Tall, Dark & Western

“I’m Juliette Duchenay.” The angel held out her hand. Then she smiled.

Marty hoped his face didn’t show the shock to his system as he slowly reached out and enfolded her fragile fingers in his much larger, anything but fragile palm. The smile transformed her from classically lovely to drop-dead beautiful, bringing a mischievous sparkle to her eyes and displaying white, perfect teeth. Her smile had a pixieish quality to it, a genuine friendliness that he found he liked. A lot.

“It’s good to meet you.” It was the first thing he could manage to say, the first words his tongue would wrap themselves around as his palm swallowed hers. She had the tiniest hands he’d ever seen, and the skin was as warm and soft and feminine as he’d imagined.

There was an awkward silence.

Marty roused himself from his bemused stupor. He usually was smooth as silk with the ladies and proud of it. Mrs. Juliette Duchenay would think he was a tongue-tied prairie clod if he didn’t start talking.

“Would you like to sit down?” There. That was a start.

“Thank you.” The faintest touch of pink rose in her cheeks again. A discreet tug made him realize he still was holding her hand and he let her fingers slide away from his, an unsettling feeling of regret lingering. He’d liked holding her hand. The color in her cheeks deepened as he held a chair for her, and he wondered if the skin there felt as baby-soft and fine as it looked. She smiled at him as he seated her at one of the small white tables. “Thank you for wearing your hat. It made you easy to find.”

He nodded, not about to tell her that he’d done this nearly a dozen times with prior candidates, all of whom had been unsuitable. “You’re welcome.” He indicated the food counters ranged around the walls beyond the potted palms and white pillars. “Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“No, thank you.” She shook her head. She glanced at the elegant gold watch on her slim wrist. “I’m on my break, so I don’t have much time. Why don’t we just talk?”

He nodded. Took a deep breath. “Why did you answer my ad?” Why would a woman like you need to marry a stranger?

Delicately arched eyebrows drew together in a perplexed expression. “I…it was an impulse, if you want to know the truth.”

“And how are you feeling about the impulse now? I’m not interested in something short-term, Mrs. Duchenay. This would be a permanent arrangement.”

“Please call me Juliette. I’m still interested, Mr.— Marty.”

Her eyes were soft and luminous. He could look into those eyes for the rest of his life without any trouble, any trouble at all.

“Good.” He wanted to take her hand, to touch her again. God, her skin was soft. Was she that soft all over? He could hardly wait to find out.

“So,” he said. “You work in the mall.”

“Yes,” she said. “And you’re a rancher.”

Even if he hadn’t put his occupation in the ad, he knew it wasn’t a hard call. His skin was tanned from his work outdoors, especially since they’d had a mild fall until the recent big snow. No, as he surveyed his big mitts, he saw there was no way anyone could mistake his hands—scarred from encounters with cranky cattle, barbwire, buffaloberries, splintered wood and hammers that missed their mark—for a city boy’s.

“Beef or sheep?” his pretty lady asked.

“Beef. My brother and I have an outfit near the Badlands. Our ranch is called the Lucky Stryke.”

“Have you always lived there?”

“All my life. Are you from this area?” He was pretty sure she wasn’t, but he couldn’t figure out where her accent might have been from.

She hesitated for a moment so brief that he could have imagined it. Then she said, “No. I’ve only been in Rapid City a short while. I was born in California but my family moved around a lot so I don’t really call anyplace ‘home.”’

“Where do you work?”

“At the moment, in a women’s clothing shop. But I’d really love to work in a bookstore. Of course, I’d never make any money because I’d spend it all on books.”

Marty laughed. “I know the feeling. What do you like to read?”

She shrugged. “Just about anything I can get my hands on. All types of fiction, nonfiction, magazines…my only requirement is that it be well written and gripping.”

“So that leaves out cereal boxes,” he said.

She smiled again, and again it hit him like a physical contact from a fist. Had he ever seen a woman as classically beautiful? As vibrant?

“Don’t bet on that,” she said, and it took him a moment to remember they were talking about cereal boxes.

There was another small silence, and he smiled at her across the table, enchanted with her feminine presence.

She shook her head. “I can’t believe you have to advertise for a wife.”

He shrugged. “There aren’t that many women who want to live in the back of beyond with a lot of cows.”

“Exactly what are you looking for?” she asked him. “What do you want a wife to do?”

Marty hesitated. Then he shrugged. “No point in sugar-coating it,” he said. “I work long hours, mostly outdoors. I need someone to keep my house clean and in good shape, wash and mend clothes, make meals and take care of my daughter. Maybe plant a garden in the summer and help with the stock sometimes.”

Her eyes widened. “I’m willing to work and I like to cook but you might have to teach me a few things about gardening and animals.”

So she was a city girl, just as he’d suspected. “I could do that.”

“How old is your daughter?”

“She’ll be five next June. Her mother passed away two years ago and—” The expected pang of grief and guilt clutched at his heart as it always did, and he suppressed the flood of emotion that threatened. “—and she really needs a woman’s hand,” he finished quietly.

Juliette nodded, her face serious and sympathetic.

Marty shrugged his shoulders, wishing he were another man in another time, meeting this woman without all the baggage that came with his life. Then he immediately was overwhelmed by guilt. How could he even be thinking stuff like that when he’d once promised to love Lora forever? Until death. He wanted to squeeze his skull between his palms until all the contrary notions settled down. “It doesn’t sound very attractive, I know—”

“It does to me,” she said.

He stared at her. “It does?”

“I think I’d like being a housewife.” She smiled. “That is what you mean, right?”

“Yes. Although I think the politically correct term today is ‘domestic engineer.”’

She laughed. “I like the sound of that.” Then she glanced at her watch again. “I’d better be getting back to work.”

“Afraid you’ll get fired?”

She smiled serenely. “No. I’m a good sales-woman.”

“Do you like it?”

She shrugged. “It’s a job. One of life’s necessary evils.”