Crazy for Cowboy (2 page)

“You’re ditchin’ me?”

“Sorry about that. I just got the call this morning.”

Jackie swatted the air with a dismissive stroke and set off another wave of tinkles. “No problem. I should get back to the office anyway. The next show starts rehearsing in a week and I’m still sorting out the actors’ contracts.”

Emily was thankful for the shift in conversation. No sense vowing to stay away from cowboys then talk about them all the time. “How is the new job?”

“As administrative work goes, this lunchtime theater is a heck of a lot more fun than answering phones for a bunch of engineers who are out searching for oil.” Jackie grabbed her napkin off the table and flipped it onto her lap with a flourish. “Hey, I’ll get you some complimentary tickets. It’s a 50’s musical. There’s not a cowboy in it,” Jackie assured her. “Just Fonzie wannabes.”

“Good.” Emily unfolded her own napkin and smoothed the cotton square over her thighs, mentally rehearsing her next line. “Jackie, that story about the aliens…did that really happen? Or are you setting me up for one of your practical jokes?”

“Who? Me?” Jackie batted her sparkly green eyelashes.

“Don’t give me that innocent look. If some guy walks in here dressed like a Martian and embarrasses me, I’ll—”

“Take it easy. You’re safe. There’ll be no Martians. And no cowboys, either. That’s why I picked this place. There’s not a cowboy on the planet who would dare step into a ritzy joint like this.”

Movement at the entrance caught Emily's eye. She looked toward the door, her gut clenching. “Oh, my God!”

“What?”

“Don’t look now, but...”

Her warning was useless. By the second word, Jackie’s head was turning. “Oh, my God,” the redhead echoed.

Emily slunk down in her seat, wishing she still had that menu to hide behind. Trouble was again heading her way. The tall, dark, and Stetson-wearing kind.

* * *

Brandon Hollister strode into the restaurant, his spurs jingling across the fake marble tiles.

With a little more practice, he’d have the cowboy swagger nailed. But he had to lose the grin. How could he pull off the tough guy image with a smile that threatened to stretch from ear to ear?

He pursed his lips. The grin sprung back into place. He tried biting the insides of his cheeks. Not a chance. Brandon felt the smile spreading across his lips before he had the opportunity to bite down.

He gave up the fight. It was impossible to be surly. Not when good fortune was shining down all over him.

Darlene had actually allowed him to borrow the outfit and everything that went along with it—the spurs, the chaps, the ten gallon hat, the long oilskin duster, all of it—proving, yet again, that it’s not what you know but whom. He’d heard that his old classmate was working as the costume mistress on a couple of projects. He just hadn’t expected her to be assigned to this one.

Brandon took another step and heard the echo of his boot resound through the restaurant.

Normally, at this hour, there was a constant barrage—patrons talking, cutlery clanging, wineglasses clinking and, on a bad day, the sound of dishes smashing. At the moment, however, all he could hear was Mozart’s
Gran Partita
—recognized not because of Brandon’s great appreciation for classical music, but because he heard the damn piece at the restaurant every day.

He scanned the room for the cause of the silence and was surprised by his discovery. Everyone was staring.

At him.

He looked down at his clothes and took a quick intake of breath. No wonder. He was as out of place as John Wayne at an Andrea Bocelli concert. It was July. The annual Stampede would start up in a few days. Everyone would be dressed in their cowboy regalia then. But not now. And not at Eduardo’s.

Brandon whipped around the two-sided gas fireplace that effectively separated the kitchen area from the patrons of the restaurant. He wasn’t exactly hidden—he was head, shoulders and chest taller than the mantel—but he was definitely less conspicuous. He dipped his head beneath the brim of his hat, for good measure.

Now he knew how movie stars felt, spending their days with the eyes of the world upon them. He wondered if he could ever get used to that kind of life. And resolved, if that stroke of luck came to him, he could certainly live through it. Anything was possible, now. The cowboy gig proved that. This was the job that would put him back on track. His father would have been proud.

Brandon felt a tightness in his chest. After six years you’d think it would lessen. But no. It still happened. Every time he thought about his dad.

Brandon always remembered him the way he’d looked on that last day, leaning against the doorframe, a strange expression in his eyes as he watched his son pack.

They’d always been close. In the years following his mother’s death, Brandon began to look upon his dad, not only as a parent, but as his best buddy. It was no surprise that his father had totally supported him when he’d decided to move to Vancouver and try his luck in the biz there—maybe even follow in the footsteps of Michael J. Fox and conquer LA. But his dad’s look that day still haunted Brandon. It was the look of a man who was losing a part of himself.

While Brandon was boxing up the last of his things, the call came. His father had suffered a massive heart attack at work. He’d died on the way to the hospital. Brandon never even got the chance to say goodbye.

In that one moment, everything changed. Suddenly, Brandon was the head of the household with a younger sister to support. He put his career plans on the back burner. He couldn’t leave. Not then. There was no way Ally could have managed on her own.

“May I help you, sir?”

Brandon pulled himself out of his thoughts and tipped his hat back from his forehead. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said, addressing his coworker.

Katie abandoned her bussing job and moved forward, her eyes growing larger with each step. “Oh, my gosh. Brandon? Is that you?”

The door to the kitchen swung open and Sarah appeared. In her standard black dress, the petite actress looked as fragile as a barracuda. She stopped in her tracks and gave him the onceover. “What’s with the getup?”

“Careful, missy,” Brandon cautioned, practicing his cowboy drawl. “You’re speakin’ to one of the bad guys in the new Houston Savage movie.”

Sarah planted a fist onto one hip. “No way.”

“Take a look at the script if you don’t believe me.” He pulled out the text from under his arm and handed it to her. “You can be the first to crack it open.”

“That’s great, Brandon. Congratulations. I’m so proud of you.” Katie jumped up and wrapped her hands around the back of his neck, pulling him down to her level to plant a kiss on his cheek.

Sarah, her focus on the script, barely looked up. “Houston Savage is going to be filming here in Calgary? Really?”

“Do you get to meet him?” Katie asked, releasing her hold.

“Even better. He’s going to kill me.”

“Huh?” The blank look on Sarah’s face was pure comic book.

“In a barroom brawl,” Brandon clarified.

“Houston Savage?” Katie hopped up and down, sending her apron flapping. “Wow.”

Brandon suppressed a chuckle. Katie was even more excited about it than he was. If that were possible. With all the leaping she was doing, he half expected her to take flight. And Sarah, standing there, paging through the script, was the picture of pouting petulance. The two women were perfect foils for one another: Katie’s natural exuberance versus Sarah’s practiced cynicism. If they teamed up and formed a partnership they’d be the next Abbott and Costello.

“How come I didn’t get an audition for this movie?"

“It’s a boy flick, Sarah. The only woman in the film is Houston’s love interest and they’re flying her in from LA.”

Sarah tapped her fake nails against the back of the manuscript. “Figures. Probably some big-busted model with the IQ of a snail.”

“Houston Savage,” Katie repeated again in mid-flight. “He is so hot. I’ve loved him ever since he was in that cowboy movie with Matt Damon.” She sent a shy smile Brandon’s way. “Can you get his autograph for me?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Forget that. Bring him here. Lana Turner was discovered in a soda shop. This might be my big break.”

Trust Sarah to think that a star could be discovered
in an Albertan restaurant. Brandon shook his head.

That’s when he saw her.

She was seated on the other side of the restaurant, across from a woman whose hair was...what the hell would you call that color? Tomato? Whatever it was, Lucille Ball’s mop would have been mousy by comparison.

But there was nothing mousy about the brunette. Her hair was rich and thick, her skin smooth and luminous, and her large eyes were focused solely on him. Brandon wouldn’t have pegged himself as the wallflower type, but he’d never had a woman stare at him the way this pretty stranger at table ten was doing.

Of course, most of the women he met were restaurant patrons, pretentious members of the elite, sporting hats that would have cost him a week’s pay. But not the brunette. She was down to earth—he could sense that. She wore little makeup, no jewelry and a simple blue shirt that made her eyes sparkle.

“By the way, who’s covering your shifts while you’re filming?”

“You can take them if you like,” he answered, tearing his gaze away from the brunette. If there was one way to get on Sarah’s good side, it was to toss a few extra hours her way. And now that she was buttered up, Brandon was free to pursue the far more pressing issues on his mind. “Who’s serving at table ten?”

“That would be me,” Sarah answered.

“I don’t remember seeing those two women in here before.”

“Me neither. But the dark-haired one is certainly having a good look at you.”

So it wasn’t his imagination. The brunette was checking him out. It was the getup, plain and simple. Women went nuts over cowboys. And since he was all dressed up, he might as well take advantage of it.

“Well, if you two little fillies will excuse me,” he said, tipping his hat to his comrades, “I’m gonna mosey on over there.”

Sarah’s eyes turned to slits. “Why?”

Why
was right. What did he think he was doing? Approaching a woman in a restaurant? A woman he’d never met before and would probably never see again? What was he hoping to gain? His colleagues stared up at him with puzzled expressions.

“I thought I’d try out my western accent on a captive audience.”

“Sure.” Sarah smirked. “Go pour on the charm, cowboy.”

* * *

“Oh, my God.” Emily jerked up in her seat, splashing wine down the front of her top.

“What is it, now?”

“He’s coming this way.” Patting her shirt, Emily realized she was doing a better job of spreading the spill than mopping it up.

“Take it easy, Em,” Jackie whispered. “Remember, use my technique. Keep repeating it in your mind: just say no to cowboys. Just say no to—”

“Howdy, ladies.”

Emily popped her elbows onto the table and plunked her chin on her fists in an attempt to hide her damp chest from the new arrival.

“Y’all come here much?” he asked them, drawing out each word. Emily noticed that the two women at the other table had abandoned their coy leaning-in maneuver. This time, they swiveled right around in their seats to take a good look at the tall stranger.

“This is our first visit,” Jackie explained to the man.

“Well, it’s a mighty fine restaurant,” he said and flashed a million dollar smile. “So I’ve bin told.”

Emily felt a primal drumbeat banging in her chest. That grin was enough to make any woman’s heart go pitter-pat. That, and a pair of ocean blue eyes that made her breath hitch. To heck with hiding her blouse. Emily reached for her wine and took a slug.

“You little ladies have names?”

Emily nearly choked. She had no intention of telling a strange man—much less, a strange cowboy—her name. No matter how tasty he looked.

“I’m Jackie,” her friend informed him. Emily shot her a glance, silently warning her to stop there. Jackie nodded in her direction, as if in agreement, then opened her mouth again. “And this is Emily.”

What a pal.
Emily gave her friend a kick under the table.

“Ouch!”

“Howdy,” the cowboy said again, apparently unaware of the skirmish.

Emily locked onto those baby blues of his. She watched, transfixed, as he removed his hat and raked a hand through a mop of dark curly hair. She found herself imagining how those locks would feel, sliding between her own fingers.

“Fine,” she gulped. “Thanks.”

“So?”

The cowboy turned his head toward Jackie. “So?”

“What’s your name, pardner?”

“Uh...” He placed the hat back on his head. Emily saw a vacant look pass over the man’s features. How hard a question could it be?

“Houston,” the fellow answered. “Houston Sav...”

Emily cocked her head to one side and waited.

“...e...” he continued, haltingly. The guy was being really careful with his pronunciation. Maybe he had a speech impediment. Either that or he needed new batteries.

“...loy.”

“Sav-e-loy,” Jackie repeated, letting the name hang in the air. Her brow wrinkled. “Is that Jewish?”

“No,” he replied. “Very WASP.” That smile spread over his lips again. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being Jewish. A lot of my friends are Jewish.”

Jewish cowboys? Emily held back a giggle. Although she was sure kosher cowpokes existed, she couldn't recall ever running into one. Whatever this guy’s roots were though, he certainly had an interesting accent.

“Where are you from?”

It was the question that had been on Emily’s mind but it was Jackie who had voiced it. In spite of her resolution, Emily leaned forward, eager to hear the answer.

“Uhhhhh...”

Again that hesitation. He was a typical cowboy in that respect, a man uncomfortable with conversation. A perfect illustration of the strong, silent type. And wasn’t that one of the things she’d hated most about the men she’d dated? Their lack of communication skills? Then why was it so darned attractive on this guy? It was almost as though he was...did she dare even think the word...
shy.