Reunited With The Bull Rider

Then Reed saw the perfect way to keep him near Callie when he wasn’t busy hiring contractors: he could answer his own fan mail. He had a stack of unsigned pictures he could autograph and some nice paper with his letterhead. He could write a quick note to the fan.

“No. But thanks, anyway. I’m making progress,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal.

He looked at the now six bags full of mail. He never realized that he and his brothers had all those fans.

“I think I should answer my own fan mail, Callie. I feel bad that I neglected them. I’m going to write a note and send a signed picture.”

He repeated himself. “Yes. It’s time I answered my own fan mail.”

Callie grunted. “I could set you up in the kitchen. Or your bedroom. You could answer it there.”

“Why bother? I have everything here that I need.”

“Reed, I see what you’re doing. You want to pester me and drive me crazy.”

“Nah. I have better things to do. Besides, you made it crystal clear—I think those were the words you used—that you weren’t interested in me. So I don’t see a problem. Pretend I’m not here in my own father’s study.”

“Reed—” He felt like her eyes were throwing daggers at his chest.

He grinned. “I think you’re protesting way too much. I can only think that you have feelings for me.”

“Just wait until I show you how wrong you are, cowboy.”

* * *

EARLY IN THE morning on her second day of work, Callie received a call from the brothers’ agent.

“Reed, I have to talk to you,” she said, waiting for the sound of his crutches. He was in the expansive ranch house somewhere. “Reed?”

“At your service, ma’am.” He was in the kitchen reading the paper and chugging coffee.

“Rick would like to know if you could fill in for one of his other clients. They want you to cook with a celebrity chef.”

He shrugged. “When and where?”

“This afternoon. They will come here to you. The show is called What’s in Your Refrigerator?”

“That sounds easy enough. What are we going to cook?”

“Whatever they find in your fridge. They are going to make a meal out of it.”

“Interesting concept,” he joked.

“Can you cook, Reed?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “No, I can’t. But I’m a master with a microwave.”

“If they use a microwave, I’d be surprised.”

“You never know.” He smiled. “Maybe I’ll go shine it up. Then I’m going to see what Inez left in the fridge before she went on vacation.”

“No. I had to promise that you wouldn’t open it until they tell you to do so on the air.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I shall not open it then. I don’t want to be arrested by the fridge police.”

“Good.”

“What a bull rider has to do, huh?” he asked.

“Probably with all the publicity you are getting, you’ll get new fans, and then there’ll be new fans for the PBR. The money doesn’t hurt, either. Your product endorsements are very lucrative, too.”

“The Three Musketeers are putting most every cent we can into the ranch.”

Callie nodded. “I can tell you are all pitching in, from some of the bank statements I’ve seen.”

“You’re going to know all about us, except what size underwear we wear.”

“Oh, I found a receipt from the Beaumont Emporium. I know that, too.”

He looked at Callie, eyes as wide as some of the belt buckles he sported.

She laughed. “Only kidding.”

He laughed. She enjoyed how he laughed—free and easy—as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

In fact, that was the essence of his personality. It must be nice to be like that.

“Reed, can I make a suggestion?”

“Try and stop you.”

“I think you should wear your cowboy clothes. Cargo shorts and a T-shirt that says Beach Bum might not be what this show is looking for.”

“Point taken. I’ll be right back.” He hurried down the hallway.

Callie wondered if Reed’s room was the same as it was in high school. She remembered it as a cheery room with colorful Navajo blankets and shelves packed with trophies and belt buckles. Each award displayed a picture of the presenter and the name of the event. There were bigger pictures of saddles, rifles and boots that he’d won—more boots than a man could ever wear. No wonder that they always looked like he’d just taken them out of a box. He had.

Several minutes later, the doorbell rang, and Reed yelled, “Do you mind getting that, Callie?”

“No problem.” She put down the files she was labeling on a cleared spot on the big desk and headed for the door.

“Hi,” she said, looking at all the equipment several people were unloading from a van parked out front.

An older woman with a clipboard waved. “We’re from What’s in Your Refrigerator?”

“Come in,” Callie said. “I’ll show you where the kitchen is and you can set up.”

A man with a white chef’s jacket and black-and-white-checked pants whistled. “I am Chef Marty. What a fabulous place! I heard that it was historic, but this is amazing.”