Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning (3 page)

“Cutout cookies. And butter cookies we make into tree shapes or wreaths with a cookie press, then decorate.”

“I’d probably eat a few of those,” he said judiciously.

“You’d have eaten more than a few of the ones at that church. We repaid them the only way they’d let us, by literally singing for our supper.”

He smiled, and she had an instant, vivid flash of two images blending together. Like seeing a double exposure, this one held an image of a toddler and another one of an older man with gray streaking his hair. Yet both had the exact same grin, like they were related. And . . . Yes, a
third
exposure, another image, this one of the man in front of her. And it was his grin she saw. His grin shared with the toddler and the older man. She wanted to wrap her arms around all of them, because seeing them made her heart —

“You okay, Donna?” His low voice reached her from far away, then an electric current connected with her hand. She jolted. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

She looked from where his hand covered hers on the table, to his no-longer-smiling face. Definitely the face she’d seen. As it was now, but also the toddler’s and the older man’s. How strange. How very strange.

“Donna?”

“I’m fine. Really. I . . . ” She slid her hand from under his, picked up her sandwich. “What was I saying?”

“Singing for your supper.”

“Right,” she nodded. “We started with numbers from the show — the parts suitable for a church. I did Charity, since I’m the understudy. And they applauded and cheered, and some sang along. It was like when I fell in love with dancing and singing.”

“And acting?”

“That came later, to wrap it all together. Dad says I came out of the womb dancing and singing. Mom worked like crazy with the lessons and rehearsals and recitals.” Impulsively, she put her hand on his arm. “Do you have something you feel passionately about?”

“The Slash-C. That C’s for Currick. Been in the family for generations. It’s . . . home.”

She caught her breath at the way he said the last word.

He might have felt it, too, because he turned the subject. “So you sang from your show for the people at the church.”

“Then we all sang Christmas carols as we cleaned up. We stood in the doorway, singing “Silent Night” as they drove off, and it started to snow. It was . . . magical. The best experience since — ”

Abruptly she became aware they were holding hands across the table. She drew her hand free to fold her napkin, telling how the replacement bus didn’t arrive until late Tuesday.

They drove through the night and into Wednesday, the hours ticking down toward that night’s show. The scramble, with so little time and a new theater and everyone tired. And then two shows today. “Wildest days of the whole tour,” she concluded.

He asked more about her time in New York, and she answered readily. When he asked where else the tour had been, she rattled off what felt like a Greyhound bus schedule, ending with “. . . then Omaha, then here. My first time to see the Rocky Mountains, even if it is from a distance.”

“New theater every week?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes less, sometimes more. So, tell me about your ranch,” she said. Not the smoothest transition, but a crease had appeared between his strong brows, and she wanted to change the subject to see if it would go away.

“Ranch is in the same place every day,” he said. She thought that was more of his deadpan humor but wasn’t sure since he was looking around, not meeting her eyes.

The final group of her fellow company members got up to leave, talking and yawning and waving.

“Ma’am? May we have our check, please?” Ed asked the waitress. Then he addressed Donna, “You ready?”

She looked at her plate, barely remembering what she’d eaten, and yet with a sudden, odd emptiness. “I guess I am.”

“We’ll follow along with your friends, so you’re not feeling like you’re walking alone so late with a stranger,” he said as he paid.

The emptiness in her disappeared. He wasn’t hurrying their departure for any reason other than consideration.

He stood, holding her coat.

It was a courtesy she appreciated. Not because she wasn’t a capable and independent woman, but because getting into a coat could be awkward, what with heavy layers to contend with. Women should help men with their coats, too.

She slid one arm in, holding the cuff of her sweater with her fingers so it didn’t bunch up.

That was when she felt the warm wall of his chest behind her. Not touching, but so
there
. He still held her coat while she twisted to insert her second cuff-holding hand into the opposite sleeve, so his arms resembled a ballerina’s in first position with her in the center. Only anything less like a ballerina’s delicacy was hard to imagine. He was solid heat, surrounding her, tempting her.

She missed the armhole.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his breath stirring her hair, adding a shiver to the heat transferring from his body deep into hers.

“My fault.” She bit her lip, concentrating on getting her hand in. She flurried into words. “I love this coat, but it does have narrow sleeves. The price you pay for high fashion.”

Success. Her arm was in the sleeve.

“Is it warm?”

With both arms coated, she continued her motion to pivot, feeling somehow that facing him would remove this sense of sinking into his heat.

Except he didn’t release her coat, so he still was connected to her and the spotlight sensation returned in full force. As bright, hot and direct as before.

Warm? Oh, yes, very warm
.

She sucked in a breath, then let it out on a stream of words.

“Warm doesn’t matter. I had fantastic luck finding this coat at a thrift store in New York — designer, with hardly any wear, and I got it for a steal. Of course, it needs a belt for the full 007 trench coat effect.”

“It’s red,” he said, a hand at the small of her back. “Bright red.”

“I especially love that. It lifts my spirits no matter what.”

He reached past her to open the door. “Can’t imagine a spy wearing a red coat.”

She laughed. “Maybe not an ordinary spy. But James Bond doesn’t blend in, so why should I?”

“You wouldn’t ever blend in.”

The depth of his voice had a strange effect, threatening her ability to stay upright. A wind from nowhere buffeted her and swung one side of her coat wide, plastering it against his legs.

“You’ll freeze out here. You should button up.”

“Can’t. No buttons.”

He frowned. “Designers make coats with no buttons?”

“Sure, some do. But in this case, someone apparently cut them off. So, until I find the buttons, I do this —” She overlapped the front edges and wrapped her arms around herself.

“You need a warm coat. You’re in Denver, not Atlanta.” That was one of the stops she’d mentioned. Of course they’d been
there
during a heat wave.

“Only for — ” She didn’t know exactly. “- a few days.”

“Days? You can freeze to death in hours.”

“I’m not going to freeze to death. Look at how nice it is now.” The errant gust was gone, the night still and crisp. There were enough people on the streets to not feel isolated. Holiday decorations enlivened windows of stores and businesses.

“It can turn not-nice real fast. It’s nearly December, and —” He gestured to the poster of a familiar red-clad figure in a nearby window. “— there’s a reason Santa wears fur.”

She chuckled. “He doesn’t care about style, and I do. So, what brings you to Denver?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You know, even a cowpuncher recognizes a change of subject.”

“I’m glad he does, though I have no idea why someone would punch a cow.”

“To get the cow to move. Though
cowpoke
’s more accurate. Can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone punch a cow, even if Alex Karras supposedly did it to a horse in ‘Blazing Saddles.’ ”

“You’ve seen that movie?”

“Yes’m. Them there talkin’ picture shows came to Wyoming a
leetle
while back now.”

“I didn’t —” She started to apologize if he thought she’d implied his state was backward. Then she spotted mischief in his eyes. “Okay, I deserved that. Now, back to what brings you to Denver.”

“That wasn’t to change the subject from your not having a warm coat?”

“At first,” she admitted, and he chuckled, “but now I want to know. What brought you here?”

“Stock.”

“
Really
? But it’s winter.”

He smiled. “Not your kind of stock. My kind — livestock.”

She laughed. And found him looking at her with warmth, approval, appreciation, and something more. He struck her as someone more inclined to smile than laugh, yet he enjoyed her laughing as much as she enjoyed it herself.

“How egocentric, thinking stock meant summer stock theater and how snobby, being surprised there’d be any here. Especially since I grew up in Indiana, not exactly a hot bed of theater.”

“Well, what I’m here for
is
a stock show. But nothing like what you do.”

“You know about summer stock theater?”

“I’ve seen a black and white movie or two on TV.”

“Ah, Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney,” she said wisely.

“My primary resource for information on the theater.”

“Then you can’t blame me for basing my ranch knowledge on ‘Bonanza’ and ‘The Big Valley.’ ”

“Wrong century, but we don’t take much to new-fangled ways, so you’re fine.” She giggled. He smiled. “So, you’re from Indiana? Farm girl?”

She shook her head. “Not unless you count driving past them. But tell me about this stock show. Is it a big deal?”

“The big one’s in January, but folks I wanted to talk to were coming to this, so I arranged to get away.”

“December? January? I can think of better times to come to Denver — unless you’re a skier.”

He grinned. “Less of a skier than a roper.”

“Around the ranch,” she said with a nod. “Like ‘Bonanza.’ ”

“That and rodeo.”

“Rodeo? So you
are
a cowboy?”

He slanted her a look. “You got a special fondness for cowboys?”

There was meaning in the question, and there would be meaning in her answer. No matter what answer she gave.

She met his gaze, and said, “I don’t know. Yet.”

She was caught by a flare in his eyes. Still, his words and tone were mild. “Fair enough.”

This undercurrent could tug her right out to sea . . . where their ships would be passing each other, heading opposite directions, just like Lydia always said.

“So, rodeo . . . You’re one of those who gets thrown from a horse?”

“Not if I can help it.” A grin accompanied his dry words. “Used to do some bronc riding — bare and saddle. A little steer wrestling. But as my mom says, there’s not much difference between getting thrown from a bronc and throwing yourself off a perfectly good horse to wrestle a steer. Mostly I focus on roping events.”

“Your mom,” she repeated, ignoring broncs, getting thrown, or wrestling a steer. All of which sounded disturbingly dangerous.

Not that mothers weren’t.

“Yeah. She’s something else. Third-generation Wyoming. Grew up on a ranch. Knows more about horses and cattle than any other ten people. Dad always says he knew marrying her meant marrying a herd, too. She’d like you.”

“How on earth can you know that?” A ranch woman like Mrs. Currick was far more likely to see a singer-dancer with Broadway aspirations as flighty, if not a downright floozy. Maybe she could win her over —

What
?
Wait
. What was she doing, thinking of winning over this unknown woman?

“She’d like you because I do,” Ed said.

She looked into the gray heat of his eyes and her mental protest evaporated to nothing. No, not to nothing. It converted to steam. Steam that filtered through her bloodstream and pooled in her lungs, consuming all her oxygen. Until she gasped to draw in more.

Just as she did, he leaned down and touched his mouth to hers.

It was a gentle kiss, undemanding. He seemed careful not to crowd her with his greater height and size.

A mouth against a mouth. That’s all.

All
. . . Yes, that’s what it was. All. All of her. All of him. All of the universe.

He was the universe, surrounding her. His presence and the mingled scent of warm man and cold air rippled around her, while drawn-in breaths brought the tastes and scents of him inside her.

She wanted to step into him, to refuge against him.

She wanted to open her mouth, to taste the promised heat.

She wanted to touch him, to feel the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, the strength promised by those shoulders.

She wanted . . .

She wanted
.

With a gasp that came as much from shock as oxygen deprivation, she stepped back.

“I’ve got to . . . I should . . . ” She gestured over her shoulder to the hotel’s entry. “Go inside.”

“We’re going the same way.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

He held the door, then followed her in and to the elevator, where he pressed the up button. Her heartbeat went from the lightest high-hat flutter straight to bass drum. She stood beside him. Silent. Unable to say anything, think anything.

The elevator came, the door sliding open, the car yawning before her. Them. He urged her forward with his warm hand at the small of her back — warmth so vivid that even through coat, sweater, and shirt she could pinpoint each cell experiencing it.

Only when she was inside and turned to face the door did she realize he hadn’t followed her.

“Good night, Donna.”

“Good night, Ed.”

The door slid closed. The lurch as the elevator rose explained her wobbly knees. But what explained the wide-eyed look of . . .
shock
? that stared back from the door’s polished metal surface?

Three of the girls tumbled into the room she shared with Lydia, demanding to know all about “The Cowboy.”

“Rancher,” she said.

“Looked like you were having a good time,” Lydia said. “Talking and laughing.”