Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning

Denver — thirty-five years ago

“C’mon, c’mon, hurry up! Nobody cares our bus broke down. Just want a good time at curtains up!”

“I swear, if he says the show must go on, I’ll clobber him.”

Donna Roberts laughed at her roommate’s grumble. Lydia let the company’s chief nagger get under her skin at the best of times. For Lydia, like most in their national touring production of “Sweet Charity,” those best times came only when performing.

Now Lydia groaned. It also got under her skin that Donna was not among that
most
. “Don’t tell me you can still laugh.”

The two-and-a-half days since closing in Omaha
had
been tough. They’d also been a breath of fresh air and real life to Donna.

Not that being in a national touring company wasn’t rewarding. The weeks of rehearsals in New York had been amazing. Learning songs and choreography had left her walking on air — metaphorically. Literally, her feet had ached like crazy. So, months on the road wore off the gloss. That was only natural.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Brad shouted again. “Get your stuff to your rooms, get what you need, and back here in twenty.”

“We would if we could,” Lydia muttered.

Crew that had been on the bus should have been at the theater hours ago to prep for curtain. They’d slung bags into the lobby pell-mell sending arriving’s routine confusion into chaos.

Donna slid off her coat to drape it on the lobby’s old-fashioned banister. No way was she risking her prize to the protruding corners and edges of the luggage pile. She stepped over a bag, slid her foot into a crack, and stretched toward a slice of blue that might be . . .

“Sound-check top of the hour, everybody but Charity—”

“Sure, Miss TV Star gets a pass,” Lydia hissed to Donna.

“ — then run-through only before curtain. Run-through only!” Brad shouted. “Twenty! Not a second more. Go, go,
Go
!”

Donna shifted her weight to her front leg. She elbowed aside a knobby canvas bag with something protruding, and . . . Yes, it was her bag. If she could budge that duffel, which had to outweigh her, and the suitcase on top of it —

She stopped, frozen by the sensation of a spotlight trained on her, when she was neither on stage nor a star. Still, from her high school and college days, she wasn’t unfamiliar with the experience. This brought similar warmth across her chest and throat, while her fingers and toes went cold, butterflies rioted in her stomach, and her heart swelled with a
rightness
. Yet this was different . . .

Yes, that was it. Each element was even warmer, even colder, even flightier, and carried far, far more rightness.

Slowly, she lifted her head.

A tall young man with broad shoulders stood at the edge of the company’s chaos. He wore a blue-striped shirt tucked into jeans, topped by a plain tan winter jacket, and a dark brown cowboy hat. She had never seen a cowboy hat look more at home on anyone, including John Wayne and Steve McQueen.

He wasn’t the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. She’d been in the business for a year and a half now, and she’d seen a fair number of drop-dead gorgeous guys. Feature for feature, he didn’t match up. No way.

Attractive, absolutely. Appealing, oh, yes. And something else . . . Real. That was it.
Real
.

He looked back at her steadily, almost solemnly.

Deep in his eyes, a light burned that she couldn’t quite catch. Almost as if she glimpsed — Donna sucked in a breath.

The sound snapped her trance, and she broke the look.

What had gotten into her? He probably wasn’t even looking at her. Most likely, she’d caught the edge of somebody else’s spot. Plenty of the girls were knockouts — they sure were taller, with legs that went on and on and on, while Donna’s just went.

He was probably looking at Lydia or Raeanne or MaryBeth or Nora. She hoped not Nora.

She looked back at the young man.

He was looking at her.

Only at her.

Her heart
ba-BOOM
ed like the bass drum.

“Let’s go, let’s go! C’mon, Roberts. You asleep in there?”

Donna jolted, nearly losing her balance. “My bag. Bottom —”

Before her mumble was half out, the tall young man strode forward, removed duffel and suitcase with ease, and scooped up her bag, presenting it to her like it weighed nothing.

She stared into steady gray eyes with a spark that —

“Roberts!” Brad shouted.

She grabbed the handles of her bag, and lugged it behind her as she retraced her path through the dwindling mass of bags. At the edge, she turned back. The young man stood where she’d left him, watching her.

“Thank you.”

“Welcome.” He smiled. And drop-dead gorgeous didn’t hold a candle to him.

“Donna! Not holding this elevator if you don’t get in now,” Lydia yelled.

“Thank you very much!” She wheeled, grabbed her coat, and ran for the elevator.

Ed Currick remained where he was, watching the closed elevator door until physiology forced him to blink.

In his life he’d been thrown by horses, bulls, and a tractor. Nothing had ever knocked the breath out of him the way she had.

Entering from the street, he’d discovered the dignified, even stuffy atmosphere of the Rockton Hotel he’d left this morning transformed to a loud, energized, and disorganized scene.

He’d looked across the lobby at the crowd causing the hubbub, and there she’d been. Laughing.

The faces around her had been varying shades of intent, harried, cranky, drawn.

She was laughing.

She was the shortest in a cluster of young women, yet she’d held every bit of his attention. Then she’d taken off her coat, revealing curves perfectly proportioned to her height, and waded into the mountain of luggage like the adventure of a lifetime.

To that point he’d been intrigued.

Then she looked up and their gazes met . . .

It was like all the horses, bulls, and tractors he’d ever been on had gotten together and thrown him at once. Like he was lying flat, with not an atom of air left in his lungs, while something stronger and hotter expanded his heart until he was sure his chest wouldn’t hold it, and all the while he stared into the dazzling sun.

“Are you okay, young man?”

He jerked his head around, only then realizing he’d stayed in place staring at the closed elevator door for who knew how long.

A tiny woman, easily as old as his grandmother, stood nearby, wrapped up in obvious preparation for going outside.

“Ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “I’m fine, Ma’am.”

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

“No, Ma’am.” And what he thought he saw he wasn’t about to tell a soul. Ever.

Her gaze flicked to the elevator door, then back to him. “Hmph” was all she said before exiting.

He pulled in a breath, and damned if his chest didn’t feel sore, almost like he
had
been thrown by a horse or a bull or a tractor.

Not that a little soreness mattered.

After every one of the throws he’d ever experienced, he’d not only gotten up off the ground, he’d eventually mastered the beast or machinery he’d been tackling. Most times after a lot of hard work and a few more rib-jolting throws, but he got there in the end.

He’d just do the same with
her
.

He felt his lips twist up. Well, not exactly the same. This was going to require a skill set that didn’t enter into his daily life much. Nope, horse-sense, cow-sense, and mechanical aptitude weren’t going to get him very far with her.

Her
.

He hadn’t even gotten her name. And that could be a real drawback, since he intended to marry her.

“Hey, you. You got one,” Grover rumbled as he neared her.

The stage door keeper’s announcement stopped Donna as she pulled on her coat, ready to leave for the night. He was looking right at her, so she must be “you.” But his words didn’t make sense.

Maybe double performances today on top of last night’s scramble had caught up with her. Her legs were holding up okay, but apparently her mind had turned to jelly. “One?”

“Yep, and this one knows respect. Held the door for Maudie like a gentleman.”

“One what?” she specified.

“Them stage-door-Johnnies. That’s what I call ‘em. When I’m being polite-like,” Grover said.

She’d wondered yesterday when they’d returned to the lobby on the way to the theater . . . but no one had been there. No one interesting.

“What’re you looking at?” Lydia had demanded.

Donna had covered her three-sixty survey of the lobby with “Searching for signs of holiday cheer. Decorations are up lots of places.”

Lydia had snorted. “What difference do holidays make to us? Just another day at the office.”

Last night when they’d left the theater, Donna had squelched an urge to look around. That would have been silly. She wasn’t the siren type.

“You must have me confused with one of the other girls.” She gave Grover’s arm a no-hard-feelings pat. “I’m Donna Roberts.”

“No mistake. Donna Roberts. That’s the one he wants.” Grover wheezed with silent laughter at his double entendre.

Donna felt heat in her cheeks. Blushing. How stupid for a grown woman who was making a life in the theater for heaven’s sakes. She wasn’t some innocent from the Midwest. Not entirely.

But neither was she in the market for a tour-stop fling, as some in the company enjoyed, then forgot as soon as the bus pulled out. “As long as you both know you’re ships passing in the night, it’s fun,” Lydia often said. “As long as you don’t fall for one of them. Big mistake.”

In theory, Donna saw the appeal. In practice, she’d never felt the inclination to try.

“I’m not interested,” she told Grover now.

“Aw, see the boy,” came Maudie’s voice from behind her in the narrow corridor. Donna had never heard the woman’s title with the company, probably because no title covered all the varied chores she did. “Couldn’t have been kinder when he helped me at the door. Most don’t see an old lady like me. He’s a nice one.”

“But Grover said— Well, you heard him.”

“I heard. Just proves he’s a male. What would you be wanting with one who didn’t want that eventually? A lot of good he’d do you. But this one won’t be after you for it before you say hello like some. Go meet the boy.”

“No. I’m not interested. We’re only here a short time.” Even as she said the last sentence she realized its weakness. What did it matter how long they were in Denver if she wasn’t interested?

“No reason to be afraid,” Maudie said.

“I’m not afraid —”

“Go to the place around the corner. There’ll be plenty of us in there to call out to if you’re not comfortable.”

Oh. That kind of afraid.

“Just don’t be going back to the hotel alone. This Colfax Avenue isn’t the worst area we’ve been in, but it’s not the best, either. Fine with a crowd — or a young man who knows how to handle himself as he appears to be. Why they stick us way out here instead of with the rest of the theaters, I don’t know.”