The Cowboy Meets His Match

She took a step backward and vowed to get out more and meet men now that she was unattached again. In her deprivation she was becoming a little too worked up about nothing. Certainly rawhide and dimestore aftershave weren’t her perferred sexual stimulants.

But then she caught another whiff of it, and she wondered if he wasn’t getting the best of her without even trying. Only pride stopped her from running from the room in terror, her nose pinched to protect her from her own unwanted chemical reactions.

With great effort she tossed him a bored, dismissive glance. “I’m so sorry. Did you say something?”

His handsome mouth twisted in a grin. “I don’t believe I whispered. I was asking you about corsets.”

“Well, I’m sorry to ruin your bunkhouse fantasies, but I don’t wear a corset and never have. But what I know from history is that tight corsets cracked ribs and deformed internal organs. They also constricted breathing and blood flow. I’m sure that’s obvious from the pictures, and I hardly think any of it was a thrill.”

“You’ve researched that, too—along with cowboys, huh, ice princess?”

It was only one silly insult among others he had already heaped on her in a brief time. But his remark cut dangerously close to memories that were still like open wounds. It’s not my fault you’re solid ice from the neck down.

For a second the old pain and humiliation rushed back, so fresh it numbed her. All over again she felt like one of those sordid, vulgar, shouting idiots on the tabloid TV shows—betrayed and publicly mortified by the very people she counted on most to sympathize with her.

The cowboy stood only a few feet away. His gleaming, invasive gaze held her while he waited for her to reply.

Hazel saved the day by arriving at the awful moment. She bustled into the parlor, skirts rustling, carrying an old-fashioned musette bag stuffed with faded envelopes.

“Here you go, Jacquelyn, some of Jake’s letters from the folks back East. I trust you two had a chance to discuss your upcoming ride?”

Jacquelyn had to fight to slow her pounding heart. It was now or never.

“Hazel, I can’t go,” she managed to say, with great difficulty, accepting the letters from Hazel. She hurried back to her chair to retrieve her recorder. Then she headed toward the wide parlor doors. During all the fluster of activity she refused to look in Clayburn’s direction.

“I’m sorry, Hazel, but it’s simply out of the question. I…I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

“All right, dear,” Hazel said, dismissing her. “It’s my fault, I suppose, for jumping to conclusions. One can’t assume the wood is solid just because the paint is pretty.”

“Yeah, she looks that way all right,” A.J.’s voice added behind Jacquelyn. “You ask me, though, the whole dang Rousseaux family needs to move their summer lodge out of here. They’d be more at home in a sunny condo in Florida or California. Among their own kind.”

Jacquelyn had been on the feather edge of rushing from the house, but Clayburn’s words acted on her like a brake. She turned to stare at him.

“And just what kind might that be, Mr. Clayburn?” she demanded, convinced her green eyes were snapping sparks.

“The grasping kind,” he told her bluntly and without hesitation. “I know all about your father and his dang plans to develop and ruin Mystery Valley. I’m no fan, Miss Rousseaux. I have no need for big-city developers and jet-setting money-grubbers who get rich off other men’s risk and labor. So what kind, Miss Rousseaux? The carpetbagging, uppity, Perrier-sipping, spoiled-brat kind who need to be brought down to size. That kind, Miss Rousseaux.”

He hurled each word at her like a poison-tipped spear.

But Jacquelyn only became even more determined and defiant. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Clayburn, that I don’t support my father in his company’s demand to develop Mystery Valley. But I’ll remind you that it’s not your place nor my place to make that decision for this community. It’s up to the town council to vote on it. And if you have an opinion, Mr. Rodeo Star, why don’t you hire someone to write it down for you and exercise your rights in this democracy of ours and give it to your town council.”

The silence almost boomed after she was through.

Hazel watched them both with the rapture of a tennis fan at Forest Hills.

Then suddenly A. J. Clayburn broke out in rude, lustful laughter. “I’ll be damned. You must be a writer. Nobody else I know could do that in a paragraph the way you just did.”

The anger almost choked her. “You know very well I’m a journalist, and it was not given to me, by the way, Mr. Clayburn. I had to work hard at it.”

“Even if Daddy does own the paper,” he taunted, his steely gaze shadowed by the rim of his hat.

“Even if Daddy does own the paper,” she defied, pronouncing every cold word.

“Then I’m half sorry we’re not going up on that mountain, miss. Maybe you could teach me a new word or two.” He looked at Hazel, resignation in his handsome smile.

“Hazel, I’ve changed my mind,” Jacquelyn announced, surprising even herself. “Mr. Clayburn, Hazel has my work and home phone numbers. Since we’ll be crossing one of the most difficult mountain passes in the Continental Divide, would I be too much of an ‘uppity, Perrier-sipping brat’ if I request at least one day to prepare?”

“You go right ahead, Miss Rousseaux. Do whatever you think is necessary,” he said as if patronizing her.

Hazel walked her out, looking way too pleased by Jacquelyn’s anger. Just as she was about to let the younger woman through the front door, Hazel whispered, “Don’t you worry about anything on the trip, Jacquelyn. A.J. will handle it. That’s why he’s the best one to take you. Oh, and by the way, don’t go teaching him any new words, either.” The older woman gave a meaningful pause. “He’d only want to learn the dirty Latin ones, anyway.”

Hazel’s Lazy M spread sat in the exact center of verdant Mystery Valley. Several thousand acres of lush pasture crisscrossed by creeks and run-off streams and dotted with scarlet patches of Indian paintbrush.

The town of Mystery, with a year-round population of four thousand, was a pleasant fifteen-minute drive due east from the Lazy M’s stone gateposts. The Rousseaux’s summer lodge was a ten-minute walk to the west, the ranch’s nearest habitation.

Jacquelyn, who had driven to Hazel’s place from the Gazette offices, turned east out of Hazel’s long driveway. Her thoughts, like her emotions, were still in a confused riot. What had she just committed herself to? How could she possibly ever endure such an ordeal—especially in the company of such a man?

Tears abruptly filmed her eyes. The extent of her vulnerability surprised and dismayed her. A. J. Clayburn’s crude baiting had brought back all the insecurities, all the bitter misery Joe and Gina had dragged her through.

Gina and Joe had proved perfect for each other, a matched set. As harmonious as the easy, breezy alliteration of their names. They were both charming, careless people, takers not givers, and honored no laws except self-survival and gratification of their sensual pleasures. And they had taught her a valuable lesson: it was easier to deal with known enemies than with phony friends.

At least, she had to admit as she reached the outskirts of town, A. J. Clayburn wasn’t feigning friendship.

She parked her car. When she entered the office, the red light was on over the darkroom door, which meant Bonnie was busy making photo-offset plates for the next issue of the paper. She left a brief note explaining Hazel’s imperious request, then hung up her hat for the day.

She was returning to her BMW, angle parked out front, when a throaty female voice cut into the tumult of her thoughts.

“Hey, there! How’s ’bout a ride for an old geezer?”

Jacquelyn saw her mother veer toward her along the brick sidewalk, carrying a plastic shopping bag. It bulged from the weight of several clinking liquor bottles.

“I walked to town,” Stephanie Rousseaux explained, “with all sorts of healthy aerobic intentions. But next time I get the fitness urge, I’ll remember to wear tennis shoes. Good God, my feet are killing me! I can’t wait until your father and I return to Atlanta. How I wish at least one of our local rednecks would exchange his pickup truck for a limo service.”

At forty-eight, Stephanie was still a striking woman, her hair covering the right side of her face in a hip style. Though lately she was stouter than she had been and a bit more grim around the mouth. She made it a point of honor to always be civil and even-tempered. But while she was far too cultivated and controlled to ever create an emotional scene, Stephanie had developed a chilly, disengaged manner that stymied others around her. Including her own daughter.

“Some of the local yokels,” Stephanie remarked as her daughter backed out into the sparse traffic of Main Street, “seem surprised that I’m still sober at midday.”

“Mother,” Jacquelyn pleaded, “please don’t start with that.”

“Start with what, Miss Goody Two-shoes?” Stephanie countered, adjusting her diva shades. “I’m quite proud that I have strict rules concerning my addiction. I’m disciplined, just like your dear old dad. After all, baby, decorum should rule everything, don’t you agree? Even a Southern debutante’s failed life.”

Mine or yours? Jacquelyn felt like shouting. But there was no point. She knew her mother meant herself.

“You know,” Jacquelyn said, keeping her tone patient and persuasive, “they have A.A. meetings out here, too, Mom. I checked it out. And you know, Dr. Rendquist told you—”

“Zip it. Renquist doesn’t know his elbow from his libido. The only reason I go to him is because he keeps me in touch with the charming Prince Valium. I’ve decided A.A. is for the great unwashed masses. Your elitist mother has a better system.”

Stephanie shook the bag, clinking the glass bottles inside to emphasize her point.