The Rancher Needs A Wife

“I second that motion,” said Charlie.

The ladies of the board agreed, and Wayne settled back into his chair, coasting along with the political maneuver and preparing to consider the one proposal he expected to hear tonight. News of Kelleran’s offer had leaked the moment he’d made it, and it hadn’t taken long for a groundswell of support to rise in favor of one particular use for the windfall. It wasn’t a purely democratic system, but it seemed to work just fine for the folks in and around Tucker. No one liked to rock the boat—unless enough of them thought it should be capsized and sent to the bottom.

He reclaimed the microphone to recognize Frank Guthrie, father of two Tucker High students—a varsity lineman and an all-county first baseman—and president of the athletic boosters’ organization.

Guthrie strode to the front of the room and hitched up his silver rodeo-prize belt buckle before turning to face his fellow parents and community members. “In anticipation of a certain amount of money being suddenly made available to the high school,” he said, “it just so happens I have here a list for some equipment and materials, along with bids for the construction and labor required for setting things up.”

He raised a handful of papers. “I propose that the board approve the purchase of a new football and baseball scoreboard for the high school field, along with new metal stands to seat a crowd of two hundred.”

More whistles accompanied the cheering for Guthrie’s speech, and he bobbed his head and clapped with the others, crushing the edges of his list. “And it just so happens,” he continued, “that the total for these improvements is only a tad bit over twenty-five thousand dollars. The members of the booster club figure they can cover the excess amount with the proceeds from a barbecue dinner served up as part of the halftime celebrations during this season’s homecoming football game.”

With a flourish, he turned and handed Wayne the wrinkled papers and moved back down the aisle toward his seat.

“Are there any other proposals this evening?” Wayne asked as Guthrie’s copies were passed to everyone at the board table. He glanced down at a shopping list that seemed a little short on the details and a touch optimistic on the math.

“Oh, hell,” said Trace.

Wayne’s head snapped up, and he smothered a groan as one of the people in the front row raised her hand. “The chair recognizes Maggie Sinclair.”

She stood and began to pull thin, colored folders from her briefcase.

“Lordy,” Charlie whispered. “What the hell do you think she’s up to?”

“This better not take long,” Trace murmured none too quietly. “I told Janie I’d finish up here in time to fetch her mother home from bingo at St. Veronica’s.”

Maggie stepped to the front and angled herself to face the audience and the board. Her long, slim form, outlined in a snug pink jacket and skirt of some kind of lumpy burlap-like fabric, was no-nonsense straight.

“In anticipation of Frank’s anticipation,” she said, inclining her head toward Guthrie and his cronies on the other side of the room, “I’ve come here tonight prepared to make an alternative proposal for the use of the funds pledged by my brother-in-law.”

“Pushing the family connection,” Charlie muttered as Maggie handed some of her folders to Alice. “Playing hardball.”

“She’s got the balls for it,” said Trace.

His comment crackled faintly over the speakers, and sniggers spread in a wave through the room. Kelleran coughed behind his fist and sank lower in his chair, and Ellie glared at the three men at the board table.

Maggie flashed a cool smile at Trace and stepped closer. “Ladies and gentlemen of the school board,” she said. “Please take a good look at the stage behind you.”

Wayne swiveled with the others to gaze at the darkened area. He saw what he’d always seen there: wine-red curtains, a bedraggled backdrop and scraps of lumber tilted against cobwebby corners. He turned back in time to see Maggie hand Kelleran one of her neat packets.

“If you were to look more closely,” she continued, “you’d see curtains so threadbare they’re on the verge of disintegration. Lighting so old and damaged it poses an electrical hazard. Mice nesting among the flats and a questionable supply of costumes and props that should be hauled to the nearest landfill. As for the sound system, well, that’s the one thing that isn’t in a state of disrepair.”

“Thank God for that,” said Boot.

“That’s because there isn’t one,” she said when the audience had quit laughing at Boot’s remark. “Nothing beyond this one miserable excuse for a microphone and two poorly wired speakers.” She plucked the microphone from its little plastic stand. Right on cue, a painful squeal bounced off the auditorium walls.

Several members of the audience shifted uncomfortably as the feedback died with a strangled echo. Wayne noticed Kelleran paging through his packet with a frown.

“As you’ll see when you’ve had a chance to examine the paperwork I’ve given you,” said Maggie, “I’ve outlined and prioritized a list of purchases to replace broken and outmoded equipment, along with some basic necessities that would make the stage area both safe and useful for any number of school and community purposes.”

She flipped the switch on the microphone, set it back on the board table and shifted to face the crowd. “A functional school stage can be used and enjoyed by the entire student population, not only those involved in football or baseball. Students who participate in sports and students who don’t. Students who wish to appear before an audience and those who prefer to stay behind the scenes. Students who are male and female,” she added with a meaningful glance at the two female board members.

“I propose,” said Maggie, “that the school board use the funds so generously provided by actor Fitz Kelleran to promote the performing arts here at Tucker High School. I propose that the board repair and refurbish the high school stage area.”

When she took her seat, the kind of debate Wayne had hoped to avoid began in earnest. One audience member after another took the floor, arguing the value of gate receipts at sporting events versus box office income, or pointing out the numbers of students involved in athletics as opposed to those who might be tempted to try out for a play, or measuring the benefits of physical fitness against the development of talent off the playing field.

His unease intensified as the people he knew so well began to label and categorize and count each other as either pro or con, with the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars highlighting the differences.

Beside him, Trace pulled a cell phone from his pocket with a frustrated sigh and mumbled something about arranging transportation for his mother-in-law.

When the audience’s arguments began to spread throughout the auditorium and to grow a touch heated, Wayne called for order. “I’ll remind you all that the board has until the first of the year to make its final recommendation.”

“But if we get moving on this,” shouted Guthrie, “we could have the bleachers in place and the scoreboard ready for the homecoming game next month.”

“I move that we vote on both proposals tonight,” said Charlie. “No one has come up with anything else, and it’s obvious plenty of folks feel mighty strong one way or the other about this.”

“I second that,” said Trace.

Shelby and Alice straightened like stiff bookends on each side of the board table, tight-lipped and solemn, looking to Wayne to take the next step.

Damnation. His stomach twisted into a taut, queasy knot. This was the moment he’d been dreading since Maggie had pulled those little colored packets out of that briefcase of hers. He could feel the attention closing on him like a vise. He stared at the chipped veneer on the table, trying to block the image of dozens of eyes staring at him, and his head pounded.

“It has been moved and seconded,” he said, knowing he couldn’t do anything else, “that

the board vote tonight on the two proposals for allocating the donation pledged by Mr. Fitz Kelleran. All those in favor?”

Charlie and Trace quickly renewed their support.

“All those opposed?”

“Nay,” said Shelby.

“Nay,” said Alice.

It was up to Wayne to break the tie.

Logic pulled him one way; his conscience tugged him the other. And his hesitation over the matter only prolonged the panic playing havoc with his thought processes. At the edges of his vision he could see Charlie’s head shake in disbelief and Trace shift in an impatient move. And he could just make out a sassy pink bow on a pointy black shoe dangling from a long, slim foot attached to a spectacular ankle.

He surrendered to the inevitable and released the breath he’d been holding. “Nay.”

CHAPTER TWO

A HALF HOUR LATER, Maggie wobbled on her heels as she crossed the gravel lot toward Wayne Hammond’s pickup. She knew her fashion choices were impractical for the ranch lands of southwestern Montana, but she was unwilling to abandon this one small link to the sanity of city life. “Hey, Wayne! Wait up a minute.”

He turned to face her, his dark brown hair and Marlboro Man features nearly obscured by the wide brim of his black Stetson. As she crunched and lurched her way closer, he shot out an arm to steady her, and she was reminded just how tall he was. She was the same height as many of the men she knew, but even in her heels she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

And since this was Wayne, his gaze immediately dropped to the ground at his feet. The man was as bashful as ever.

“Thanks,” she said.