Catching Calhoun (4 page)

“We need a father,” Kenny said stubbornly.

“We have Grandpa.”

“Yes, but if he’s getting too old to jump in and out of barrels, then…”

Then what else might he be too old for? Minnie thought. Playing? Living? She glanced back over to Calhoun, then gasped as she saw him painting something on the little girl’s plump cheeks. “Come on,” she said to Kenny, “I can’t see when we’re this far away!”

“I
CAN PAINT A WOMAN
on a saddle for you,” Calhoun said, “but I’m afraid it won’t last.”

“Still,” the man replied, “my butt will be happy while she does, if you know what I mean. And it’s probably longer than most real-life women last.”

Calhoun held back a grimace. Rough as the Jefferson household could be, he was pretty certain a man didn’t talk about naked women in front of a child.

“Let me see your unicorn, sweetie,” he said, as he finished the last strokes of sparkly paint he was applying to her cheek. “It’s almost as pretty as you,” he told her, though he’d wager cotton candy would be dulling the sparkle in no time. The child seemed very impressed with her treat, and not as impressed with Calhoun’s rendering on her face, but he figured with both of his customers happy, the world was good.

At least he thought so, until he saw two little faces
peering at him from behind an easel that held a large portrait.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, pocketing the money he’d been paid. “I’ll get on that saddle right away.”

The man grinned, taking his daughter by the hand. “I can’t wait to see what you can do.”

Calhoun waited until the customer was gone, then glanced around. No Olivia. “Okay, you two, come on out.”

They did, rather sheepishly. “What are you up to now?” he asked.

Minnie blinked at him. “I want a sparkly unicorn on my face.”

“And I want a sparkly deer,” Kenny said. “A reindeer. Like Santa has.”

“Er—” Calhoun squirmed. How could he turn them down? And yet, he couldn’t go against their mother’s wishes. “Where is your mom?”

“Over there,” Minnie said airily. “Don’t worry. She won’t want her face painted.”

“Yeah. You can just do us.” Kenny beamed.

Calhoun sighed. “You two are a pack of trouble, you know it? Your mother says I’m to stay out of your clutches.”

Minnie nodded. “And we’re not to bug you.”

“Bug me?” Calhoun cleaned a paintbrush. “Bug isn’t the word I’d use. And I don’t think that was the word your mom used. Was it?”

“No.” Kenny frowned thoughtfully. “She said we were not to take up your time. Which means ‘bug.’”

Calhoun shifted as he thought through his dilemma. Should he tell the children to go away? That would hurt their feelings. He’d seen the look in Minnie’s eyes as she’d watched him painting the little girl’s face. He’d seen a lot in that moment. “Hey,” he said suddenly, “what exactly is it you two want from me, besides some face painting? Tell the truth.”

“We told you,” Minnie said. “We think you’d make an awesome barrel act with Gypsy on account of how fast you can run. But,” she sighed, “now Kenny’s decided you’d make a better father.”

Calhoun halted. “Father?” He glanced at Kenny.

The kids shrugged at him. “Maybe,” Kenny said. “I’m thinking ’bout it.”

Whoa. Olivia would freak if she heard her son say that! “Ah, okay. Here’s the deal. This is my price for face painting.”

The kids edged closer to him, eager to barter.

“I will paint one thing for each of you, but you have to promise me that you will never say to your mom what you just said to me.”

They stared at him.

“Why?” Kenny asked. “We don’t usually keep secrets from Mom.”

“Trust me, this is a good one to start with.” He patted Kenny’s back. “Is it a deal or not?”

The kids nodded. “Deal. We won’t tell Mom how fast you can run,” Kenny said.

Calhoun squatted down to where they could look down into his face. “That wasn’t it, exactly. Skip the
part about looking for a father. That’s not something she wants to hear.”

Kenny sighed. “Okay.”

Minnie stared at him. “We’re not dumb, Calhoun. We know it’d never work.”

After a moment, he nodded.

“I mean, there
are
other girls in the world, ones who wear pretty dresses and ribbons in their hair and who don’t spit-comb their brother’s hair,” she said mildly.

He glanced at Kenny’s hair with some interest. “Spit-comb?”

Minnie shrugged. “Works better than water.”

“Hmmph.” He took her small hand in his. “Just for the record, I’m the kind of guy who’s more impressed by ingenuity than froufrou, okay?”

“Cowboy, I’m pretty smart because my momma homeschools me, but I don’t know what froufrou means. And neither does Kenny.”

Kenny shifted from boot to boot. “Can we start now? Before Mom finds us and drags us off for another lecture on how we’re not supposed to be bothering Calhoun?”

Calhoun grinned. “Just remember what I said,” he told Minnie. “One day you’ll meet a guy who feels the same way I do about froufrou, and you’ll know he’s the one.”

Minnie sat on the barrel, taking the little girl’s place and feeling pretty good about it. “Maybe Momma would like you better if you spit-combed
your
hair,” she commented.

Calhoun smiled and picked up his paintbrush. “Keep your head turned this way and don’t glance at the paintings.”

“We already saw them,” Kenny said. “They’re naked women. You must like naked women a
bunch.
”

“And you’re going to paint a naked woman on a saddle for that man, to make his butt happy,” Minnie said. “I guess that’s what you mean by froufrou.”

Calhoun looked at Minnie, with her honest eyes, her straight hair and her wide mouth, which was, coincidentally, budded up into the same expression of disapproval he’d seen on her mother’s face earlier. On Olivia’s face he’d found it cute—but on Minnie’s face, it was disconcerting. Olivia was right: her child was a worrier.

And her equally worried brother sat beside her, with eyes like Minnie’s, only Kenny’s had a deeper reservoir of sadness, almost like Charlie Brown, as if his world was never going to be quite right but he’d keep searching for the good in life anyway.
Catch ’em being good,
adults liked to say about children. In Kenny’s watchful gaze, it was as if Kenny was waiting to catch Calhoun being good.

“You know,” Calhoun said heavily, sitting down next to them. “I should paint you two.”

“I want a deer,” Kenny said, as Calhoun touched the paintbrush to his cheek.

“I meant, paint a portrait of you. Together.”

Minnie watched over his shoulder as his hand moved deftly over her brother’s face. “Why?”

“I don’t know why. Change of pace, maybe.” He’d never painted anything but nudes. Well, once in high school, he’d painted graffiti on the gym walls and gotten suspended for three days—after he’d painted the entire gym again, by himself, in a new coat of school colors. The school had suspended him, but it had been Mason who’d dragged Calhoun back to the school to tell them he wanted to make right what he’d done wrong.

Curse Mason, and curse Maverick’s legacy of trying to instill rightness in all of them. It was almost like having a Goody Two-shoes gene one couldn’t outrun.

“If you paint us,” Minnie said, her voice colored with wonder, “paint me with a pretty dress and ribbons. My hair done right, and Kenny’s lying down, not stuck up like a bird perch on his head. Okay, Calhoun?”

Calhoun stopped, his hand floating in the air, paintbrush suspended, as he realized what she was saying.

Minnie dreamed of a world she was never going to have, even if she was practical enough to know that her life with her family was better than the little girl’s with the ribbons and cotton candy and father who wanted his butt to be happy. But still, she dreamed of adding more color to her personal portrait. She’d remodel Minnie Spinlove.

“Minnie and Kenny, what are you doing?”

Olivia’s voice startled Calhoun. He turned to face
the mother of the children whose faces he was painting. She looked none too happy.

Before he could stop himself, Calhoun reached out and painted a big dot on Olivia’s cheek.

She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“Face painting,” he said. “And we’re obeying all the rules. They’re paying customers, Ms. Spinlove. Scout’s honor. Just like the little girl who was here before getting her face painted. Even ladies like to get their face painted. It takes them back to their childhood. Would you like your face painted?”

“No, thank you,” Olivia said. “I will wait until you are finished, though. I suppose, Minnie, that you managed to find the only cowboy in Texas who paints faces?”

“At this rodeo, Momma,” Minnie said. “At least I didn’t see any others. And even if I did, I’d still want Calhoun to do it, ’cause he’s an awesome painter. He can paint a pretty naked woman, Momma,” she added as Calhoun gently wiped off the blue splash of paint he’d put on Olivia’s cheek.

Olivia looked behind her at the exhibits where people were milling around, gazing at the paintings. “I…see.”

“Ah, Minnie,” Calhoun said, taking her face in his hands to finish her unicorn. “You certainly are mini,” he told her. “But I suspect you’re high voltage all the time.” Then he painted a sparkly unicorn on her cheek.

Kenny scooted a barrel next to Calhoun so he
could intently watch the process now that he had a deer on his cheek. Olivia hung back, her boot tapping nervously on the ground.

“These customers waited patiently for their turns,” Calhoun said conversationally to Olivia, hoping to calm her down. They were all breaking the rules, and he suspected she wasn’t buying the paying customer routine, but he knew the kids were after a little attention. He was willing to supply it until everybody said
sayonara
tomorrow night, so what was the harm? As their mother said, they pestered
everybody
for attention.

And Minnie wanted him to paint a doctored-up portrait of her and her brother that represented the image in her mind, the one she wished for. An image that was right up there with the idea of unicorns being the fabled symbol of happiness.

He couldn’t give the kids what they wanted, any more than he could give them real unicorns. Or an idealized family with picture-perfect hair and dolled-up dresses.

He knew all about trying to create a reality out of the painted picture in one’s mind of the perfect family. “There,” he said gently to Minnie. “The best one I’ve done all day.” And he rumpled Kenny’s hair so that the spit-combing was shot. “Yours, too, kid. Y’all got the best I had.”

“Thanks, Mr. Calhoun,” Kenny said. Getting up, he went to his mom so she could inspect the artwork. “You should let him paint your face, Mom,” he said.
“It feels kinda funny when he touches you, but you’d like it.”

Olivia blushed deeply. She could feel it, because it felt as if she’d just broken out in some kind of flu-like rash. Glancing at Calhoun, she was grateful to see that he was pretending not to hear. He was, simply, the most beautiful, clean-shaven and sexy-smelling cowboy she’d ever met, and her heart thump-thump-thumped in warning. She knew all about how wonderful it felt when he touched her face.

She laid a ten on the table to pay for the face painting. “Thank you. Kids, let’s go.”

“Thank you,” they told Calhoun, and then hugged his neck, being careful not to smudge their painted faces.

“You’re welcome,” he said, not looking at Olivia or the ten dollars. “Goodbye.”

Olivia didn’t know what to do except stiffly walk away, her gaze anywhere but on the paintings.

The worst part was, he
did
paint extraordinary nudes.

After putting the kids to bed that evening, Olivia decided to sit out on the stoop of their motor home. The evening air was inviting, and she wasn’t ready to crawl in bed. She needed to think, and the topic of her thoughts was Calhoun. The paint had now faded some from the children’s faces—they wouldn’t remove the art at bedtime, claiming the drawings were special—but her thoughts about Calhoun were in no danger of fading at all. She felt as though her heart was running away inside her chest, wild and free where she couldn’t lasso it or tell it to calm down.

“I’m too old for such silliness,” she murmured, scratching at a bug bite on her leg just below her shorts.

“Ms. Spinlove,” she heard Calhoun say. “You forgot this.” He held out the ten dollars she’d left for him.

Her heart raced faster, thrilled to be out of reach of the lasso. “We’re paying customers.”

“I’ll charge you when I’ve actually worked for it. Your kids are a pleasure.”

Of course he would say that, the louse. A man who painted women’s naked bodies as brilliantly as he did also knew their minds intimately, no doubt. Everything was laid bare before him. “Please don’t sweet-talk me. I’m real sensitive about my kids.”

“You should be. May I?”

He asked permission to sit next to her on the stoop. She didn’t want him to, but there was no place else to sit, and besides, it seemed somewhat rude after he’d put the money back in his pocket to save her pride. It wasn’t as if he was going to kiss her again—though her feminine wishes delighted at the thought.

“I didn’t just come to return the money,” Calhoun said. “I also wanted to tell you that we didn’t deliberately go against your rules today. I kind of got caught in the cross fire. Your daughter watched me paint a little girl’s face, and—” he shot her a glance she’d have to call pleading “—Olivia, I couldn’t send Minnie away. The hope for a face tattoo was written all over her. And Kenny looked so old and wise and sad—”

“I told you,” she interrupted. “They’re worriers. And it shows. So people worry about them.” She sighed deeply. “I don’t know why they worry as much as they do.”

“Probably because they see you doing it. And you talk to them like they’re little adults. Which is not an entirely bad thing, but it does make them realize that the world around them requires some figuring out rather than magical zippedee-do-da.”

“You’re right,” she said, surprised.

“Of course I am.” He leaned back against the stoop to rest on his elbows. “I recognize them. They are like me. Our souls are the same.”

She laughed. “What are you talking about?”

“Trust me. I know all about childhood worries.” He picked a blade of grass that was growing stubbornly in the gravel-and-dirt drive. “It won’t kill them to know that the world is a serious place. They’re just skipping over those later years when a lot of kids experience dislocated reality.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I turned out fine, didn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “You paint gorgeous naked women. On the one hand, I admire it, and on the other hand, it scares me.”

He smiled. “I sold about six of those paintings today, and I definitely made enough money to buy you a beer. How about it?”

Instantly, she shook her head. “No, thanks, but congratulations, just the same. Does that include the naked saddle Minnie was so fascinated by?”

She was amazed to see Calhoun look uncomfortable.

“You know, that was a wholly inappropriate remark Minnie and Kenny shouldn’t have heard. I’m sorry about that, Olivia. I didn’t know the old coot was going to say what he did, and I didn’t realize your kids were hiding out behind the easels.”

“They hear plenty in the rodeo and they know
how to handle it. I’m not worried about them. So, was the saddle an extra sale?”

He blew out a breath. “Yes. And she’s supposed to look like Marilyn Monroe.” His expression was sheepish. “I’m sort of known for painting breasts.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, but at the same time, she was pretty proud of her B cups. Okay, so they weren’t grandiose, but she filled out her rodeo blouses just fine.

“Big or small, it doesn’t matter to me,” Calhoun said, waving his hand to show he didn’t have a preference. “It’s the shading and shape, the slope of the breast, that draws my artistic passion.”

“I assume you just like women a lot—and have known quite a variety of them, judging by your work.” She looked at him straight on. “My guess is that you’re something of a womanizer.”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “Although, I do like the companionship of women. At my ranch, women are quite the…uh, topic of reverence. We really respect ’em.”

“Really?” She wondered if he was telling the truth or trying to impress her. “You had sisters?”

“Um, no.”

“Ah. Your mother taught you to respect women.”

“Not exactly. I mean, she would have, but she wasn’t around long enough to complete the lessons in our teen years. We had Mimi,” Calhoun said, frowning. “Our next-door neighbor, but she was such a hellion growing up we thought she was one of us
until she sprouted breasts. Sheriff, her father, made her quit swimming with us without her shirt on. I can’t tell you how mad she was that she could no longer swim in her jean cutoffs like we did.

“I can’t say Mimi taught us to respect women, because we treated her like a brother.” He scratched his head under his hat.

“Poor Mimi,” Olivia said, “whoever she is.”

“So,” Calhoun said brightly, “we learned to appreciate women ourselves.”

“Ourselves?”

“Me and my eleven brothers.”

Olivia hesitated. “You live, basically, in a huge bachelor pad of twelve males. No discipline. No female presence to provide sanity.”

“Maybe that’s why I like breasts so much,” Calhoun said thoughtfully. “We had bare, flat chests, lots of testosterone and no female influence. Except Mimi, and she doesn’t count because—”

“She was one of you. Until she changed. I got it.”

“Actually, she was still one of us, even then. We just felt sorry for her because she had to wear a shirt over her cutoffs.”

“Couldn’t she wear a bathing suit?”

Calhoun turned to stare at her. “Oh, no, we would really have freaked out if she’d looked
that
different from us. Mimi was like our brother, the thirteenth man, the thinker of the group, if you will. Sheriff let her run wild as a March hare, and we got into all our best trouble when Mimi was around.”

Olivia sighed. “So, back to the bachelor pad with twelve males. I guess there’s plenty of
Playboy
magazines lying around.”

He snapped his fingers. “That’s how I learned I loved breasts!”

She gave him a wry look. “Calhoun, you’re a different breed than I’ve met before.”

“But so harmless,” he said. “I am probably the easiest, most harmless man you’ll ever meet.”

She was about to express some doubt on that when a motorcycle pulled up in front of them. When the rider took off his helmet, a Mohawk was revealed, as well as a jet-black cross earring that made a statement that was anything but religious. And he wore decorated, expensive boots to make a man proud.

“Hey, Calhoun.”

Calhoun shot to his feet. “Last! What are you doing here? And on this motorcycle?”

“She’s all mine,” Last said, “and I’m in love. She’s got all the right moves, and she’s built to please.”

Calhoun started to inspect the motorcycle, then straightened. “Last, this is Olivia Spinlove. Olivia, the youngest of the Jefferson tribe, Last. How’d you find me?”

“I asked some cowboys. They said you’d probably be here. Sparking.”

“I am not sparking,” Calhoun said with an embarrassed glance at Olivia. “We’re just having a friendly chat.”

“Cool. All right. I just dropped by to say hello before I leave town.”

“Wait.” Calhoun glanced at Olivia, a quick check to see if she was listening, which she was—with interest. “Leave town?”

“Yeah.” Last grinned. “I got a haircut so my head won’t get hot under a helmet, bought me a baby of a bike, and now I’m off to see the country. Which I’ve never done much of before. I need to get out of town bad.”

“Hang on a minute. This means you haven’t told Mason yet about…” He sent a furtive glance Olivia’s way.

“I’ll tell him when I get back,” Last said.

“Last.” Calhoun sighed, taking a moment to formulate his thoughts. “I think you should head on back and tell Mason the truth. To his face, because you know he’s going to find out in your absence. Avoiding the conversation may be tempting, but I vote for the up-front approach. And, you know he hates motorcycles. For him, it’s trucks only. Anything with two wheels is basically a vanity item, and the ranch doesn’t need the expense of vanity.” He gave his brother a narrow stare. “What I’m basically saying here, bro, is that you’re going down the path of disaster, where Mason is concerned, but there’s still time to turn back.”

Last shook his head. “Calhoun, you don’t understand. If you were in my boots, you’d know that my life’s about useless right now, anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean you should ride off and leave your responsibilities behind. That won’t up your useful quotient.”

Last’s eyes turned hard. “Man, you have no idea how tough it is knowing that Valentine’s on the ranch every day. I never know when I might see her, and I don’t want to. So I live daily running away from my mistake. We get along fine, and when the baby arrives this month, I’m sure I’ll love it. But Navarro should never have brought her to the ranch. Nobody was thinking about how I might feel about it. The part that really pisses me off is that you all had your wild nights, and days, and women you never saw again. But me,” Last said bitterly, “I had a night I barely remember and an endless hangover—fatherhood.” He put his helmet back on. “Sure, I wanted kids around the ranch. I wanted some of my brothers to start families. But
I
didn’t want to be a father.”

Calhoun heard a door close behind him. Olivia had retreated. He couldn’t blame her. “I thought you got past the weird phase with the funky hair and the earring. The binge drinking.”

“I’m not drinking. I’m just going to see the world while I still can,” Last said, his voice determined.

Calhoun sighed. “Do what you have to do, I guess. Did you even tell anyone you were leaving?”

“I told
you.
” Last revved the motorcycle. “It seemed fitting, since you were in Lonely Hearts Station, where my sin was born. But you know,” Last said, his tone angry now, “you’ll have your fun here
and it will stay here. It won’t come to live with you at the ranch, staring you in the face. You’ll love it and leave it, and your sin will be the cost of a condom. Cheapest fun on the planet.”

He saluted Calhoun sardonically with two fingers and rode away. Calhoun stared after his youngest brother, his heart sad for the family philosopher. So much had changed. Gone were the rose-colored glasses they’d always teased their youngest brother about—Calhoun felt as if his own innocence had slipped away, as well.

He turned to stare at the trailer door that Olivia had escaped through.
Gone like the wind,
one might say, if one was in the mood to utilize titles from bygone eras to describe a relationship that was obviously never going to be. Shaking his head, he strode away.

He couldn’t blame Olivia Spinlove for not wanting any part of him or Malfunction Junction. She had enough malfunction on her hands, and truthfully, he admired her for shutting the door on the possibility of more.

B
ARLEY
S
PINLOVE
waited until he was certain his daughter was through listening at the window. He watched her disappear down the hall and heard her get into bed with her children.

All right. So wearing clown makeup wasn’t the way he wanted to have this conversation, but he didn’t have the reputation of meanness for nothing. A man had to protect his family. And Calhoun Jef
ferson was trouble. The Jeffersons were infamous in the rodeo world. Their reputations stretched for miles and stank like unwashed hounds. He hadn’t minded a bit of conversation between Calhoun and Olivia—she could take care of herself.

But his tiny window had been open at his end of the motor home—and he, too, had heard every word of the Jefferson conversation. Best he put in a few words of his own.

Quietly, he opened the door and headed after the departing cowboy. “You,” he said.

Calhoun turned around.

Barley came to a stop in front of him, a good foot shorter in stature, but making up for it with attitude. “I want you to shove off. Olivia doesn’t need you hanging around. Nothing good can come from a Jefferson wolf hanging around my lamb.”

Calhoun stared at the robust, frowning clown in front of him. “I mean Olivia no harm.”

“I’m not interested in your sales shtick. I know who you are, and I know where you’ll end up, in a darkened corner somewhere or a cheap hotel with my daughter, sweet-talking her into believing you’re different from your brothers. Olivia’s got good sense, and I’m sure she recognizes by now that the Jefferson men are light on commitment and long on baloney, but her heart’s been busted before. It ain’t gonna happen again. And especially not to those kids. As I oughta know, sparkly face paint wears off, cowboy. You can quit wooing those kids to get to their mother.
It just ain’t gonna happen while I’m alive.” He gave Calhoun a belligerent stare.

Calhoun shook his head. “That’s not the way I meant it.”

“It don’t matter,” Barley said. “I say shove off, I mean shove off, and it’d be best if you recalled that.”

The clown walked away. Calhoun scratched his head, watching the man’s angry, stiff stride. He could certainly understand Barley’s protective stance, and he could see where he got his reputation.

“On the other hand,” Calhoun murmured, “I’ve never been told to shove off before.”

Generally, fathers were happy to have the Jeffersons come a’ courtin’, as they called it. The Jeffersons had a reputation for being wild, but they also had a huge ranch. A lot of money. A rep for playing hard, working hard. No one had ever thrown them out of anywhere, except maybe from a bar or two when the owner thought the brothers as a whole were too rowdy.