He's the One (2 page)

“Well,” I said, “you figured wrong.”

“No boyfriend?” There was a note of disbelief in his voice, as though he thought I
couldn’t go five minutes without a man, let alone ten years.

I straightened my spine. The pitiable state of my love life was nobody’s business,
least of all Tristan McCullough’s. “I’m in a committed relationship,” I said. “His
name is Bob.”

Tristan’s mouth twitched. “Bob,” he repeated.

“He’s in electronics,” I said.

Something sparked in Tristan’s eyes—humor, I thought—and I hoped he hadn’t guessed
that Bob was a vibrator.

Get a grip
, I told myself. Tristan might have known where all my erotic zones were, but he wasn’t
psychic.

Feeling bolder, now that I knew I wouldn’t spontaneously combust just by being in
Tristan’s presence—provided he didn’t
touch
me, that is—I cast a disgusted glance toward the trailer, full of unhappy cows. “So,
how long did you say it will take to get this truck off the road?”

“You already asked me that.”

“Yes, but you didn’t answer.”

He looked irritated. “I called for some help. There’s a wrecker on the way. Guess
you’re just going to have to be patient.”

I approached the trailer—the cattle smelled even worse than they sounded—and noticed
that a set of double wheels at the front had slipped partway into the ditch. Beyond
it was a drop-off of several hundred feet.

My stomach quivered. “I really hope they don’t all decide to stand on one side of
the trailer,” I said.

Tristan was right beside me. He looked pale under his rancher’s tan. “Me, too,” he
said.

“What happened? I thought you were this great driver.”

He scowled, did the hat thing again. Before he had to answer, we heard revving engines
on the other side of the truck. We ducked between the trailer and the cab and watched
as a wrecker and about fourteen pickup trucks rolled up.

An older man—I recognized him immediately as Tristan’s grandfather—leaped out of a
beat-up vehicle and hurried toward us. “We gotta get those cows out of that rig before
they trample each other,” he called. He squinted at me, but quickly lost interest.
Story of my life. Sometimes, I think I’m invisible. “Jim and Roy are up on the ridge
road, unloading the horses. We’re gonna need ’em to keep the cattle from scattering
all over the county.”

Tristan nodded, and I looked up, trying to locate the aforementioned ridge road. High
above, I saw two long horse trailers, pulled by more pickup trucks, perched on what
looked like an impossibly narrow strip of land. I counted two riders and some dozen
horses making their careful way down the hillside.

“What’s she doing here?” the wrecker guy asked Tristan, after cocking a thumb at me.

I didn’t hear Tristan’s answer over all the ruckus. Oh, well. I probably wouldn’t
have liked it anyway.

“Get out of the way,” Tristan told me, as he and the guys from the flotilla of pickup
trucks up ahead got ready to unload the cattle. I retreated a ways, and watched as
he climbed onto the back of the semi-trailer, threw the heavy steel bolts that held
the doors closed, and climbed inside.

An image came to my mind, of the whole shebang rolling over the cliff, with Tristan
inside, and I almost threw up the twenty-six peanuts, along with the Big Mac and the
fries.

The horsemen arrived, and several of the men on the ground immediately mounted up.
Tristan threw down a ramp from inside.

“Watch out them cattle don’t trample you!” the grandfather called. He’d gone back
to his truck for a lasso, and he looked ready to rope.

Over the uproar, I distinctly heard Tristan laugh.

A couple of cows came down the ramp, looking surprised to find themselves on a mountain
road. The noise increased as the animals came down the metal ramp. The trailer rocked
with the shifting weight, and the wheels slipped slightly.

“Easy!” Grampa yelled.

“I’m doing the best I can, old man!” Tristan yelled back.

The trailer was big. Just the same, I would never have guessed it could hold that
many cattle. They just kept coming, like the critters bailing out of Noah’s Ark after
the flood, except that they didn’t travel two by two.

Before long, the road was choked with them. There was dust, and a lot of cowboys on
horseback, yelling “Hyaww!” I concentrated on staying out of the way, and wished I
hadn’t worn linen pants and a white blouse. On the other hand, how do you dress for
something like that?

Tristan came down the ramp, at long last, and I let out my breath.

He wasn’t going to plunge to his death in a cattle truck.

I found a tree stump and sat down on it.

I lost track of Tristan in all the fuss. The cattle were trying to get away, fanning
out over the road, trying to climb the hillside, even heading for the steep drop on
the other side of the road. The cowboys yelled and whistled and rode in every direction.

All of a sudden, Tristan was right in front of me, mounted on a big bay gelding. A
grin flashed on his dusty face. “Come on,” he said, leaning down to offer me a hand.
“I’ll take you into town. It’ll be a while before the road’s clear.”

I cupped my hands around my mouth to be heard over the din. “What about my car?”

“One of the men will bring it to you later.”

I hadn’t ridden a horse since the summer of my American Cowboy, but I knew I’d get
trampled if I tried to walk through the milling herd. I went to stand up, but my butt
was stuck to the stump.

Tristan threw back his head and laughed.

“What?” I shouted, mortified and still struggling.

“Pitch,” he said. “You might have to take off your pants.”

“In your dreams,” I retorted, and struggled some more, with equal futility.

Grinning, Tristan swung down out of the saddle, took a grip on the waistband of my
slacks at either side, and wrenched me to my feet. I felt the linen tear away at the
back, and my derriere blowing in the breeze. If I’d had my purse, I’d have used it
to cover myself, but it was still in the rental car.

My predicament struck Tristan as funny, of course. While I was trying to hold my pants
together, he hurled me bodily onto the horse, and mounted behind me. That stirred
some visceral memories, ones I would have preferred to ignore, but it was difficult,
under the circumstances.

“I need my purse,” I said.

“Later,” he replied, close to my ear.

“And my suitcase.” I’m nothing if not persistent.

“Like I’m going to ride into town with a
suitcase
,” Tristan said. “It could spook Samson.”

“Why can’t we just borrow one of these trucks?”

“We’ve got a horse.” I guess he considered that a reasonable answer.

Tears of frustration burned behind my eyes. I’d hoped to slip in and out of Parable
unnoticed. Now, I’d be arriving on horseback, with the back of my pants torn away.
Shades of Lady Godiva.

“Hold on,” Tristan said, sending another hot shiver through my system as the words
brushed, warm and husky, past my ear.

He didn’t have to tell me twice. When he steered that horse down into the ditch—one
false step and we’d have been in free fall, Tristan, the gelding, and me—I gripped
the saddle horn with both hands and held on for dear life. I would have closed my
eyes, but between clinging for dear life and controlling my bladder, I’d exhausted
my physical resources.

We bumped up on the other side of the trailer and, once we were clear of the pickup
trucks, Tristan nudged the horse into a trot.

I bounced ignobly against a part of his anatomy I would have preferred not to think
about, and by that time I’d given up on trying to hold the seat of my slacks together.
He was rock-hard under those faded jeans of his, and I sincerely hoped he was suffering
as grievously as I was.

Parable hadn’t changed much since I’d left, except for the addition of a huge discount
store at one end of town. People honked and waved as we rode down the main drag, and
Tristan, the show-off, occasionally tipped his hat.

We passed the Bucking Bronco Tavern, now closed, with its windows boarded up, and
I felt a pang of nostalgia. Mom and I weren’t real close, but I couldn’t help remembering
happy times in our little apartment behind the bar, with its linoleum floors and shabby
furniture. My tiny bedroom was butt up against the back wall of the tavern, and I
used to go to sleep to the click of pool balls and the wail of the jukebox. I felt
safe, knowing my mother was close by, even if she
was
refereeing brawls, topping off draft beers, and flirting for tips.

Behind the stores, huge pines jutted toward the supersized sky, and I caught glimmers
of Preacher Lake. In the winter, Parable looks like a vintage postcard. In fact, it’s
so 1950s that I half expected to blink and see everything in black-and-white.

I had reservations at the Lakeside Motel, since that was the only hostelry in town,
besides Mamie Sweet’s Bed and Breakfast. Mom wouldn’t have booked me a room there,
since she and Mamie had once had a hair-pulling match over a farm implement salesman
from Billings. Turned out he was married anyway, but as far as I knew, the feud was
still on.

Tristan brought the horse to a stop in front of the Lakeside, with nary a mention
of the B&B, another sign that Mom and Mamie had never had that Hallmark moment. He
dismounted and reached up to help me down.

I didn’t want to flash downtown Parable, but my choices were limited. As soon as I
was on the ground, I closed the gap in my slacks. Tristan grinned as I backed toward
the motel office, my face the same raspberry shade as my lace underpants.

The woman behind the registration desk was a stranger, but from the way she looked
me over, she one, knew who I was, and two, had heard an unflattering version of my
hasty departure on the four o’clock bus.

I bit my lower lip.

“You must be Gayle,” she said. She was tall and thin, with short, dark hair. I pegged
her for one of those people who live on granola and will risk their lives to protect
owls and old-growth timber.

I nodded. I had no purse, and no luggage. I’d just ridden into town on a horse, and
I was trying to hold my clothing together. I didn’t feel talkative.

Suddenly, she smiled and put out a hand in greeting. “Nancy Beeks,” she said. “Welcome
to the Lakeside.” She ruffled through some papers and slapped a form down on the counter,
along with one of those giveaway pens that run out of ink when you write the third
item on a grocery list. “You’re in Room 7. It overlooks the lake.”

After glancing back over my shoulder to make sure no one was about to step into the
office and get a good look at Victoria’s Secret, I took a risk and signed the form.
“My stuff will be arriving shortly,” I said, in an offhand attempt to sound normal.

“Sure,” Nancy said. Then she frowned. “What happened to your pants?”

She’d probably seen me on the front of Tristan’s horse, and I didn’t want her jumping
to any conclusions. “I—sat in something,” I said.

She nodded sagely, as though people in her immediate circle of friends sat in things
all the time. Maybe they did. Country life can be messy. “I could lend you something,”
she offered.

I flushed with relief, claiming the key to Room 7 with my free hand. “I would really
appreciate that,” I said. There was no telling how long it would be before my car
was delivered, along with the suitcase.

“Hold on a second.” Nancy left the desk, and disappeared into a back room. I heard
her feet pounding on a set of stairs, and she returned, handing me a pair of black
polyester shorts, just as a minivan pulled into the gravel parking lot out front.

I practically snatched them out of her hand. “Thanks.”

A husband, a wife, and four little kids in swimming suits got out of the van, stampeding
for the front door. I eased to one side, careful to keep my butt toward the wall.
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Nancy grin.

“Heck of a mess out on the highway,” the husband announced, as he stepped over the
threshold. He was balding, clad in plaid Bermuda shorts and a muscle shirt. The effect
of the outfit was brave but unfortunate. “Cattle all over the place. We had to wait
at least twenty minutes before the road was clear.”

“Where’s the pool?” one of the kids yelled. All four of them looked ready to thumb
their noses and jump in.

Their mother, a harried-looking woman in a saggy sundress, brushed mouse-brown bangs
back from her forehead. “There isn’t a pool,” she told the children, eyeing me curiously
as I sidestepped it toward the door, still keeping my back to the wall. “You can swim
in the lake.”

“Excuse me,” I said, and edged past her to make a break for it, the borrowed shorts
clutched in one hand.

Room 7 was around back, with the promised view of the lake, but I didn’t bother to
admire the scenery until I’d slammed the door behind me, peeled off my ruined slacks,
and wriggled into the shorts.

Only then did I take a look around. Tile floors, plain double bed, lamps with wooden
bases carved to resemble the chain-saw bears I’d seen in the gas station parking lot.
There was a battered dresser along one wall, holding up a TV that still had a channel
dial. The bathroom was roughly the size of a phone booth, but it was clean, and that
was all that mattered. I wouldn’t be in Parable long. Sit in on the negotiations,
sign the papers, and I’d be out of there.

I splashed my face with cold water and held my hair up off my neck for a few seconds,
wishing for a rubber band.

Going to the window, I pulled the cord and the drapes swished open to reveal the lake,
sparkling with June sunlight. There was a long dock, and I could see the four little
kids from the office jumping into the shallow end, with shouts of glee, while their
mother watched attentively.