Cowboy Enchantment

chapter Three


Hank ignored the blinking light on his answering machine as he stared morosely at the tiny white button in his left hand and the pink-checked pinafore in his right. Actually two buttons had popped off this garment, which was one of his favorites for Kaylie to wear because it was frilly and cute and didn’t need ironing. Hank hated ironing. And he had no idea how to go about sewing on a button.

He stuck his head around the corner to check on Kaylie in her alcove. She slept soundly in her crib, her bottom up in the air, her binky in her mouth.

It occurred to him that he could ask Cord McCall, the ranch manager, to be alert for sounds from his small apartment. Cord was a loner, kept mostly to himself, but he lived next door in similar quarters, a door opened between them, and the baby monitor would alert Cord if Kaylie woke.

Although his main purpose in going to the Big House was to ask Justine to show him how to sew on a button, Hank thought it might be a good idea to stop by to see her, maybe apologize for his anger this afternoon. Not only that, but Erica Strong might have heard every word of his argument with Justine, and the last thing he needed if he wanted to repair his relationship with his sister was for Erica to complain.

After Cord agreed to listen for the baby, Hank erased the answering-machine message tape without listening to it. The message was probably from his boss calling one more time for advice on how to snatch the Gillooley communications deal out from under the nose of MacNee, Levy and Ashe, a problem that would have consumed him at one time. But since he couldn’t care less about things at Rowbotham-Quigley these days, Hank set off at a fast lope with the two buttons clenched in his fist and the pinafore hanging from his back pocket for lack of any place more suitable to carry it. As usual, Hank walked in the heavy-timbered front door at the Big House without knocking.

But it wasn’t his sister who was there to greet him or even the dog. It was Erica Strong, who was leafing through a book from the gallery bookcase.

She blinked at him under the overhead light, her eyes wide and owlish behind her glasses. She seemed alarmed at his precipitous arrival, his bursting through the door without knocking, and he supposed he didn’t blame her.

“I’m looking for Justine,” he blurted, taken by surprise as he was.

Erica narrowed her eyes. “She’s out.”

“Out?”

“Justine was on her way out to walk the dog when she was called over to the kitchen. Something to do with someone named Pavel.” In that moment, for some reason he pictured her the way she’d been in the stable earlier, when he had confronted her and spoken so gruffly. She had triumphed over her initial uncertainty about his boorishness by drawing an attitude around her like a protective cloak, and despite his annoyance, he’d admired that. Well, since then he’d had time to begin to feel ashamed of the way he acted.

“Oh, Pavel is the chef. He’s probably threatening to quit again. And Murphy?”

“Went with Justine. I’ll be glad to give her a message if you like,” she said. She was a small woman, fine-boned, her eyebrows neatly arched as if she hung constantly on the brink of surprise. Her skin was clear, her eyes bright, and the top of her head came only to his jawline. He had the totally irrelevant thought that if he bent forward, he could kiss her forehead without any trouble at all.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll wait for her,” he said. “I need a book to read. And by the way, my name’s Hank Milling. We haven’t met properly.”

Her eyes behind the glasses were solemn. “No, I suppose we haven’t. But Mr. Milling—”

“Hank,” he said.

“Hank, if you really don’t want to teach me how to ride, you don’t have to.”

“I’ve already factored you into my schedule,” Hank said, trying to sound friendly. He was determined to make amends for the way he’d acted earlier.

“I see,” she said. She tipped her head slightly to one side, and he found something very arresting about the way she was looking at him. It reminded him of Kaylie, which was ridiculous because Erica was a grown woman and Kaylie was seven months old. Maybe it was that this woman was displaying an interest in him, or that, in her own way, she seemed to be hanging on every word he said. Whatever it was, it made him want to know her better.

He nodded toward the book in her hand. “I hope you found a good book.”

She seemed surprised that he had commented about it. “It’s a Zane Grey book, Woman of the Frontier.”

“I’ve read it. When I was a kid I owned a complete set of his work.”

“You did?” She started to smile, seemed to think better of it, and then, as if she was unable to stop it, the smile spread across her face, transforming her completely. He liked the way her eyes sparkled, the curve of her bottom lip, the way she lit up all over.

“My favorite Zane Grey book was Riders of the Purple Sage.”

“Mine is this one,” she said, tapping the book she held with a forefinger. “It’s not written to the Western formula like most of Zane Grey’s books. It’s more a woman’s story, and this is the latest edition, which restores pages cut from the original. It was Zane Grey’s books, all of them, that got me fascinated by the West.”

He grinned down at her, unexpectedly feeling a kinship with her. “You know, maybe I’ll reread Purple Sage.”

“It’s over there. Next to the big green one.”

When he went to pull the book off the shelf, he dropped one of the pinafore buttons. It rolled under a chair, and he thought he saw where it landed—on the side of the chair near the window.

She asked him what he’d dropped and he told her, then set the book on the table and bent to look for the button. “I know it’s under here,” he said, groping beneath the chair skirt.

“I think it went slightly to the left,” she told him.

“I don’t feel it.” He felt silly, groveling on the floor.

“Maybe it rolled out at the back of the chair.” She went around the chair and said, “Here it is.” She handed the button to him.

“It’s from my daughter’s pinafore.” Sheepishly he yanked the garment from his back pocket, realizing that the whole time he’d been talking to Erica Strong, the pink-checked fabric had been waving from his pocket like a flag.

“Oh, you have a daughter,” she said, but he couldn’t figure out from her tone whether she thought a child was a plus or a minus.

Not that it mattered. But something expanding in his chest, some kind of air forcing out the other negative feelings, made him want to please her. It was a strange urge, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

“Yes, her name is Kaylie. She’s seven months old. And I don’t know anything about sewing on buttons.” So help him, he felt his face flushing. Why this should happen, he didn’t know. He wasn’t embarrassed. Yet something about this woman was causing him to act like a bumbling idiot.

“Well,” Erica said briskly, “I can sew on the button for you.”

“I couldn’t ask you—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, I’ll teach you how to do it yourself. You know that old saying—‘Give a man a fish, and you feed one man. Teach a man to fish—’”

“‘—and you feed a hundred,”’ he finished. “Though I sure do hope I don’t have to sew buttons on a hundred pinafores.”

She looked up at him and smiled. That lit her eyes from within, but in a different way than laughter did.

“The only thing is, you’ll need to show me where Justine keeps a needle and thread.”

“That’s easy. Come with me.” He led her through the house to a utility room where there were a washer and dryer and a small closet where his sister stored her sewing machine and supplies.

He dug in a plastic box and produced white thread, a packet of needles and scissors. Then he pulled a small rocking chair closer to a floor lamp so that Erica could sit.

“Watch closely,” she said. She threaded the needle and showed him how to knot the thread.

“Then you bring the needle up from the bottom of the fabric,” she said, demonstrating. He leaned against the washing machine and watched with his arms folded across his chest as she began sewing on a button, her fingers moving deftly as she plied the needle. She made it look easy.

“Is sewing a hobby of yours?” he asked after a while.

The question seemed to surprise and amuse her. “No, I wouldn’t say that. My mother made sure that my sisters and I knew how to sew on buttons and turn up hems before we went away to college.”

“How many sisters?”

“Two,” she said. “Now watch how I make a knot when the button is secure.” She looped the thread and guided the needle through it before snipping off the thread.

“Justine said that Charmaine Strong is your sister,” he said.

She shot him a quick look. “Yes.”

He shook his head. “I’ve seen pictures of her. She’s beautiful.”

Erica tried not to let the admiration in his voice upset her. People had always said how beautiful Charmaine was, and it was true. But sometimes, implied in their comments was the secondary thought And you’re not.

Most of the time it didn’t bother her. She’d grown immune to people’s surprise that she could have such a beautiful sister. Long ago she had decided that those people didn’t count and didn’t deserve a place in her life. She knew she would never be as beautiful as Char or their older sister, Abby, a former Miss Rhode Island, and that was okay. She was intelligent, was known as the smart sister. She’d decided early on that if she couldn’t be gorgeous, she would collect academic degrees and hold a fantastic job that provided lots of perks. So there.

But now, for this cowboy, for her cowboy, she wanted nothing so much as to be beautiful. To make him want her. To have him slavering after her with lust in his heart.

“Why don’t you try sewing on the next one?” she suggested, holding out the spool and the needle.

She cut the thread and handed him the pinafore, then stood up so that he could sit in the chair.

Hank had heard the expression “all thumbs” for most of his life but had never had it applied to him before. The needle was slippery and the eye so small that he couldn’t find it with the end of the thread.

“Need some help?” She had the softest voice, and there was something alluring in the tone of it.

He looked up at her, ashamed to feel so helpless. Who would have thought that sewing on a button could be so hard? Who would have thought, for that matter, that being the sole parent of a baby girl could make a grown man feel so inadequate?

“Here,” she said, bending over him, and he caught a whiff of the fragrance of…honeysuckle? Did she really smell like honeysuckle? Every cell of his body went on alert at this whiff of his favorite scent, and he leaned a little closer to her. By that time, however, she had edged nearer to the lamp and was threading the needle with brisk efficiency.

“There you are,” she said, handing him the threaded needle. “Now try.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he found himself saying meekly. He punched the needle into the fabric as he would have through leather, as in repairing a harness or a bridle, sticking his finger in the process. “Ouch!”

“Um, maybe you should do that more gently,” Erica said.

He inhaled a breath, blew it out. “All right,” he said dutifully. He tried again, feeling a rare sense of accomplishment when he pulled the thread through the fabric. He stuck the button on top and watched as it wobbled down the thread.

“You see?” Erica said. “You can do it.”

“‘I think I can, I think I can,”’ he said, taking his first stitch through the buttonholes.

“‘The Little Engine that Could,”’ was one of my favorite childhood stories, too,” Erica said.

He stared at her. “No kidding. I’m already deciding what storybooks I want to buy for Kaylie. ‘The Little Engine that Could’ was one of my first choices.”

“Oh, there are lots of others. My nephew Todd especially likes a book about a moth. ‘Stellaluna,’ it’s called.”

“I didn’t know Charmaine had children.” He was getting the hang of this button-sewing and found he could talk and sew at the same time.

“Oh, Charmaine doesn’t have any kids. Todd belongs to our sister, Abby. She’s married to a stockbroker, which seems awfully dull sometimes. I imagine it’s much more interesting to be a cowboy.”

If she only knew, Hank thought. If she only knew the truth about me. But what he said was, “It must seem that way.” He tied the knot neatly and reached for the scissors.

He stood up. “Thank you,” he said, wadding the pinafore into a ball before he thought better of stuffing it back in his pocket. “I really appreciate this.”

“It was nothing,” she said, and all at once he realized that they were standing so close that he could have reached over and brushed a thumb against her cheek. And he smelled honeysuckle again, he was sure of it.

He took a deliberate step backward. “Justine must be having supply problems,” he said. “That’s why she’s not back. It’s happened before, the cook’s having to adjust the next day’s menu because the food hasn’t arrived.”

“I suppose I might as well take my book and head back to my suite,” Erica said. After a moment’s hesitation, she turned and led the way through the dim house, her heels clicking on the polished tile floor.

When they reached the bookshelves, she picked up her book from the table, and he tucked Riders of the Purple Sage beneath his arm.

“I’ll walk you as far as the fork in the path,” he said.

Outside, the air had a cool nip to it, and overhead a night bird called. The desert sky was clear, the stars burning hot and bright. As improbable as it might have seemed, a thin mist rose out of that dry desert air, encapsulating them in their own world out there under the stars. Erica walked beside him, and it pleased Hank that she knew enough not to sully the night with words.

When they reached the place where the path divided, he stopped. “This is where I head to my own place. Thanks again, Erica.” That she had chosen to help him after so disastrous a first meeting bespoke a good heart and generous nature.

There it was again, that sideways tilt of her head. And he liked the stillness that he sensed inside her, the quietness that few women exhibited. He much preferred it to the constant talk, talk, talk that most women found necessary when in his presence.

“You’re welcome, Hank,” she said, and the words could have sounded stiff and uncomfortable if it hadn’t been for her voice, which was soft and warm and pleasant.

He felt an improbable affinity with her, which seemed absurd after only two encounters.

“Look,” he said uneasily, not knowing he was going to say anything but goodbye until the word was out of his mouth. “We got off on the wrong foot today. I hope it won’t affect the way you think of me.”

She seemed to consider this. “Really, it’s okay.”

He wasn’t entirely sure that it was, but he knew her smile meant that she’d forgiven him and that they were now on a new footing.

“Well,” he said, his spirits lifting, “I’ll see you tomorrow for your lesson.”

“Yes. For my lesson.” Behind her glasses, her eyes shone large and luminous in the darkness, and in that moment he saw how pretty she was.

To hide his confusion, he spared her only a curt nod. He watched her as she went, his buoyant feeling fading as she disappeared around the corner of one of the buildings.

He liked her. He found being around her easy, comfortable. He didn’t know why he felt that way, but he did.

HER COWBOY had a baby.

Erica had not considered the possibility that he would be encumbered. Oh, she’d thought he might be married, in which case she would have backed off in a hurry. She didn’t need the pain and anguish of being the Other Woman. But it had never occurred to her that he would have children.

She smiled to herself at his determination to complete the task of sewing on the button. He had hunched over the tiny pink pinafore, her cowboy, looking sorely out of his element and all the more attractive for making the effort. Clearly he was raising his daughter alone, and that made him interesting to her. It took a real man to take on the burden of child-rearing all by himself.

She booted up her laptop computer, which she hadn’t intended to bring along at first. Then Charmaine had insisted that Erica pack it.

“How will we keep in touch if I’m in Aruba and you’re in California and you don’t have e-mail?” Charmaine had wailed, and seeing the sense of this, Erica had brought the laptop along.


YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

Hi Erica

How’s it going? Tell, tell! I want to hear all about Rancho Encantado. There are mosquitoes in Aruba and the climate is muggy. Wish I could have come with you!

Love, Char

Char

I met the perfect guy. He’s a cowboy who is going to teach me to ride. And it’s not muggy.

Love, E.


THE NEXT MORNING, Erica had her first makeover appointment. The hairdresser and makeup artist, Tico, was a small man, stocky and squat and sporting a waxed handlebar mustache. After an analysis of her skin type, he prescribed a foundation mixed for her exact skin tone and instructed her in the use of blush, eye shadow and concealer.

“A darker lipstick is what you need! No pale tones for you,” he said busily as he set upon her with lip liner and tubes and gloss.

Despite his admonition to be still, she got in a few words between the lip liner and gloss. “Are you sure this stuff isn’t too dark? I don’t want to look like a vampire.”

This made him laugh heartily. “A vampire! Of course you will not look like a vampire. What a funny lady you are.”

When he was finished, she had to admit that he was on the right track. Who would have guessed that lipstick the exact shade of red geraniums would bring out the color in her cheeks and make her lips look full and lush? Who would have known that a few dabs of concealer on the shadows under her eyes could perk up the sallowness of her skin?

“Ah, but you have such wonderful hair,” Tico said, draping strands of it around his fingers and letting them fall into place.

“I never did before,” Erica said.

He winked. “But this is Rancho Encantado. Anything can happen here.”

“Even a talking cat?”

“I beg your pardon?”

His astonishment warned her not to pursue the subject. “Oh, nothing. Tell me, what changes would you recommend for me?” she replied cautiously.

“A lighter hair color, of course. As for the eyebrows, we will dye them today!”

“How about my eyelashes?” Hers were virtually colorless.

“Dye! Dye!” He was startling in his intensity, and Erica hoped no one would mistake his meaning. Several clients peered around the door in alarm, withdrawing their heads when they realized that her situation was not dire.

“Back to my hair—how light do you intend it to be?”

“Only a little lightening here and there, we will give it a bit of a trim, and voilà! Rancho Encantado has worked its magic.”

“I’ve never wanted to bleach my hair because it would be too hard to keep up.”

Tico produced a sampler of pale hair colors and fanned them out before her. “Lowlights do not require so much maintenance, and I would do a lot of them. Look, we have so many shades to choose from—Butter Cream, Moonlight Madness, Winter Frost—”

“Never mind,” Erica said hastily, dizzied by the possibilities. “Choose one. Whatever you think would look best.”

“Perhaps I should tell you a blonde joke? It is the last time you will hear one as a brownette.”

“I don’t think so. I’d rather get started.”

“Oh, you will look fantastico!” Tico said, clapping his hands together, which brought two assistants running.

As they attacked with hair color and foil, shears and razor, comb and curling iron, Erica hid her face in a magazine. She had no intention of looking in the mirror until Tico and company were through.

BACK IN HER ROOM after her hair appointment, when she finally stopped admiring her reflection in the mirror, Erica booted up her laptop and found a message from Charmaine.


YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

Dear Sis

You already know how to ride. What’s up?

Love, Char


Erica, still sneaking peeks at the mirror, immediately replied.


Char

My hair is streaked Palomino Blond. The manicurist gave me acrylic fingernails!!! My cowboy has a baby. And I’m letting him teach me to ride because I want to be with him as much as possible.

Love, E.


THAT AFTERNOON in preparation for Erica’s riding lesson, Hank saddled up Melba, the mare who was best suited to beginners. He had decided on this particular horse on the basis of the form that Justine had filled out at Erica’s behest. Some of their guests had been riding most of their lives, and others had a smidgen of experience. Erica had been identified as the latter.

When he’d finished saddling Melba, he led her into the ring and leaned against the fence, waiting. Mrs. Gray appeared with her three latest offspring, and she supervised them from a relatively safe position outside the ring as they chased and pounced. The kittens would be okay as long as they stayed out from underfoot, he figured.

Idly he watched a petite woman walking briskly along the lane, which was flanked by rows of eucalyptus trees. The sun picked out golden streaks in her hair, and she looked slightly familiar. He stood straighter, his attention drawn to her face, which was hidden behind big sunglasses.

Melba whinnied and bumped his shoulder, and by the time he’d patted her on the neck and assured her that an apple was forthcoming soon, the woman had disappeared into the stable.

“She must be going to see Paloma,” he said out loud, since the baby-sitter often asked friends to drop by; they were helping her to plan her wedding.

Shows what you know, said Mrs. Gray, which caused Hank to wheel around in amazement. The cat’s unwavering gaze scalded him, and he reminded himself that cats don’t talk. Still, he narrowed his eyes at her, but all she did was cuff one of her kittens as it came too close to the gate.

“Hank,” said Erica’s voice behind him, and he whirled around, expecting to see her approaching.

But it wasn’t Erica who strode toward him, this woman with shiny hair rippling in the breeze, lips full and red. It was someone who looked very like his dream woman, the one he rescued from rattlesnakes, the one who warmed his lonely bed at night.

The woman pulled off the sunglasses, and he was astonished to realize that it was indeed Erica. Her wide eyes, framed by long lashes, were a complex mix of brown and green, the arched brows brushed upward.

“All ready for our lesson?” she asked.

“I…well, I thought you were going to be late.”

“I wouldn’t miss my lesson for the world,” she said. She raised both hands to fluff her hair back from her face, and he noted that her fingernails were long and lacquered shell-pink.

He felt a line unreel somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. It seemed to flow out from him and twirl around her, lassoing her neatly and pulling her toward him. He blinked and it went away. If it had ever been there.

He introduced Erica to Melba and handed her an apple to feed the mare. Erica grinned when Melba left a thread of slobber on her hands. He half expected her to go “Eeuuw!” but all she did was wipe her hand on her jeans. Too-big jeans, he saw now, remembering that she’d worn them last night. He wondered what they concealed. A derriere too large? Bony hips? No curves at all? He couldn’t tell, but he thought that the jeans were a sensible choice. Too many women showed up for their lessons wearing skin-tight pants that allowed no freedom of movement.

He spent more than half an hour expounding on the basics, such as how to hold the reins, how to direct the horse, that sort of thing. Erica listened attentively, her eyes seldom leaving his face, her hands folded demurely in front of her.

“Now you’re going to ride a horse. Come here to the left side of her,” he instructed, walking around. Erica followed him and stood looking at him quizzically, waiting.

“The way you’ll do this,” Hank began, “is to stand by the horse’s left shoulder.” He handed her the reins. “Hold these in your left hand and grip her mane. Go ahead.”

She took the reins from him, her brief touch engendering a little brrrrip! of sensation. The desert air, he thought. It’s dry, and static electricity will develop under such conditions, that was all it was.

“In your right hand, grasp the cantle.” He pointed to it. “That’s what we call the back of the saddle.”

Erica did that, too. “Now I’m going to give you a leg up,” he said. He formed his hands into a stirrup. “Your left foot goes here.”

She looked at him for a long moment, those eyes wide and bright. He realized that she wasn’t wearing her usual glasses. As if she’d read his mind, she took her sunglasses out of her pocket and shoved them on. Then she placed her booted foot into his cupped hands and he lifted her up until she’d swung her other leg over the horse. He got a quick glimpse of the fabric pulled tightly over her derriere and realized that those baggy jeans didn’t hide any figure fault at all. In fact, she appeared nicely rounded and firm.

“I think I’ll need a stirrup adjustment,” she said, and he realized that he had almost forgotten he was working.

He notched the stirrups up on each side, noticing that her feet were in the correct stirrup position with the heels pointed down. Most beginners didn’t know to do that.

“Good heel position,” he said, but she relaxed her feet so that the heels assumed their natural position. She looked guilty, then crooked the heels again until they were correctly placed.

“Settle your weight backward,” he instructed, watching until her bottom slid backward to the dip in the saddle. “And now squeeze your legs against Melba’s sides to start her going.”

He had a vision of Erica’s legs squeezing him, before he yanked himself back to the moment and to Erica. She followed his direction, causing Melba to begin walking sedately around the ring.

“Keep your heels away from the horse’s sides,” he warned. “And look where you’re going, not down at the horse.”

When Melba had made one circle of the ring, he called to Erica, “Take her around again. You’re looking good. Have you had lessons before?”

“It was a long time ago.”

He watched her as Melba, a sweet-natured hack who was accustomed to new riders, plodded patiently around the corral. He instructed Erica to shift her weight back in the saddle when she pulled on the reins to stop the horse, to move forward when the horse went forward.

He liked the way Erica sat the saddle. She looked relaxed, her back straight but not stiff. He thought she had the bearing of a natural horsewoman, rare to see in beginners.

After several more circuits of the ring, Erica reined Melba in. “Isn’t my hour up?”

He glanced at his watch, and sure enough, it almost was. “You have a couple of minutes left on the clock.” He couldn’t believe how fast time had passed. He couldn’t believe he had enjoyed this basic lesson so much.

Horse and rider made one more complete and very sedate circle before stopping beside him. He smiled up at Erica. “You look comfortable on horseback,” he said.

“The lesson wasn’t very hard.” She reached forward and patted Melba on the neck.

“Here, let me help you down.” As she prepared to dismount, he started to give her a hand, then abruptly changed his mind. Instead, as Erica swung down from the saddle, he wrapped his hands around her waist. She slid down against him, her body brushing his, so that he felt her breasts moving down his chest, her flat abdomen brushing his belt buckle. Her breasts weren’t as small as he’d thought, nor was she as heavy. In fact, she felt featherlight in his arms. She felt as if she could float to earth without any help from him.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice high and breathy. He looked down at her then, and her face was only inches from his. Her lips were slightly parted, looking ripe as strawberries and moist. He was mesmerized by those lips and was even more enchanted to see the pink tip of her tongue appear and enticingly lick her lower lip.

He swallowed, hard. In that moment Melba, the stable, the riding ring disappeared, and all that was left was Erica and him and the sky, which was a wide delirious blue. He was peripherally aware of the cat and her kittens, and he thought the cat said, Kiss her!

Or maybe Mrs. Gray was merely hissing at the kitten who had pounced on her tail. Whatever, he thought that the advice to kiss Erica was excellent. Why wouldn’t he, with her staring up at him out of those wide eyes, with her hands on his upper arms where she could feel muscles made strong from riding, with her hair a golden aureole around her bewitching face?

He closed his eyes, opened them, half expecting Erica to disappear like the horse and the stable. She didn’t. She appeared as caught up in the spell of this as he was. Slowly he bent his head; slowly he angled it into position. As for Erica, he didn’t think she had breathed even once since she’d come down off the horse. Maybe he hadn’t, either. Maybe you didn’t need to breathe when you did this.

His lips opened slightly, and he dipped them closer to hers. He was startled to find out that she was breathing, after all, and her breath fell like petals on his cheeks. He drifted along with the petals, smelling honeysuckle, his favorite scent, inhaling it, along with the fragrance of her sun-washed skin. She yearned toward him, her eyes closed, the lashes casting exquisitely curved shadows beneath. His lips closed in, touching hers, and he knew then that he would crush her in his arms, would overpower her with his strength until she—

“Hank? Hank!”

Startled out of the mood, surprised by the interruption, his head jerked backward. Erica pulled away in that instant, too, putting space between them.

Paloma was waving from the door of a stable that had somehow reappeared. “Excuse me, Hank, but I really must leave Kaylie with you now. I have an appointment in town.”

Melba, also restored to being, stamped her feet, probably eager to get to the feed trough. Erica brushed a fly away with apparent annoyance, and Hank became aware of the whine of a jet high above them. Responsibility settled heavily over him like a mantle of lead, pushing him into the ground, letting him know that pleasures such as other men might enjoy were not to be his.

“I’ll be right there.” Hank turned back to Erica, but she had backed so far away that she was out of his reach.

“I’ll be here for the lesson tomorrow,” she said in a rush, and then she was gone, walking swiftly out of the ring toward the guest quarters.

He watched her go as he led Melba into the stable. Erica was gone, much like his fantasies, the ones that got him through all the lonely days and nights.

But unlike those fantasies, he knew that Erica was real.

More real than he was, probably. Because he wasn’t really a cowboy, but nobody knew that except his sister. And he wasn’t about to tell. At least not yet.

IT WAS A GOOD THING she hadn’t been required to ride Melba anywhere but around the ring, Erica reflected as she hurried back to her room, because without her glasses she’d been as blind as a bat. After her delight over her new hair color and the cut that made her hair bouncy and the teasing on top that gave her some height, she had been way too vain to wear her glasses. She’d settled on the sunglasses, which were made to her prescription, but they were for distance, and they blurred things close up. When she was fortunate enough to get that close to Hank, she wanted to see everything she could—the little scar on his chin (maybe he’d gotten it when he was thrown from a bronco), the freckle next to his left eye (too much sun) and the bump on the bridge of his nose (another bronco, or maybe a roadhouse brawl). Cowboys often led rough lives, which led to their having imperfections, and Erica wanted to know every one of Hank’s.

When she reached her room, she turned on her laptop. Charmaine’s e-mail reply was waiting for her.


YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

Erica

HE HAS A BABY? How did that happen?

Charmaine

Erica smiled and tapped out her reply.

Charmaine

I believe it happened the way all babies happen.

Love, E.


For the moment it was nice to contemplate what it would be like to engage, with her cowboy, in the activity that made babies. Nice to contemplate, nice to fantasize.

Which she would do for the next few minutes. And then she’d go to dinner and hope that Hank would stop by to see Justine and maybe bring his baby.

Padre Luis Speaks…

OH, THAT CAT! Kiss her, she says to the cowboy. Would I ever say a thing like that? Por supresto que no! Of course not.

This Erica, she is still not real. She wants the cowboy. She thinks he is perfect. But her cowboy is not really a cowboy. And the cowboy wants her, but not the real her. It is a confounding thing, this. Why do they not see that until they become real to each other, they will not find love?

I think that they do not know they seek love. They believe they are looking for something else. Sex, perhaps, or…Hmmph. When will these two people learn that love is the only thing that matters? By Jesus, Joseph and the Blessed Mother, I pray that they may triumph over their confusion.

I am spending more and more time on my knees lately. I am glad that I cannot feel the cactus spines when I kneel to pray. Often in my previous existence I wondered why our Lord’s garden of earthly delights had to include such a hurtful plant as the cactus. Now I see that it does not matter. Truly the Lord is beneficent.

Still, He seems to ignore my pleadings concerning the cat. If that cat comes around, why, it is apparently up to me to tell her what I think about her stealing my voice.

Not that she will hear me. No one hears me now except God, who sometimes does not answer.

For I am only a humble priest, after all. But I try, I try.