slowed him down. No horse to ride, no spurs necessary.
He took both the spurs and the guns in their holster to the garage and left them there. Then, deep in thought, Charlie began to walk in the direction of the few tall buildings he could see in the distance. He figured those buildings would be the center of town. The business district, that was what it was called. The business district. He rolled the words over on his tongue. Formal sounding words, those.
He walked on paved sidewalks—another first for him—and passed small, modest houses similar to Cassie’s. The lawns were so green, so even. And the houses were so close together, he marveled. You could look into each other’s windows and see all kinds of private acts, he figured. Back home you could get shot for doing that. But not, he assumed, here. Maybe neighbors didn’t look at neighbors? No, more than likely they did, but just pretended not to see.
Where did the folks here have room to grow their vegetables? he wondered. And how could you breathe with your neighbor so close?
First Yatesboro Savings, Cassie had said. He kept an eye out for the sign as he stopped at a cross street named Main. Funny, there was a Main Street back home. Did every town have a main street? It warmed him, this small connection. Maybe things weren’t that different here, after all.
Small machines—cars—like Cassie’s but with different shapes and colors, passed him by. No horses, though. He didn’t see one, which made him kind of sad. Were there horses anymore in Cassie’s world?
He was crossing Main to get to the other side, when he heard a loud screech and a man’s voice yelling, “Hey, cowboy! Can’t you see it’s red?” The car was right close to him and the driver looked pretty mad.
Red? Charlie gazed around him, then up at the sky, and sure enough there was a box hanging in the middle of the street. It had three circles on it, and one of them was red. He watched as that color went out and the one at the bottom it turned green. Other folks joined him now crossing the road.
“Sorry,” he called out to the irate driver. Another new rule to learn. Red meant you stopped and green meant you could go. And yellow must mean to pay attention, he told himself. This new way of thinking was slowly seeping in and part of it must come from Cassie’s belief that he knew about modern life.
He began to notice the other folks now, probably because in this part of town there were a lot more of them. His gaze landed on a couple of women in real short skirts, their legs bare as a newborn, their hips swaying back and forth as they went. A right pleasant sight, Charlie thought with a smile. Did they work for the town madame he wondered, or were they what back home they’d call “independents”? He turned his gaze to the other side of the street; there were a lot of women dressed like those two, but a lot who weren’t. Some wore pants, just like men, although they didn’t look like men. No, sir.
Now he passed a row of stores, some of them with familiar words on the windows, like Druggist and Bar, others with funny names like Computer Closet and Beanie Babies’ Barn. He didn’t know what computers or Beanie Babies were, but he figured it went along with modern times, and if he needed to know about it, he would.
Up ahead a couple streets, it looked like the buildings just stopped. In the distance he could see a highway, fields, mountains rising tall into the sky. They looked a lot like his mountains, and Charlie experienced a sudden wave of yearning to be back home, back in his simple existence.
He shook himself out of that one, right quick. He had a job to do, a woman to help. A woman he liked very much, as a matter of fact, and who didn’t exist back home. Not in any real sense, anyway.
Pausing, he looked around him. Yes, he decided, for a modern town, it was a pretty little place, no doubt about it.
And wouldn’t you know it, he had stopped right in front of the sign he’d been looking for: First Yatesboro Savings. He removed his hat and scratched his head. Here it was, the job he was supposed to do. Get that mortgage extended, give Cassie a little time to earn more wages.
Or maybe he could do that for her. He would do more than buy her time, he’d come up with enough money to ease her burden. How, he didn’t know, but it would come to him. Squaring his shoulders, Cowboy Charlie headed into the bank.
Cassie had several responsibilities at the dress shop. She helped customers, was backup for the cashier, straightened racks of clothing. But because she had an eye for color and fabric, her biggest responsibility was the window display. At the moment that was where she was, in the shop window, draping a paisley shawl over one of the mannequin’s shoulders, when she happened to glance out on the street.
Charlie stood in front of the bank, studying it and scratching his head as he did. Good Lord, she thought with a smile, he’s actually going to do it. Or try to, anyway.
What would happen? she wondered. Would he get anywhere? As she rearranged the vase of silk geraniums she’d set on the small table near the mannequin’s hand, humming a little tune to herself all the while, she let her mind drift for a few moments.
She was surprised by the way Charlie’s determination to help warmed her insides. It was a nice feeling, she realized, to have someone—wherever he came from—in her corner, taking her part. It had been such a long time. Most days she woke up with a hollow, lonely feeling, and something about Charlie’s presence this morning, if she were honest with herself, had diminished that feeling, made her feel less alone.
And now, her champion—she chuckled as the word came into her head, but there it was—her knight in shining armor and a Stetson, was across the street, doing battle in her name. Fanciful image, she knew it, but that was the mental picture that formed when she thought about Charlie.
She hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed if he didn’t get anywhere with the bank. Charlie might be big and strong, but he hadn’t yet met the loan officer in charge. When he did, he would find out what he was up against.
Cassie’s hand stopped in midair. The loan manager, Ronald Moffit, was not exactly a warm, welcoming type; how would he react to Charlie? Suddenly she had a bad feeling about having issued her challenge. What if Charlie got thrown out? In fact, what if he made the whole situation worse? Uh-oh, she thought, coming down from daydreaming with a thump.
“Lorna,” she called out, hopping down from the display window and into the shop, “I’m taking my break.” Quickly, before anyone noticed that she’d only been on the job for a half hour, she pulled open the front door and, dodging traffic, made her way across the street.
“You’re here on behalf of whom?”
Charlie shifted his weight as he stood before the desk he’d been directed to, the one belonging to the loan officer. He didn’t care for the man or his attitude. First of all, he was not more than mid-thirties, but was dried-up looking, like he’d died a while back and no one had bothered to tell him. He spoke through his nose in a way that grated on Charlie’s nerves. His skin was pasty white, and what he had hairwise was thinning.
Judging a man by his appearance wasn’t a fair thing to do, and Charlie knew it. He kept it as pleasant sounding as he could when he asked, “Okay if I sit?”
“Why don’t you tell me your business first.”
He felt his jaw tighten. Moffit was the sneering type, just like those college fellas Charlie ran into back on the range. The kind who came out west for adventure and who figured as Charlie hadn’t gone past grammar school and dealt with horses all day, they had to talk real slow and careful to him, just in case he was a little lacking in the brain department. Charlie didn’t like being looked down on. It was most definitely one of those little character traits that set his temper on the boil.
Rein it in, he told himself. He was here to help Cassie. He would contain himself, if it was the last thing he did.
“I’m here on behalf of Miz Cassie Nevins,” he said friendly-like.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Nevins.” The man gave a superior sniff. “We own her home.”
“That right? I thought you owned the mortgage.”
With a condescending little smile, Moffit waved a hand. “Semantics. And is that the matter you’ve come to discuss?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here.”
Moffit glanced at his watch. “I have an appointment in a couple of minutes.”
He didn’t invite Charlie to sit, which he knew was an insult. He shifted his weight from one boot to the other, careful to keep his hands relaxed at his side. They kept wanting to curl up into fists, and that might not look real neighborly.
He stared at the loan officer. In the jacket pocket of his three-piece suit a yellow handkerchief stuck out, its edges folded neatly. Yellow, Charlie figured, like the butt-ugly coward he was.
“I figured,” Charlie said easily, “between the two of us, we could figure out the best way to help her keep that little house.”
Moffit eyed him up and down, then sniffed again. “Do you have some sort of documentation, some letter, that allows you to speak for her? I can’t believe you’re her lawyer, although I suppose with Mrs. Nevins, anything is possible.”
“What exactly to do you mean by that remark?” Charlie’s fists curled automatically. The man was making some kind of disparaging comment about Cassie, and that was not something he’d stand still for.
“Charlie! There you are!” Charlie was taken by surprise as Cassie came up behind him and grabbed one of his clenched fists. Good thing, too. One fist had been about to find its way to the pointy, smug chin that belonged to Mr. Yellow Handkerchief.
“Good day, Mrs. Nevins,” the loan officer said.
“Hello, Mr. Moffit.” Cassie was being cheerful at the same time she was tugging at Charlie’s hand, like she was trying to signal him in some way. “I see you’ve met Charlie,” she went on brightly.
“He said he was here representing you.”
“Well—” Her chuckle sounded as false to Charlie as a set of store bought teeth. “Um, yes, I suppose he is…in a way. He’s my…good friend. An old acquaintance, you might say. And when he found out that money was a little tight and I was going to have trouble with this month’s payment, he just thought he’d come here and see if there was anything we could do about it.” She chuckled again. “Old friends, like I said.”
My, Charlie thought, she did run on and on when she was nervous, and this Moffit fella made her downright fidgety.
Moffit frowned at her, then at Charlie, then back at her. He steepled his pale fingers on the desktop. “I’m afraid you’ve been late too often.”
“Twice. And only three days each time.”
“Nevertheless I can’t see that we’ll be able to make any accommodation. After all, you signed a contract for a line of credit—”
“No, my late husband did that, as I’ve explained, without my knowing it.”
That smug smile again, a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yes, well it’s the same thing, isn’t it. Believe me, we’d rather not take back the house, it’s not worth a lot to us, but rules are rules.”
Charlie had about had enough of this man’s bullying. “When’s this money due?”
“Last month’s was due six days ago, but is officially overdue on Friday. That’s three days from now. If we don’t have that payment plus the current one, plus a late penalty payment by—” he consulted a desk calendar “—next Tuesday, that’s after the Fourth of July holiday, well, I’m afraid we’ll be discussing foreclosure proceedings.”
Charlie began to speak, but Cassie tugged at his hand again. “I understand,” she said.
That old familiar sense of shame washed over Cassie. Oh, how she hated being in debt, hated owing anyone for anything. Her life with Teddy had been all about keeping one step ahead of creditors, and she was sick to death of it.
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Diane Pershing
Cassie Nevins longed for someone to save the day, someone like Cowboy Charlie, the hero she'd created for her daughter's bedtime stories–and the hunk who'd starred in a few of her own not-so-innocent fantasies. Charlie followed the code of the Old West: Act honorably, work hard, tell the truth and take responsibility.So who was this stranger on her doorstep, looking exactly like her cowboy…right down to the dimple in one corner of his very kissable mouth? All Cassie knew was this Charlie could make all her dreams come true–including her deeply hidden desire for a happily-ever-after!
Cowboy Charlie was back for a repeat performance.
His appearance this morning was rumpled, and he needed a shave. But so what? Despite Cassie’s bad mood, she’d have had to be comatose not to observe how to-drool-over sexy the man was.
His sun-streaked hair flopped on his forehead. That crooked smile deepened the laugh lines around his Paul Newman eyes. He was tall, and slim, and sturdy, and possessed more animal charisma than ought to be allowed.
She’d half convinced herself that she’d dreamed him up the night before, some combination of stress and overactive imagination at work.
There went that theory….
Dear Reader,
Have you started your spring cleaning yet? If not, we have a great motivational plan: For each chore you complete, reward yourself with one Silhouette Romance title! And with the standout selection we have this month, you’ll be finished reorganizing closets, steaming carpets and cleaning behind the refrigerator in record time!
Take a much-deserved break with the exciting new ROYALLY WED: THE MISSING HEIR title, In Pursuit of a Princess, by Donna Clayton. The search for the missing St. Michel heir leads an undercover princess straight into the arms of a charming prince. Then escape with Diane Pershing’s SOULMATES addition, Cassie’s Cowboy. Could the dreamy hero from her daughter’s bedtime stories be for real?
Lugged out and wiped down the patio furniture? Then you deserve a double treat with Cara Colter’s What Child Is This? and Belinda Barnes’s Daddy’s Double Due Date. In Colter’s tender tearjerker, a tiny stranger reunites a couple torn apart by tragedy. And in Barnes’s warm romance, a bachelor who isn’t the “cootchie-coo” type discovers he’s about to have twins!
You’re almost there! Once you’ve rounded up every last dust bunny, you’re really going to need some fun. In Terry Essig’s Before You Get to Baby…and Sharon De Vita’s A Family To Be, childhood friends discover that love was always right next door. De Vita’s series, SADDLE FALLS, moves back to Special Edition next month.
Even if you skip the spring cleaning this year, we hope you don’t miss our books. We promise, this is one project you’ll love doing.
Happy reading!
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor
Cassie’s Cowboy
Diane Pershing
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Karen Amarillas, for her friendship and expertise
in rodeo lore. And to Ken, who—although he refuses to
wear boots and Stetson—still fits my definition of a hero.
Books by Diane Pershing
Silhouette Romance
Cassie’s Cowboy #1584
Silhouette Intimate Moments
While You Were Sleeping #863
The Tough Guy and the Toddler #928
Silhouette Yours Truly
First Date: Honeymoon
Third Date’s the Charm
Mills & Boon Duets
Hot Copy
DIANE PERSHING
cannot remember a time when she didn’t have her nose buried in a book. As a child, she would cheat the bedtime curfew by snuggling under the covers with her teddy bear, a flashlight and a forbidden (read “grown-up”) novel. Her mother warned her that she would ruin her eyes, but so far, they still work. Diane has had many careers—singer, actress, film critic, disc jockey, TV writer, to name a few. Currently she divides her time between writing romances and doing voice-overs. (You can hear her as “Poison Ivy” on the Batman cartoon.) She lives in Los Angeles, and promises she is only slightly affected. Her two children, Morgan Rose and Ben, have just completed college, and Diane looks forward to writing and acting until she expires, or people stop hiring her, whichever comes first. She loves to hear from readers, so please write to her at P.O. Box 67424, Los Angeles, CA 90067.
Dear Reader,
When I was young, any girl worth her salt had a crush on cowboys…and their horses, of course. On my block you were either for Roy Rogers or Gene Autry. The occasional Hopalong Cassidy booster showed up, but we paid them no mind (if you are too young to know who I’m talking about, trust me, you missed a great time). I was firmly in the Roy camp. Last year, during a difficult family period, I’d been trying unsuccessfully to flesh out a story idea about a pair of truly ugly magical eyeglasses. One night I had a dream in which Roy showed up and told me not to fret my pretty little head, that he and Trigger would take care of my problems for a while. Sigh. It was a lovely dream. Upon awakening, the two ideas meshed, and Cassie’s Cowboy was born. Giddyup!
Diane Pershing
Contents
Chapter One (#udc432e71-0fd0-5baf-919b-9c69788f8a97)
Chapter Two (#uc5ea3ce7-3fb4-5ffe-a35a-421341caf6c6)
Chapter Three (#u704b4a1f-05c4-5091-913c-600f646ae5b5)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
“…and then the bad man with the long, smelly mustache tightened the ropes that bound the hands of Sally and her small child, Missy. Both of his prisoners were very, very frightened, and they would have liked to scream for help but the bad man had put handkerchiefs over their mouths, so all they could do was make noises like murfle hurfle pelp! Suddenly, from over the horizon there appeared a stranger in a Stetson—”
“Cowboy Charlie!” Trish said happily, clapping her hands.
“Yes, my love,” Cassie said, and went on. “Here came Cowboy Charlie, galloping on Felicity, his six-guns blazing. With an oomph! and a pow! he kicked the bad man so he fell and rolled over and over and over, down the mountain. Then Charlie swooped up the woman and her child onto his horse, and the three of them rode off into the sunset, to safety.”
“Oh, Mommy,” Trish sighed, snuggling back against her pillow and pulling her covers up under her chin. “That was so good. It’s my favorite story.”
Cassie Nevins smiled warmly at her seven-year-old daughter. “You always say that, no matter which story I tell you,” she teased, then kissed her child’s soft cheek. “Good night, baby,” she said, gathering her notebook and pens as she left the room. Their nightly ritual was done, the story was told, accompanied, as usual, by one or two pen-and-ink sketches. The drawings she’d come up with this particular evening weren’t bad, even if she did say so herself. She’d really gotten the look of Cowboy Charlie tonight.
He was the Old West heroic type, from the days before Star Wars, when kids used to worship cowboys and the horses they rode. Tall, slim but muscular, his legs slightly bowed from years riding the range, his strong face lined by days spent squinting into the sun. He wore chaps and boots with jangling spurs and a leather vest—all the classic paraphernalia—and rode a magnificent chestnut named Felicity. Cassie was particularly pleased with the arch of the horse’s neck in tonight’s drawing. And she’d finally captured the look in Charlie’s nearly turquoise-blue eyes—reliable, amused. Manly. She was getting better and better at this.
After she closed the door to her daughter’s room, Cassie paused, removed her brand-new reading glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. She contemplated getting a snack, as she’d hardly eaten her dinner. But she couldn’t summon up the energy. She supposed she could go into her small office and stare at the bills there. But that would be all she’d be able to do, she thought wryly—stare at them. She sure couldn’t pay them.
Maybe she could indulge in a hot bath. Had the water bill been paid? Yes. Good, then. A soothing soak, just the thing to loosen tense muscles and strained eyes.
With a huge sigh, she found herself staring at the glasses she held in her hand. Boy, were they ugly, she thought, then chuckled. Past ugly, to be sure. Hideous. Bright turquoise frames with fan-shaped edges, dotted with inlaid rhinestones. So tasteless, so tacky. But they hadn’t cost her a cent; therefore, they were beautiful.
She’d been getting headaches lately when she read, and kindly old Doc Slater, her optometrist, had told her the week before that she needed reading glasses. As he’d had an inkling of her financial situation, he’d offered the frames to her, free. They were an extra pair in a shipment, he’d told her, and waved off her effusive thanks. She’d picked them up this morning.
As she headed for the bath, Cassie rubbed her thumb along the glasses’ earpiece. She was not only tired, she was rapidly on the way to being downright grumpy. And, despite her usual sunny outlook, she was beginning to sense the edges of panic. She needed money, she needed hope, she needed help, none of which were in sight.
Actually, what she needed now was a rescuer, of the knight-in-shining-armor variety.
No, forget the knight. What she needed was a cowboy, one of the good guys, as opposed to the bad guys. How very nice it would be if Cowboy Charlie would come along and make all her troubles disappear.
Right, she thought with a rueful smile. And he could bring the Tooth Fairy with him.
She turned on the hot water tap, then began to unbutton her blouse. Her hands paused as she thought she heard a noise. What was it? Some kind of knocking? Frowning, she turned the water off and listened. Yes, there it went again. Someone was knocking at her front door.
Putting on her glasses, she glanced at her watch. Who could it be at nine at night? Swallowing down the automatic fear reaction of a woman who lived alone with her child, she hurried downstairs before whoever it was knocked again. She went to the door and peered through the peephole.
In the yellow glow cast by the porch light, she could make out the figure of a man. Not just any man, but—
Cassie gasped as her hand automatically flew to cover her pounding heart. Unless she was completely mistaken, standing there, big as life, was none other than…Cowboy Charlie!
Charlie wasn’t real clear on just what had happened. Last thing he remembered, he was riding Felicity along the stretch they called Sagebrush Plain. He’d been admiring the way the setting sun was coating the far-off mountains with the darnedest colors—all purples and reds and golds—and thinking about the juicy steak he intended to have when he got back to camp, when all at once he swore he heard the sound of a woman sighing.
And not just an itty-bitty sigh, but a gigantic sigh, one that echoed and echoed and got louder and louder until he had to cover his ears. And then, Whoosh! there was a new sound, a roar twice as big as the sound of a hurricane. Suddenly, he felt his body being lifted and hurled through some kind of sideways tornado. Round and round he twisted till he could barely catch a breath. And then, just as suddenly, he was on land again, feet first and standing upright.
On a strange porch, facing a strange door.
And knocking on that door, because that seemed to be the obvious thing to do.
Now a woman was opening that door, but keeping the screen door between them closed.
“Ma’am?” he said, removing his hat and smoothing back his hair, then settling it back on his head. He was still breathing pretty heavily from his trip, but that didn’t affect his eyesight. No, sir.
She was just about the cutest thing he’d seen in a long while. Little, not a bit over five feet, he bet. Her head was all over short brown curls, and her eyes were brown too, chocolate-colored and large. Right now they peered suspiciously at him over the top of the strangest looking pair of spectacles he’d ever seen and which were perched on the tip of her small nose.
“Good evening,” he said politely, when she seemed disobliged to say anything welcoming.
The woman checked to make sure the lock was on the screen door, then crossed her arms over her chest. “And just who are you supposed to be?” She had a low, raspy-sounding voice, which didn’t really go with the small, compact body, but it sure did sound womanly, and it sure did set up a little male appreciation-type humming in his blood.
“I figured you would know, ma’am.”
“Why don’t you tell me, anyway?” One of her eyebrows was raised, mistrustful-like, as though he was trying to sell her a steer for stud work.
“Cowboy Charlie, of course,” he said with a smile that usually melted any chill a lady might be sending out. “You can call me just plain Charlie, if you’d like.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, that pretty little mouth of hers set in a real disbelieving line. “And just how did you get here, ‘just plain Charlie’?” She spoke his name like it was something he’d made up.
Which was strange, because she’d been the one to come up with it.
“Well, I was doing what I always do, you know, riding the range on my horse, looking for adventures and folks who need rescuing, and the next thing I knew I was here. Felicity didn’t make it, though.”
“Felicity.”
“My horse. You know. You named him.”
“Him?”
“Yes, ma’am. Felicity’s a he, a gelding actually. But I figured you didn’t know that when you thought up his moniker.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “No I didn—” She cut herself off in mid-sentence then shook her head. She fixed her gaze on him for a long moment, like she was trying to figure out a puzzle. “I’ll say this much. You’re good.”
“Excuse me?”
“Whoever sent you, they chose well. You’re a dead ringer for him.”
Charlie was feeling just a bit confused. “You sent me, ma’am.”
“Did I?” That one suspicious eyebrow shot up again. “And just where did I get you from? I mean, exactly where is that range you were riding on?”
He wondered why she was testing him this way, but figured he’d find out soon enough. “Well, it’s kind of hard to explain. May I come in?”
He reached for the door handle.
“You may not,” she fairly snapped at him. “I don’t let strangers into my house.”
“Oh.”
He thought a bit, pushed his hat back and scratched his head. Then, figuring he might be standing here for a while, he leaned an elbow against the door frame and crossed one booted foot over the other.
A cricket nearby set to chirping, which made Charlie feel a little less strange. There were crickets where he came from, too. And porches, and screen doors—although they had wooden frames back home, not iron ones like this one.
“Okay, now, where is that range?” he repeated, then lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Well, that’s a little complicated. See, there’s a kind of a…well, a place, a section…” He’d never had to put it into words before. “Not here, I mean not here, in your world…”
“So you’re from Heaven?” Now she was being downright sarcastic. With someone else, he might have bristled at her attitude, but he figured this was one part of some kind of test he was being put through, so he’d just have to go along as best he could.
Besides, darned if she wasn’t the cutest, sassiest gal he’d seen in a while. Then there was the way her blouse was open a ways, and how that piece of white lace that peeked out from the opening more than hinted at a sweet pair of—
Charlie coughed and brought himself back to her question. “Heaven? No, not really. But that’s as good a name as any. It’s this special world for what you call fictional characters. We got Oliver Twist back there and Batman, and Romeo and Juliet—poor things are always sighing at each other. And we all sort of…well, kinda live there. Until we’re sent for, I guess,” he finished with a grin. “Which, I figure, is what happened this time.”
Until we’re sent for.
The minute the stranger said those words, Cassie felt an icy shiver skitter up and down her spine, and its effect was terrifying. Mostly because she was starting to believe this guy. No! She shook her head. No. She must be in a dream. Or the butt of some bizarre joke.
But she’d meant what she’d said: the man was good. Really a pro. Exactly as she’d pictured Cowboy Charlie, exactly as she’d drawn him, down to the small dimple on one side of his mouth and the way his sun-streaked hair flapped attractively over his forehead.
Truth be told, she’d always been a little in love with her creation, fictional though he was. She’d invented him not just for Trish but for herself. A fantasy man, one with all the historically classic, manly characteristics. Strength. Trustworthiness. Protectiveness. A hard worker, honest and dependable.
And sexy, too. That part had definitely been for her, not Trish.
A sexy man for her dream life, which was a far cry from the difficult, complex, real world she inhabited day to day.
A fantasy man was the only kind she’d allow entrance into her life. After her late husband, Teddy—a sweet, well-intentioned-but-unreliable man—Cassie had been in no hurry for anyone new to love. Thus Cowboy Charlie: the perfect—not in real life but perfect nevertheless—classic hero.
Gazing at him now, she had to fight the sudden urge to invite him in, whoever he was. He was as appealing as anything she’d seen in a long, long time.
But good sense took over. One did not open one’s door to a strange man. Especially not at night. And not with her precious daughter sleeping upstairs.
Still, he wasn’t the least bit threatening, and Cassie had pretty good instincts that way. There was something comforting about his presence. He felt like…Cowboy Charlie, down to that scar at the edge of his right eyebrow, the one he’d gotten in the tussle with a knife-wielding bank robber down in Baja.
No! This time the icy shiver that zipped through her veins made her jump. Charlie hadn’t run into a knife-wielding bank robber in Baja, not in reality.
Charlie was fictional! She had made up that story, made up all the Cowboy Charlie stories. Had, in fact, made up the man who was standing here now, big as life on her porch and chatting away in his lazy, masculine drawl, easy and likable.
And achingly familiar.
Cassie found her body leaning forward, as though she were being drawn to him. With only the screen door separating them, she could swear she could smell him, and what she took in was a heady mixture of healthy sweat, old leather and pipe tobacco. It was an intoxicating blend.
Wait a minute. Pipe tobacco? Oh that’s right, in a couple of early stories, she’d had Charlie lighting up a pipe as he sat around the campfire with some of his buddies, so that made sense. But she’d cut out the pipe in the later tales, not wanting to send any kind of tobacco-as-soothing message to her daughter. Apparently, this Cowboy Charlie hadn’t gotten the word.
Help, she thought weakly, although she wasn’t sure who the plea was aimed toward. She had to stop this nonsense, pull back from the spell cast by the stranger.
Propping her hands on her hips, she glared at this man, this fake Cowboy Charlie. “Enough,” she said firmly. “The truth now. Who sent you?”
He frowned, then removed his elbow from the door frame and stood up straight. “You did, ma’am,” he said politely. “You’re Miz Nevins, right? Cassie Nevins?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded, so Charlie went on. “I’m not really sure, but those spectacles? The ones on the end of your nose? I think they mighta had something to do with it.” He shook his head. “See, this is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. Now, I’ve heard tales, about others who’ve left, you know, and it was because they were needed, real bad. They were sent for because that person who needed them? Well, that person did something to bring it about, to…make it happen. I’m not real clear on this, as I said, but in the back of my head, there’s this idea that it’s connected to your spectacles.”
When Cassie continued to stare at him with an expression of pure confusion, he went on talking, hoping he’d light on the words that would help her understand, so she could be more peaceful than she seemed.
“Maybe it’s something like Aladdin did—we got him back home, too. Like rubbing a magic bottle? Or when you wish on a star? You must have done something like that.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry. I wish I knew more. I’m kind of new at this myself.”
“I did something?”
He nodded. “I’m pretty sure that before I left, well, before I was lifted, I guess you’d call it, out of my world and into this one, I had a picture in my head of—” he pointed “—those spectacles.” He finished his explanation with an apologetic smile that made his eyebrows turn up at the bridge of his nose. He’d done the best he could; now he’d wait to see if she understood.
As the cowboy pointed, Cassie realized she was still wearing the unstylish turquoise reading glasses. She pulled them off, folded them up and stuck them in the pocket of her blouse. It was then she grasped the fact that when she’d been preparing for her bath, she’d unbuttoned her blouse halfway down her chest.
Which was how it had remained, for the entire conversation with this man. Dear God.
Feeling heat suffuse her cheeks, she quickly remedied the situation, but had some trouble meeting his gaze as she did.
“They sure are funny looking, aren’t they?” the cowboy said.
Her head snapped up. “What’s funny looking?”
“The spectacles.”
“Oh, yes. A true laugh riot,” Cassie muttered.
“Maybe they’re magic. You wished I was real, and I guess you really wished hard, because—” he spread his palms “—here I am.”
You wished I was real. His simple words stunned her once again. Her previous seminaked state forgotten, Cassie could only stare at the man on her porch. Surely this couldn’t be. He was spinning a yarn, yes that was it. That had to be it. He’d seen the ugly glasses perched on her nose and had come up with this whole, ludicrous explanation.
Except how did he know about the wish she’d made not five minutes ago, in jest of course. How could he know? Did he read minds? Was that it?
She closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. She was dreaming, she told herself. She had to be. Even though the man on her porch, chatting easily like an old friend, seemed to be flesh and blood, down to the smell of pipe tobacco.
“So, I reckon I’ll be with you for a while,” he went on. “Until I finish helping you out, of course.”
She opened her eyes again, but she was struck speechless, so all she could do was stare at him and shake her head in wonder.
“And I sure don’t mean to be rude,” he went on, “but I had to travel quite a far piece, and I have a powerful thirst. May I trouble you for a glass of water?”
He waited for her answer, but Cassie was unable to say anything at the moment.
Deterred not in the least, he went on. “Are you sure I can’t come in? I’m plum tuckered out. I can bunk down on your davenport, if you’d like.” He spread his hands and grinned the Cowboy Charlie grin she’d invented for him, based on the way Brad Pitt looked when he was feeling cocky. It was a smile that invited you to be in on the joke with him, the one that always brought sunshine to a dreary outlook.
She shook her head until she was sure her brains were back in place. Then she stood ramrod straight.
Enough!
Either he was insane or she was. Either way, it was time to end this.
“Listen to me, Cowboy Charlie, or whoever you are,” she said with newfound strength and purpose. “If you’re fictional, you don’t get tired and you don’t need any water.”
“But—”
She refused to let him continue. “And no, you cannot stay here,” she added indignantly, positive that someone had slipped her a hallucinogenic drug or that she was in a deep dream state and would wake in the morning, back to her old self again. “In fact,” she added for emphasis, “good night!”
Ignoring the confused look on the stranger’s face, she closed the door and double locked it, clicked off the porch light and stomped up the stairs.
There! she thought. That was telling him!
She was probably sleepwalking—it was the only explanation that made sense—but it was time to seek the safety of her bed.
In the morning he’d be gone for sure.
Chapter Two
The phone rang, followed by Trish complaining, followed by a knock at the front door. All she needed, Cassie thought, on the verge of screaming, was for a bomb to go off. Then her life would be complete.
Setting the bowl of cereal down in front of her daughter with a bang, she picked up the phone and barked into it, “Hold on.” She glared resolutely at Trish. “You know I can’t hear you when you whine.”
“But I don’t like oatmeal, Mommy,” her daughter whined, and pushed the cereal away.
“It’s all we have this morning, so get over it. Yes?” she said into the phone, then pushed the bowl of cereal back before her daughter. “Not interested,” she said to the telemarketer.
“That’s a shame,” an overly bright young voice replied, “because—”
Cassie hung up before she got to hear about the shame. “Where is it written,” she said to no one in particular, “that just because I have a telephone I’m fair game?”
“Do I have to eat this, Mommy?” Trish asked again.
“You betcha.”
Cassie was aware that she was acting and sounding cranky. But it had been a rough night, she had a headache that took up all available space behind her eye sockets—including her brain, she was sure—and the bright sunlight pouring in through the missing slats of the kitchen window blinds was directed straight at her eyes, as though she’d been purposely targeted by the sun gods.
She poured herself another cup of coffee and took a slug. “I overslept and need to get dressed for work, honey,” she went on, forcing her voice to be more gentle, “so eat up before the car pool gets here.”
“But—”
“No buts. Do it.”
Insistent knocking at the door made Cassie jump. Oops. She’d managed to forget that someone had already knocked once, just seconds ago. She glanced at the wall clock. It was ten minutes early for the car pool, but Helen Wasserman, whose turn it was today, was one of those chirpy, “better early than late” type-A personalities that Cassie positively loathed.
“Eat,” she ordered her pouting daughter. “I’ll tell Helen she’ll just have to wait a couple of minutes.”
Determined to check her testiness before she got to the door—after all, it wouldn’t do to unload on the poor woman whose only sin was a terror of being tardy—Cassie hurried to the front door. Before she opened it, she made sure her robe was tied. Then, forcing a broad smile onto unwilling cheek muscles, she pulled open the door.
The smile left her face right away. In fact, her mouth dropped open, wide as the door, at the sight on her porch.
It was him. Again.
Or still.
Cowboy Charlie, in person, back for a repeat performance.
His appearance this morning was rumpled, and he needed a shave. But so what? Despite her bad mood, she’d have had to be comatose not to observe how to-drool-over sexy the man was.
His sun-streaked hair flopped on his forehead. That crooked smile deepened the laugh lines around his Paul Newman eyes. He was tall and slim and sturdy, and possessed more animal charisma than ought to be allowed.
She’d half convinced herself that she’d dreamed him up the night before, some combination of stress and overactive imagination at work. Cassie sighed. Well, there went that theory.
Whoever he was, he was no apparition, that was for sure. One of her friends, that had to be the explanation. A few of them knew all about her Cowboy Charlie stories. Sandy, or Margie, or some other well-meaning person had decided to play a little trick on her, bring a little fun into her stressful life. This, she decided, seemed like sound reasoning, even if the likelihood of finding an exact replica of her Charlie—as exact as this one was—had to be pretty remote.
But still, the whole thing had to be a joke. And she’d go along with the joke, by heaven, because Cassie had a sense of humor.
Like that she found herself relaxing in his easygoing, attractive presence. Not that whoever was responsible wasn’t going to pay, big-time, she amended. Still, for the moment she’d play her part and have a little fun at the same time. And why not? After all, the man was, quite simply, impossible to resist.
Her mind made up, instead of taking his head off, when Charlie smiled, Cassie found herself smiling back.
“Morning,” he said cheerfully. “How’re we doing today?”
“We’re just ducky,” she said, chuckling. “And you?”
There, Charlie thought. He’d suspected that the lady’s smile would warm up her pretty face, would bring that merry sparkle to her eyes, and darned if he hadn’t been right. “I sure could use that drink, ma’am. I spent the night in that shed behind your house, and there wasn’t any water that I could find.”
“You slept in my garage?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She bit the edge of her lip, but he could tell she wasn’t really upset anymore. She wore a long robe, one that outlined that cute little body of hers, letting him know that the curves he remembered from the night before were real. He wondered briefly if he was supposed to be noticing her body and the nice rasp of her voice, if that was part of his quest. But whether or not he was supposed to, he was a man, after all. Some things were not in his control.
Folding her arms over her chest, she asked, but with a smile, “Okay, truth time. Who sent you?”
Uh-oh. We’re back to that again. Charlie pushed his hat back and scratched his head, trying to tamp down the small spurt of irritation her question aroused. “I thought we got that straightened out last night,” he said, determined to be patient, even though his mouth felt like sawdust. “You did.”
“Right. Okay, I sent for you.” She sighed, shook her head. “But if I tell you I don’t have time to play this morning as I’m running late, would you be willing to go back to wherever it is you came from?”
He removed his Stetson and smoothed back his hair, something he always did when he needed a moment to ponder a situation. “I’m not sure I can do that,” he told her, setting the hat back on his head. “All I know is you called me, I’m here and I’m supposed to rescue you, and that’s about it.”
At the perplexed expression on her face, he added, with a shrug, “I’m sure sorry. I don’t know any more than you do what the rules are. I’m afraid the whole thing isn’t up to me. Or you. So, I figure we both better accept it and just get on with it.”
“‘Just get on with it,”’ she repeated.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She studied him for a while, seemed to be deciding something big, then, like that, she sighed, opened the screen door and stepped aside. “Put the guns down—” she pointed to his holster and six-shooters “—and then come on in.”
“They aren’t real bullets, you know.”
“There are bullets in there?”
He popped open the chamber and peered inside. “Not anymore,” he told her, taken aback by the fact. He twirled both empty chambers, to show her.
“Good. Put the guns down, anyway, all right? This is a gun-free household.”
He did as she’d requested, removing his holster and setting it down on a small bench by the door. Then he crossed the threshold just as she said, “The least I can do, I guess, is to offer you a glass of water. If Margie or Sandy or Rosa put you up to this, you’re probably harmless, right?”
“Well, ma’am,” he offered, “I don’t know as I’ve ever been called harmless, exactly. But I know how to behave myself. My mamma made sure all us boys had manners.”
“I’m sure she did. I’m Cassie, by the way.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know.”
It felt nice and cool inside and he was grateful. It was hotter than Hades out there already, even though it was only morning. He gazed down at her. My, she was a little one. Fiery, for all that, but still, little.
“And you can cut out the ‘ma’am’ stuff,” she said, propping her hands on her hips. “I’m not old enough yet.” Grinning one more time, she added, “Though I’m rapidly getting there.”
She turned and he followed her, boots clicking and spurs jangling loudly as he trod her wooden floors. But he didn’t really pay any attention to the sound, because he was watching the way her shapely hips moved inside her robe. And his nose was picking up the scent of—what? Some kind of spring flowers. Lilacs, maybe. It floated behind her and right into his nostrils. The scent of a woman. This woman. Cassie smelled downright savory.
In the kitchen a girl child sat at a small round table, making a face at a bowl of mush. She raised her head when her momma walked in with him following. Her eyes grew huge with wonder as she stared at him.
“Mommy!” she said. “It’s Cowboy Charlie!”
“Morning, miss,” he said with a tip of his hat.
“Mommy!” she squealed again, her high-pitched voice verging on affecting his hearing. The little girl stood, looking excitedly from him to her mother and back again. “It’s Cowboy Charlie! He’s here!”
“No, it’s not him,” Cassie answered, taking a glass from a shelf and turning on the tap. “Not really. Well, yes and no. Oh, heck.” She shrugged her shoulders, seeming to surrender any attempt to make sense. “Whatever. Charlie, meet Trish.”
He offered his hand to the child, who took it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Trish,” he told her solemnly, but the little girl’s face lit up with a grin that made her look just like a fairer-haired, rounder-faced version of her mother.
“Me, too. You’re my hero.”
“Trish, eat your oatmeal,” Cassie said.
Indicating with her head that Charlie should sit across from her daughter, Cassie poured him a glass of water, then set it down in front of his chair. He was dying to drink and wouldn’t have minded resting his feet, but he waited for her to take a seat.
Instead, she selected a cup from another shelf and poured what looked like coffee from a silver-colored machine on the counter next to the sink. “You like it black, right?”
“As tar.”
“Sorry. It’s strong, but not quite that strong.”
A horn sounded outside. Cassie turned to her daughter, who was still grinning at Charlie. “That’s your car pool, honey. I guess you don’t have to eat your oatmeal after all, lucky you. Take some oatmeal cookies with you.”
“But, Cowboy Charlie’s here,” the little girl said, the sparkle in her eyes bright with happiness and wonder. “I want to stay.”
“I’ll be here when you get back, little lady,” he told her.
“Mom?” Trish said with a squeak of joy that made him wince. “Will he be here?”
“We’ll see,” Cassie said.
At the exact same moment Charlie opined, with a wink, “I sure will.”
The little girl looked from her mother to him, then decided to go with his answer. “Goody!” She clapped her hands. “Wait till I tell everyone!” She grabbed a few cookies from a jar on the counter, seized a small pack with straps from the back of her chair and ran out the door.
Frowning, Cassie set both cups of coffee down on the table. Alone at last. She noticed that Charlie waited to sit until she did, and wondered when was the last time anyone had displayed actual manners. It felt quaint…and kind of nice.
She watched as he downed the water quickly, his Adam’s apple darting up and down with each gulp. His hands were deeply tanned, his fingers callused. As she sipped her coffee, she studied him, ignoring the attraction she felt toward him in an attempt at objectivity.
In the morning light he was even more the embodiment of Cowboy Charlie than he had appeared to be last night. Everything about him indicated that he worked with those sun-browned hands, that he spent days on the trail, in the open air. She wondered about his background, how much he was getting paid for this little impersonation, and frowned as she tried to think which of her friends had money for this kind of thing.
And why whoever it was had decided to play a trick on her in the first place.
“You shouldn’t have said that to Trish,” she admonished. “About your being here when she got home.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll get her hopes up. She thinks you’re real, as opposed to me, who knows you aren’t.”
He frowned, obviously perplexed and just a little bit impatient with her. “I thought we’d gotten that all worked out last night. I am real. You can touch me if you’d like.” He put his hand out toward her. “Flesh and blood, just like most men.”
Not even close to most men, at least the ones I know, she could have said, but didn’t. Instead she set her coffee cup down, then folded both arms across her chest.
“Look,” she said firmly, “I may have some Irish heritage and my grandmother may have filled my head with tales of faeries, curses and Fate, but that was then, this is now. I’m a grown-up, and I rebel against being asked to accept some, some…creature of my imagination turning into flesh and blood reality. Okay? It isn’t possible, it didn’t happen, and that’s it!”
There. If that didn’t get through to him, she didn’t know what would.
But he didn’t react, not really, except for a slight tension around the jawline that disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared. No, he just shrugged, sat there and drank down her coffee, a thoughtful look on his handsome, weather-beaten face.
Had she hurt his feelings? she wondered suddenly. Did he mind being called a creature? What in the world was going on? And, more immediate, what in the world was she going to do with him?
“Are you hungry or anything?” she found herself asking him, by way of soothing any feathers she might have ruffled. At once she was disgusted with herself. God, she was such a wuss. Every time she forced herself to act with firmness and strength, in the next moment, she usually wound up taking care of whoever she’d been firm and strong with.
“Don’t bother yourself, ma’am—I mean, Cassie. I’ll get myself some grub later on.”
She reached behind her for the cookie jar. Setting it in front of her, she opened the top and handed him a couple of oatmeal cookies, which he accepted, she noticed.
“Thanks,” he said, then gobbled them down, like someone who’d been deprived of food for a while. He really needed this impersonation job, she figured, wondering again at his background and what had brought him to this point.
Both cookies were disposed of in a matter of seconds, after which he said, “You’re a real good baker.”
“No I’m not. Other people bake. I shop. There’s more, if you’d like. Or I can scramble up some eggs.”
She began to rise, but he stayed her with a gesture. “No thank you. I meant what I said. I’ll eat later. Now I need you to tell me what I can do for you.”
He seemed so sincere, so earnest, she almost laughed, mainly because it crossed her mind that it would be nice if she could believe in fairy tales, in someone sent from another plane of existence to help her.
Maybe she had believed at Trish’s age, but the early death of her mother, followed two years later by her father’s death, had taken away her childhood long before it should have ended, along with any faith in either magic or fantasy. A maiden aunt had raised her to the best of her abilities, but she’d been a sour and strict woman. Cassie had left her home right after high school and had never gone back.
She’d met Teddy in junior college, at age nineteen, married him three months later, had Trish at twenty and been widowed at twenty-six, nearly two years ago.
Since then there had been no room for fairy tales, very little room for much of anything except the day-to-day struggle to just get by. So now this man in cowboy duds sat across from her, all earnestness and manners, asking what he could do for her?
The obvious first answer came to mind. Money would help. Her late husband, who had done enough dreaming for both of them, had always been into some kind of flaky financial scheme. In fact, he’d put the house up as collateral on the final project, something to do with windmills and solar power. It had failed, of course, as had all the others. After that, he’d been so distracted, he’d accidentally stepped into the path of a large truck and been mowed down like a weed.
Cassie hadn’t had the luxury of weeping all the tears she’d felt inside; there was a five-year-old child to raise and bills to pay. There had been no insurance, no savings. Only debt. This small structure in the tiny town of Yatesboro, Nevada, twenty miles outside of Reno, was all that she and Trish had left, and every month they seemed on the verge of losing it.
There was never enough money, not for extras like ballet lessons for Trish or art classes for Cassie, so she could hone the skills to translate what she saw in her head onto paper. Her job at a local dress shop, while enjoyable enough, was not a high-paying one, but she had no training in anything that might bring in a better salary.
Short of winning the lottery—which she couldn’t even afford to enter—she didn’t see a way out.
Not that she’d given up hope, of course. She never did that, not even on grumpy mornings like this, not even metaphorically tied to the railroad tracks and the steam from the oncoming train filling the air above her. Somehow she’d survived tragic childhood losses with hope intact. It Isn’t Over Till It’s Over, was her motto.
But what she knew was that hope had to be based in reality, on what was possible. Not on dreams and what-ifs.
Not on fictional characters being brought to life.
Still, she wished, oh, how she wished, that this Cowboy Charlie was who he said he was, and that he could produce a small pot of gold for her needs.
But she didn’t believe it, not for a second.
“Ma’am?” he said, bringing her back to the moment.
“That’s Cassie,” she reminded him again with a rueful smile as she rose from the table. “And I have to get dressed for work.”
“Oh.”
Rising, as well, Charlie sensed this wasn’t a good time to ask about his living arrangements. While he was doing whatever he was supposed to be doing, he’d have to settle for the garage, he supposed—it sure did seem the davenport was out. And the davenport wasn’t even close to where he’d like to bunk down, which was right next to Cassie, in her own bed.
He drew in a sharp breath. Tarnation. He hadn’t expected there to be these strong feelings when he looked at her, these bodily stirrings. It felt peculiar, somehow, to be experiencing so many potent sensations. There was a hankering for the woman, for sure; that one was at the top of the list. But there were other responses to her. Admiration for her spunk. A feeling of lightness in her presence, happiness almost. A need to protect her.
Then there were all these other human reactions—hunger, thirst, a need to sleep. Just yesterday he’d been fiction, but now he was real.
He didn’t question it, just knew it. Still, it was all new, and he’d have some settling in to do, he figured.
Cassie didn’t accept his human state, not yet. But she would. It was a fact: Cowboy Charlie had been granted temporary personhood. Along with that, he’d also been granted the knowledge that real life was much more complex than his fictional world.
Back home it was simple. The Code of the Old West was to act honorably, work hard, tell the truth and take responsibility. But that might not be enough here. Sure, he’d been sent to, as they’d have said back home, “help the widder woman.”
But he wasn’t back home. To do what he was supposed to do, he’d need to adapt and quickly. It wasn’t only about life versus fiction, it was also about the fact that Cassie’s century was a lot more complicated than his.
He watched as she took both coffee cups to the sink and placed them there. “You’ll have to leave,” she said, following it up quickly with, “Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to get to work and first I have to get dressed. Needless to say I’m not about to do that with you still here.”
“Oh, surely, yes.”
She walked him to the door. It made sense that she didn’t want him in the house while she dressed—she didn’t know him well enough. Not that he’d have minded watching her dress, with her permission, of course, but it looked like that wasn’t in the cards.
She opened the front door. Bright sunshine flooded the entrance, and he remembered the heat outside. “Well then, I’ll just wait for you on the porch, if that’s okay.”
She bit her bottom lip in consternation. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I have a busy day, and I’m sure you have other things to do with your time. Okay?” She offered her hand. “It was nice meeting you.”
Confused again, he took her hand in his. Small and soft, just like he’d imagined. Her skin felt good against his palm and so did the quick surge of desire that shot up his arm and began to spread elsewhere. That surely was one powerful reaction; too powerful.
Abruptly he dropped her hand, then tipped his hat. “Nice meeting you, too,” he said, then walked out into the sunshine.
Cassie closed the door, then leaned back against it. “Whew,” she said aloud, then stared at her hand in wonder. It had tingled at Charlie’s touch. Tingled! My, my, she thought, gazing at the pale skin, shades and shades lighter than Charlie’s, and wondering if it continued to give off the heat she’d felt in that brief few moments of contact.
“My, oh, my,” she said now, climbing the stairs to her bedroom for a quick shower before getting dressed. She had about twelve minutes to get ready, but she used only a little makeup, and her hair did what it wanted to do, whatever else she might intend for it to do, so it was never much trouble.
She paused halfway up the stairs when she realized her heart was pounding loudly and she needed to catch her breath. It wasn’t the stair climbing that had made her heart race and her breathing quicken. No, it was that brief touch from Cowboy Charlie.
Or whatever his name was. For a moment she regretted sending him away. But at least he’d gone. Which was good, she assured herself, continuing her journey upstairs. Yes, much better…for all concerned.
She made it back down thirteen minutes later, which wasn’t bad. After retrieving her purse from the hall table, she grabbed a ring of keys from a hook and pulled open the door.
No Charlie.
She admitted to a brief sense of disappointment. Not that she’d expected him to be waiting there, she told herself. Not that she’d wanted him to be waiting there.
No, that wasn’t it. She’d done the right thing, been firm, set her boundaries, let him know that the water and coffee and cookies were all he could expect from her, and that she had a busy life to lead that didn’t include his presence.
She sure had let him know. Good for her.
She closed the door, then used her key to double lock it. When she turned around again, she gasped.
There he was, standing there, big as life. It was as though he’d appeared out of thin air!
Charlie tipped his hat. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, feeling awful as he took in Cassie’s startled reaction. You should never sneak up on a body like that, and he sure hadn’t meant to do that this time.
“Where…where did you come from?” she asked him, her hand on her throat.
“You said not to wait on the porch, so I was over there—” he angled his head to indicate the direction “—at the side of the house.”
“Oh. Well, then,” she said, and let out a deep sigh. He watched as the color returned to her face. “You took me literally then. You didn’t just…materialize from…nowhere?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good,” she said. “I really don’t think my heart could take that.” She seemed to gather herself together and walked purposefully down the two porch steps and onto the path leading to the street, saying, “Well, I’ll be on my way then.”
He followed. She stopped, turned to him again and offered her hand, just as she had done in the house. In the full morning sunlight, he could see tired lines around her eyes, and he had to resist the urge to run a thumb over them to smooth them away. She was too young to look so worn-out.
“You really can go now, Charlie,” she said with a smile. “Thanks for brightening up my day. It was nice meeting you.”
Again her hand was soft, and this time, when she tried to pull it away, he didn’t let it go. “The feeling’s mutual. It’s just, you haven’t told me yet what I’m supposed to do for you.”
“Are we back to that?”
“Never left it.”
She blew out a breath, and one of her bouncy brown curls lifted momentarily off her forehead then settled back into place. He sure did want to see how that healthy looking hair would feel between his fingers, sure did want to touch some more of her skin. But first he needed to get his assignment.
“Right. Fine,” she said, looking from their still-joined hands and back into his gaze. His gut told him she was dismissing both his request and him.
“You can go to the bank,” she said. “That’s First Yatesboro Savings on Main Street. And get them to give me thirty more days on the mortgage. Okay? If you can do that, maybe I’ll believe in Santa Claus. At least, maybe I’ll believe in you.” Gently she pried her hand out of his and walked away.
He watched her sashay off down the walkway and get into her small blue machine. Car. Unbidden, the word came to his head. He might have come from the Old West, but, for some reason, he now knew that was the name for the machine, same as he knew it ran on fuel made from oil pumped out of the ground.
He was getting this thing now, this transformation; clearly, he would have been granted all the knowledge he would need to function in Cassie’s twenty-first-century world.
Now all he had to do was furnish a miracle.
Chapter Three
Frowning, Charlie watched Cassie drive away. Automobiles sure were wondrous things. Some of the newer characters in his world bragged about the inventions in “real” life, and he had to admit a car was convenient—though of course it couldn’t beat Felicity.
So, go to a bank and deal with a mortgage, that was what he was supposed to do for Cassie, was it? Get her a thirty-day extension. Which meant she was short on money.
It was a classic scenario, the little widow woman with child, the wolf, or mortgage holder, at the door, waiting to pounce. It could almost be one of Cassie’s stories. Starring him.
What would she have him do, if this were one of her stories? A scene flashed through his mind involving heading into the bank and pointing his six guns at whoever handled mortgages there….
No, he knew instinctively. They didn’t do things like that nowadays, he didn’t think, not without serious consequences. And besides, like Felicity, his bullets hadn’t made the trip through time and space, either.
Still, he had to take action, and better now than later. First, though, he removed his spurs. They jangled too much and slowed him down. No horse to ride, no spurs necessary.
He took both the spurs and the guns in their holster to the garage and left them there. Then, deep in thought, Charlie began to walk in the direction of the few tall buildings he could see in the distance. He figured those buildings would be the center of town. The business district, that was what it was called. The business district. He rolled the words over on his tongue. Formal sounding words, those.
He walked on paved sidewalks—another first for him—and passed small, modest houses similar to Cassie’s. The lawns were so green, so even. And the houses were so close together, he marveled. You could look into each other’s windows and see all kinds of private acts, he figured. Back home you could get shot for doing that. But not, he assumed, here. Maybe neighbors didn’t look at neighbors? No, more than likely they did, but just pretended not to see.
Where did the folks here have room to grow their vegetables? he wondered. And how could you breathe with your neighbor so close?
First Yatesboro Savings, Cassie had said. He kept an eye out for the sign as he stopped at a cross street named Main. Funny, there was a Main Street back home. Did every town have a main street? It warmed him, this small connection. Maybe things weren’t that different here, after all.
Small machines—cars—like Cassie’s but with different shapes and colors, passed him by. No horses, though. He didn’t see one, which made him kind of sad. Were there horses anymore in Cassie’s world?
He was crossing Main to get to the other side, when he heard a loud screech and a man’s voice yelling, “Hey, cowboy! Can’t you see it’s red?” The car was right close to him and the driver looked pretty mad.
Red? Charlie gazed around him, then up at the sky, and sure enough there was a box hanging in the middle of the street. It had three circles on it, and one of them was red. He watched as that color went out and the one at the bottom it turned green. Other folks joined him now crossing the road.
“Sorry,” he called out to the irate driver. Another new rule to learn. Red meant you stopped and green meant you could go. And yellow must mean to pay attention, he told himself. This new way of thinking was slowly seeping in and part of it must come from Cassie’s belief that he knew about modern life.
He began to notice the other folks now, probably because in this part of town there were a lot more of them. His gaze landed on a couple of women in real short skirts, their legs bare as a newborn, their hips swaying back and forth as they went. A right pleasant sight, Charlie thought with a smile. Did they work for the town madame he wondered, or were they what back home they’d call “independents”? He turned his gaze to the other side of the street; there were a lot of women dressed like those two, but a lot who weren’t. Some wore pants, just like men, although they didn’t look like men. No, sir.
Now he passed a row of stores, some of them with familiar words on the windows, like Druggist and Bar, others with funny names like Computer Closet and Beanie Babies’ Barn. He didn’t know what computers or Beanie Babies were, but he figured it went along with modern times, and if he needed to know about it, he would.
Up ahead a couple streets, it looked like the buildings just stopped. In the distance he could see a highway, fields, mountains rising tall into the sky. They looked a lot like his mountains, and Charlie experienced a sudden wave of yearning to be back home, back in his simple existence.
He shook himself out of that one, right quick. He had a job to do, a woman to help. A woman he liked very much, as a matter of fact, and who didn’t exist back home. Not in any real sense, anyway.
Pausing, he looked around him. Yes, he decided, for a modern town, it was a pretty little place, no doubt about it.
And wouldn’t you know it, he had stopped right in front of the sign he’d been looking for: First Yatesboro Savings. He removed his hat and scratched his head. Here it was, the job he was supposed to do. Get that mortgage extended, give Cassie a little time to earn more wages.
Or maybe he could do that for her. He would do more than buy her time, he’d come up with enough money to ease her burden. How, he didn’t know, but it would come to him. Squaring his shoulders, Cowboy Charlie headed into the bank.
Cassie had several responsibilities at the dress shop. She helped customers, was backup for the cashier, straightened racks of clothing. But because she had an eye for color and fabric, her biggest responsibility was the window display. At the moment that was where she was, in the shop window, draping a paisley shawl over one of the mannequin’s shoulders, when she happened to glance out on the street.
Charlie stood in front of the bank, studying it and scratching his head as he did. Good Lord, she thought with a smile, he’s actually going to do it. Or try to, anyway.
What would happen? she wondered. Would he get anywhere? As she rearranged the vase of silk geraniums she’d set on the small table near the mannequin’s hand, humming a little tune to herself all the while, she let her mind drift for a few moments.
She was surprised by the way Charlie’s determination to help warmed her insides. It was a nice feeling, she realized, to have someone—wherever he came from—in her corner, taking her part. It had been such a long time. Most days she woke up with a hollow, lonely feeling, and something about Charlie’s presence this morning, if she were honest with herself, had diminished that feeling, made her feel less alone.
And now, her champion—she chuckled as the word came into her head, but there it was—her knight in shining armor and a Stetson, was across the street, doing battle in her name. Fanciful image, she knew it, but that was the mental picture that formed when she thought about Charlie.
She hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed if he didn’t get anywhere with the bank. Charlie might be big and strong, but he hadn’t yet met the loan officer in charge. When he did, he would find out what he was up against.
Cassie’s hand stopped in midair. The loan manager, Ronald Moffit, was not exactly a warm, welcoming type; how would he react to Charlie? Suddenly she had a bad feeling about having issued her challenge. What if Charlie got thrown out? In fact, what if he made the whole situation worse? Uh-oh, she thought, coming down from daydreaming with a thump.
“Lorna,” she called out, hopping down from the display window and into the shop, “I’m taking my break.” Quickly, before anyone noticed that she’d only been on the job for a half hour, she pulled open the front door and, dodging traffic, made her way across the street.
“You’re here on behalf of whom?”
Charlie shifted his weight as he stood before the desk he’d been directed to, the one belonging to the loan officer. He didn’t care for the man or his attitude. First of all, he was not more than mid-thirties, but was dried-up looking, like he’d died a while back and no one had bothered to tell him. He spoke through his nose in a way that grated on Charlie’s nerves. His skin was pasty white, and what he had hairwise was thinning.
Judging a man by his appearance wasn’t a fair thing to do, and Charlie knew it. He kept it as pleasant sounding as he could when he asked, “Okay if I sit?”
“Why don’t you tell me your business first.”
He felt his jaw tighten. Moffit was the sneering type, just like those college fellas Charlie ran into back on the range. The kind who came out west for adventure and who figured as Charlie hadn’t gone past grammar school and dealt with horses all day, they had to talk real slow and careful to him, just in case he was a little lacking in the brain department. Charlie didn’t like being looked down on. It was most definitely one of those little character traits that set his temper on the boil.
Rein it in, he told himself. He was here to help Cassie. He would contain himself, if it was the last thing he did.
“I’m here on behalf of Miz Cassie Nevins,” he said friendly-like.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Nevins.” The man gave a superior sniff. “We own her home.”
“That right? I thought you owned the mortgage.”
With a condescending little smile, Moffit waved a hand. “Semantics. And is that the matter you’ve come to discuss?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here.”
Moffit glanced at his watch. “I have an appointment in a couple of minutes.”
He didn’t invite Charlie to sit, which he knew was an insult. He shifted his weight from one boot to the other, careful to keep his hands relaxed at his side. They kept wanting to curl up into fists, and that might not look real neighborly.
He stared at the loan officer. In the jacket pocket of his three-piece suit a yellow handkerchief stuck out, its edges folded neatly. Yellow, Charlie figured, like the butt-ugly coward he was.
“I figured,” Charlie said easily, “between the two of us, we could figure out the best way to help her keep that little house.”
Moffit eyed him up and down, then sniffed again. “Do you have some sort of documentation, some letter, that allows you to speak for her? I can’t believe you’re her lawyer, although I suppose with Mrs. Nevins, anything is possible.”
“What exactly to do you mean by that remark?” Charlie’s fists curled automatically. The man was making some kind of disparaging comment about Cassie, and that was not something he’d stand still for.
“Charlie! There you are!” Charlie was taken by surprise as Cassie came up behind him and grabbed one of his clenched fists. Good thing, too. One fist had been about to find its way to the pointy, smug chin that belonged to Mr. Yellow Handkerchief.
“Good day, Mrs. Nevins,” the loan officer said.
“Hello, Mr. Moffit.” Cassie was being cheerful at the same time she was tugging at Charlie’s hand, like she was trying to signal him in some way. “I see you’ve met Charlie,” she went on brightly.
“He said he was here representing you.”
“Well—” Her chuckle sounded as false to Charlie as a set of store bought teeth. “Um, yes, I suppose he is…in a way. He’s my…good friend. An old acquaintance, you might say. And when he found out that money was a little tight and I was going to have trouble with this month’s payment, he just thought he’d come here and see if there was anything we could do about it.” She chuckled again. “Old friends, like I said.”
My, Charlie thought, she did run on and on when she was nervous, and this Moffit fella made her downright fidgety.
Moffit frowned at her, then at Charlie, then back at her. He steepled his pale fingers on the desktop. “I’m afraid you’ve been late too often.”
“Twice. And only three days each time.”
“Nevertheless I can’t see that we’ll be able to make any accommodation. After all, you signed a contract for a line of credit—”
“No, my late husband did that, as I’ve explained, without my knowing it.”
That smug smile again, a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yes, well it’s the same thing, isn’t it. Believe me, we’d rather not take back the house, it’s not worth a lot to us, but rules are rules.”
Charlie had about had enough of this man’s bullying. “When’s this money due?”
“Last month’s was due six days ago, but is officially overdue on Friday. That’s three days from now. If we don’t have that payment plus the current one, plus a late penalty payment by—” he consulted a desk calendar “—next Tuesday, that’s after the Fourth of July holiday, well, I’m afraid we’ll be discussing foreclosure proceedings.”
Charlie began to speak, but Cassie tugged at his hand again. “I understand,” she said.
That old familiar sense of shame washed over Cassie. Oh, how she hated being in debt, hated owing anyone for anything. Her life with Teddy had been all about keeping one step ahead of creditors, and she was sick to death of it.
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