Going Cowboy Crazy (9 page)

“I’m sure he’ll remember now that he’s had a good night’s sleep.”

“How did he take the news that I was Hope’s twin sister?” She couldn’t help but feel nervous about meeting a man she’d more or less lied to.

“Pretty well, actually.”

“He wasn’t mad?”

“No… I wouldn’t say he was mad.”

Relief washed over her. Obviously, small-town people were a forgiving bunch.

“What are you doing?” Faith asked a few minutes later when he pulled into the parking lot of Josephine’s Diner, a faded pink train caboose with a lopsided, smoking building attached to the back. It seemed the entire town was sitting in booths in front of the windows—all waving.

“We’re talking to the sheriff.” He drove around back and rolled up next to the Dumpsters.

“The sheriff’s office is in a diner?”

“Sort of.” He got out and came around to her side of the truck, opening the door and helping her down. But once her feet were on the ground, he didn’t seem in any hurry to move.

In the late-morning sun, he was even more handsome. His thick hair glittered like ripe wheat and the faded green of his western shirt turned his eyes a deep moss.
Eyes that suddenly looked extremely serious. And since they rarely looked serious, she started to get worried.

“Look, Faith. Before we go in there, you need to understand the type of people you’re dealing with. Small-town folks are different.” Slate paused and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “They don’t see things like most people. In fact, sometimes they don’t see things at all.”

“What do you mean?” Obviously, whatever he was trying to tell her was difficult for him.

“I mean, sometimes they get something in their heads, and they just don’t want to let it go. Like you being Hope.”

“Of course, they think I’m Hope. You said yourself that I look just like her. And I wasn’t exactly truthful with them.” Faith glanced around at all the cars in the parking lot, and guilt washed over her. “But maybe I should be.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that, and I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? I thought the sheriff was happy about it.”

“Maybe happy is the wrong word.”

She frowned. “He was mad?”

He held up a hand. “No. He wasn’t mad. He was just… surprised! That’s it, he was surprised. And I don’t think it would be fair to leave Hope out of surprising the rest of the town.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that. Of course, it should be left up to Hope to tell her friends and family. “So you think I should keep acting like Hope until I leave?”

“I think that might be for the best. Hope would blow a fuse if everyone found out before she did.”

Faith nodded. “Okay, I’ll only talk to Sheriff Winslow.”

He placed a hand at the small of her back as they walked to the door. “Actually, honey, I thought I’d talk to
the sheriff. He gets nervous around strangers. And when he gets nervous his memory gets worse.”

“Oh.” She stopped. “Then maybe I should just wait in the truck.”

“That might work in other places. But in Bramble, if you don’t show your face, they’ll come out and get you.” He pulled open the door. “So just have a seat and do what you did last night—smile and don’t say a word.”

The strong smell of fried onions brought tears to her eyes as she stepped through the door. They were still watering when a man sitting at the table to their right greeted them.

“Mornin’, Hope. Slate.”

“Hey, Little Bit.” Kenny’s friend sat next to the man. “You sure disappeared fast last night, Coach.”

“So fast it makes a person wonder what you were up to,” a woman with a baby on her lap said.

“The water still low at Sutter Springs?” someone else asked.

“Hell, they weren’t worried about no water. Not from what Little Billy Ray said,” a man in a booth clear across the room yelled.

There were snickers and a few sly winks. And Faith would’ve turned back around and headed out the door if Slate hadn’t blocked her way.

“Mornin’, y’all.” His hand pushed her forward. “You’re sure looking bushy-tailed this morning. Must be the extra sleep you got. Funny thing, the parking lot at Boot’s clearing out so early.”

The room filled with excuses.

“My arthritis started actin’ up.”

“Bunions.”

“Had to get the babysitter home.”

“Early church.”

“Stomach didn’t feel right.”

Slate ignored the excuses. “Anyone seen Sam?”

“Yeah, he’s back in the kitchen talking with Josie,” said the woman behind the counter.

He guided Faith to a chrome and red vinyl bar stool. “Sit down here, darlin’, and I’ll be right back. Rachel Dean, will you fix Hope and me some pot roast and eggs? Plenty of gravy.”

“Ain’t he sweet?” Rachel Dean moved up to the counter with a stained apron over her broad hips and her large hands holding a kitchen towel. “Sorry I missed you at Boot’s last night. We had a big crowd for dinner, and I was dead on my feet. But you sure look good, honey—well, except for that hair. I don’t know why a gal who can grow it would ever cut it off.” She plucked at her thin salt-and-pepper strands. “Twyla tried out a new perm on me and left another bald spot. You’d think I’d learn, but she sure gives a good shampoo. You don’t want pot roast and eggs, do you, honey? Why don’t you let me fix you up your usual.”

Even though she didn’t have a clue what the usual was, Faith nodded.

Rachel’s small, dark eyes narrowed. “I heard about your throat. Have you tried gargling with Epsom salt? Granddaddy Morris used to swear by it. Of course, Granddaddy always had a few screws loose.” She turned and picked up a pot from the commercial coffeemaker on the counter behind her and poured Faith a cup. “I’ll have your food right out to you, honey. After spending most of the night at Sutter Springs, you must be starving to death.” She winked before she walked back to the kitchen, filling coffee cups on her way.

Faith stared at the dark liquid in the white cup and tried not to blush. Hope didn’t blush, and she drank coffee. Thick, black coffee. Faith didn’t like coffee, at least, not coffee that didn’t come from Starbucks with multiple flavors and a huge dollop of whipped cream on the top. She reached for the little metal pitcher of cream.

“Why, Hope, I thought you drank your coffee black.” The man from the night before with the handlebar mustache took the stool next to her.

She set down the pitcher and, to cover the blunder, grabbed up the cup and took a sip. She grimaced as the bitter hot liquid slipped down her throat.

“So I take it your throat’s still sore.” He didn’t wait for a nod before he continued. “Bad stuff, laryngitis. You probably need to rest up from something like that. And there’s no better place to recover than your hometown.” He patted her hand with his large, calloused one. “It was all fine and dandy that you ran off to Hollywood to sow a few wild oats. But five years is long enough to be away from the people who love you.”

He nodded at the kitchen door. “That there boy has missed you so much he’s barely been able to keep his mind on coaching. The Dawgs are due a state championship, Hope. And I’m sure you’d want to do everything in your power to make sure they get it.”

Faith didn’t have a clue what the man was talking about. So she was relieved when Rachel Dean slipped back through the kitchen door with her food.

“Now, Harley, don’t be bugging Hope.” Rachel gave him a stern look as she set down two plates. “A flower garden won’t bloom if it’s fussed over.”

Harley seemed to get the analogy. He nodded and gave
Faith a quick peck on the cheek before moving back to his seat.

“Josie made it just the way you like it.” Rachel Dean nodded down at what looked like some kind of red meat sauce with two over-easy eggs floating in it. “Go ahead, honey, tell me what you think.”

Faith thought she was going to be sick. She hated over-easy eggs with their runny whites and yolk. But there wasn’t much she could do with the woman staring down at her. So, staying away from the eggs, she took a forkful of red sauce and slipped it between her lips.

It wasn’t bad.

She swallowed.

Kind of sweet and spicy.

Her eyes widened.

And hot.

Really, really hot.

As her throat burned, she looked around for water but there was only the cup of bitter coffee.

“Water.” She motioned at her throat. “I need water.” When Rachel Dean just stared at her, she yelled louder. “I need some water!”

That got the woman moving. She turned and splashed some water in a glass, then handed it to Faith, who drank it, then held it out for more. By the second glass, the main fire was out, though the back of her throat still burned.

“Oh, thank you.” She handed the glass back to Rachel Dean. “I’m sorry I yelled, but that was extremely hot. What is that—”

Faith’s mouth snapped shut as she looked around the room. Every eye was on her, and all of them looked confused. Except for Slate. Standing in the archway that
led to the kitchen, he seemed more exasperated than anything.

“What happened to your voice?” Rachel Dean was the first to speak.

“Yeah, Hope. You sound funny.” Kenny’s friend stood up. “And what happened to your laryngitis?”

Panicked, she looked at Slate.

“Well”—he strolled into the room—“that’s kind of a funny story.”

“I bet I can figure it out,” a woman piped in. “I bet Hope didn’t have laryngitis at all.”

“You mean she lied?” Rachel Dean looked confused.

“Of course she lied, but only because she was embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed? Of what?”

“That Hollywood has taken her Texas talk.”

A gasp raced around the room, followed quickly by head shaking and whispered disbelief.

Finally Harley stepped up and slung his big meaty arm around her. “Why, Hope, you didn’t have to go and lie. We don’t care if you sound all weird and citified. You’re our hometown girl, and we love you.”

There was a chorus of agreement.

“ ’Course we love you. You’re our ray of Hope.”

“Our Little Bit of Sunshine.”

“As bright as the star of Texas.”

The hot food wasn’t entirely to blame for the tears that welled up in Faith’s eyes. The devotion of this town was almost too much to bear, and it seemed the worst sort of betrayal to allow them to keep thinking she was their hometown girl.

“I’m not Hope,” she whispered.

“What did you say, honey?” Rachel Dean leaned down closer, while Slate covered his eyes with one hand and shook his head.

“I’m not Hope.” Her voice grew stronger. “My name is Faith Aldridge.” She decided to leave out the part about her being Hope’s sister. Hope could explain that.

“Faith All-ridge?” Rachel Dean rested her hands on the counter. “What do you mean?”

Again the crazy woman chimed in. “Oh, I get it. That’s her stage name.”

“Stage name?”

“Yeah, you know, like Faith Hill.”

“Oh,” Rachel said, although she still looked confused. “But I thought Faith Hill was Faith Hill’s name.”

“Of course not. Every famous person changes their name.”

Rachel Dean’s eyes stared straight through Faith. “Well, I like Hope Scroggs better.”

Faith opened her mouth to try and explain things, but Slate stepped up and tossed some money on the counter before she could. “Come on, darlin’, we need to get going.” He took her elbow and helped her up from the stool.

“Goin’,” Rachel Dean said. “Hope—I mean Faith—hasn’t even finished her breakfast. And you haven’t even touched yours.”

“I’m sorry about that, Rachel, but you know how Hollywood stars like to starve themselves. And I’ve got a lot of game film to go over if I want to win next week’s game.” He flashed the entire room a cocky grin as he pulled Faith toward the door.

“Game film?” Harley chuckled. “We’re not fallin’ for
that, Calhoun.” He winked at Faith, and the entire room erupted in laughter before the door closed behind them.

Stunned over what had just taken place, Faith allowed Slate to haul her back to the truck without saying a single word. Once there, he jerked open the driver’s side door and helped her up—or more like tossed her in. Then he climbed in after her and gunned the truck. He backed out, almost hitting the fender of the beat-up Taurus before he hit the accelerator, and they shot out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel. With the indifferent look on his face, he didn’t look upset. But his actions said something else entirely.

Once they were back on the highway, Slate reached down and pressed the button for the CD player. The song that blared through the speakers had a definite Caribbean sound although the male singer’s voice was country.

“I think we need to go back and talk with them,” Faith finally found her voice. “There has to be something we can say that will convince them I’m not Hope.”

“Convince them?” He snorted. “This is a group of people who still think the South won. That driving after three beers improves your reflexes. That the Dallas Cowboys football team doesn’t represent a city but the entire United States. And that Tim McGraw lied about being born in Louisiana and was actually born only miles away. Knowing those crazy beliefs, do you think we’re going to convince them of anything?”