Husband For Hire

“Gross,” a boy said. “Brian hurled chunks.” A few of the others, being boys, gathered around, echoing a chorus of “Gross!”

“Hey, Brian,” Rob said, taking out a handkerchief. “Got a little motion sickness there?”

Brian stayed bent over, hands on his knees, the back of his neck pale and clammy with sweat. “Uh-huh,” he said miserably.

Rob felt awkward as he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and mopped his face with the handkerchief. Briefly, he had considered specializing in pediatrics, but he’d opted for pathology instead. He didn’t think he had the patience or the special tenderness it took to deal with little kids. Brian looked completely forlorn, so Rob took him to the men’s room and had him rinse his mouth and wash his hands and face.

“Let’s go find your mom,” he suggested.

On the way to the raffle table, he stopped and got a cup of ice water for the kid. Twyla didn’t see them approach. Standing behind her table, she talked to a long-haired guy in blue jeans and a leather vest. She was smiling as she spoke to him.

There were some obvious reasons why Rob had noticed her and why he’d had an intense reaction to her. A great figure and abundant red hair. It was probably out of a bottle, but since she was a hairdresser, she’d know the best way to make it look natural. Or maybe it was natural. Brian’s fiery red hair had to have come from somewhere.

She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He’d noticed that right off.

Yet he felt more than a strong physical attraction to her. He had seen more gorgeous women before, had held them in his arms, taken them to his bed. But there was something about Twyla that went deeper than good looks. She had the most expressive face he had ever seen, eyes that hid nothing. When they spoke, he sensed an easy rhythm between them that worked. In one conversation she struck him as funny, sad, irreverent, practical, unassuming and proud. And self-deprecating.

She laughed at something the ponytail guy said. She hadn’t laughed like that for Rob. As soon as the thought formed, he felt like an idiot. What did he care about who made her laugh?

She noticed him coming toward her, and the laughter stopped. Her expression held a peculiar sweetness, and the way she looked down at her son, stroking his hair and brushing her knuckles over his forehead, evoked a strange and haunting reminder in Rob of a distant, dreamlike moment in the past.

He stepped back, frowning. This he didn’t need. Trips down memory lane had never held any appeal for him. He had to stay focused on his goals and his future. The sooner he got this auction thing over, the better.

“Hey, sport,” Twyla said, all her attention on Brian. “Did something happen?”

“I hurled,” Brian said glumly, sipping his water.

She glanced up at Rob. “And the medical term for this would be…?”

He was intrigued that she seemed to know he was a doctor. Apparently she’d looked over his bio. “Acute temporary emesis. Induced by vertigo.”

“Otherwise known as…?”

“Spinning on the tire swing until he puked. He’ll be fine. Have him sit in the shade for thirty minutes or so.”

“Are you going to bill me for this?”

He grinned. “Only if I don’t win the blanket.”

“Quilt. It’s a quilt. The pattern is called Log Cabin.”

“We’d better get going, Rob,” said the guy with the ponytail.

It took Rob a few seconds to recognize him as another former Lost Springs resident. “Hey, Stan. Good to see you here.”

A wail of electronic feedback obscured Stanley Fish’s remark. Rob shaded his eyes in the direction of the arena. “They’re ready to start.”

“I think you’re right.”

He felt a sudden, idiotic jolt of nerves. How had he let Lauren and her old school pal Lindsay talk him into this? He made himself look nonchalant as he nodded to Twyla. “See you around,” he said. “Brian, don’t get on any more spinning tire swings, okay?”

As he and Stan walked away from the table under the spreading oak tree, he said, “So you’re here for the meat market, too, right?”

“Nope, I came to cover the event.”

“Cover—”

“I work for Clue Magazine.”

“Great. You mean this is going to show up in a national magazine?”

“Hey, why not? It’s human interest. People live for stories like this. Mystery dates. Lost boys making good. Women getting into bidding wars over men.”

“Then do me a favor. If you quote me, call me an ‘unnamed source’.”

Stan scribbled something in a pocket notepad. “You wish.”

A young woman draped in camera equipment and wearing a vest with rows of pockets joined them. “Hey, guys.”

“Rob, this is Betta, my photographer.”

Rob greeted her. “So what do you think of a bachelor auction?”

“Sounds like a hell of a good time to me,” she said, pulling down the bill of her baseball cap to shield her eyes from the sun. “I always did like shopping.”

“Rob, I’m going to put you down as the reluctant bachelor. Hey, that’s got a nice ring to it.” Stan scratched in his notebook. “So why’re you here?”

“Because the place was home to me for eleven years.” Rob didn’t elaborate. But whatever love and esteem he’d gotten in those years, he’d gotten right here. And as much as that was, it had never been enough. “I came back as a favor to a friend of a…friend.” No point in dragging Lauren’s name into this. The press knew who she was because of her family.

“So, you looking forward to being sold off as a dream date?”

“Like a root canal, pal. Like a root canal.” He went toward the arena where the auction would take place. Rex and Lindsay ran around with clipboards like a couple of soccer coaches. Lindsay’s uncle, Sam Duncan, a retired coach and counselor, waved his cowboy hat in an attempt to round up the bachelors. A huge crowd filled the open-air risers—mostly women. Some of the guys were already present, seated in folding chairs around the auctioneer’s podium. They laughed and joked and punched one another in the shoulder, remembering old anecdotes from their days here. Rob took a seat by Cody Davis. He looked out at the busy, babbling audience and leaned over to say, “Are you as freaked out by this as I am?”

“Oh, yeah.” Cody hooked his cowboy boots around the legs of his chair and balanced it on its hind legs. “Where’d all these females come from, anyway?”

“All over, I’m told.” From behind his shades, Rob scanned the rows of bleachers. “Damn, that’s a lot of women.” They came in all shapes and sizes, all ages and persuasions. There were women in skin-tight western-cut jeans, some of them whistling and hooting good-naturedly as a couple of the guys postured for the audience, flexing their muscles and goofing around. A tall blond woman in jeans and a denim work shirt looked as if she had just stopped in and wasn’t certain she wanted to stay. Another sat with two small children, pointing at the risers and appearing to have a serious conference with the kids. A pregnant woman clutching the bachelor auction brochure to her chest sat alone—now there was a scary prospect.

Four women had planted themselves in the center of the front row. The two older ones wore spangled jogging suits and shiny sneakers. Another had golden hair teased high and was smoking a cigarette, and the petite Asian woman next to her looked completely enthralled with the entire situation.

Rob leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “You know,” he observed, “there really is no such thing as an ugly woman.”

Davis nodded readily. “That’s a fact. That is a fact.”

In a trained, booming voice, the auctioneer greeted everyone and laid out the rules of the event. Rob barely listened. There was a sense of absurdity about the whole thing that made it feel not quite real, as if this were a world set apart from everywhere else.

In a way, Lost Springs had always been that. A group of homeless boys whose families had failed them. This was the place where they had come together, where they had fought and cried and raged and laughed and learned. The ranch stood for hope and healing. Letting it close was not an option. That was why he was here. That was why he had agreed to go through with this lunacy. This was a place worth saving, because without it, boys like the boy he had been would have nowhere to go.

Lauren was adamant about doing charitable works. She belonged to a family so wealthy that fifty years ago they’d created a foundation for their charity. The DeVane Foundation employed a dozen staff members, and Lost Springs had been on their list for years. Rob had met Lauren at another Lost Springs fund-raiser, that one a fairly tame charity ball. The DeVanes were acquainted with the Fremonts of Lightning Creek, and Lauren had gone to boarding school with Kitty Fremont and Lindsay Duncan.