“What is it, Dylan? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I practically did.” He tossed a newspaper onto the table, half-covering Travis’s plate. “Have y’all seen that?”
“Today’s San Antonio Sun? No.”
“Then take a look,” he almost yelled, stabbing his forefinger at the page. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t read it in the paper.” He shook his head in disbelief.
Heart in her throat, Niki leaned over the page and saw a photograph—a photograph of the cowboy she’d just been thinking about. Helplessly she looked up at Dylan, who nodded.
“Yep, that’s him—none other than Clay Russell, World Champion Cowboy, in the flesh. And fool that I was, I set right over there—” He pointed dramatically at a table. “—and talked to him and never had any the least idea who he was.”
“His name’s Clay Russell?” She was having trouble grasping this. Leaning over, she read the caption.
Clay Russell, official spokesman for Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds, was announcing details of the contest to crown the first Queen of the Cowgirls. There, among the list of finalists, her own name leaped out at her.
Incensed, she looked up to find both men staring at her. “How dare he do this!” she exclaimed. “My name’s still there and he knows I have no intention of taking part in that stupid contest. What part of ‘no thanks’ doesn’t he understand?”
Dylan frowned. “You really meant what you said about turning it down?”
“Why on earth would I say it if I didn’t mean it?”
The cowboy shrugged. “I dunno. I thought…” He darted a guarded glance at Travis, placidly munching while watching the goings-on with interest. “I thought you just wanted to be coaxed.”
Niki groaned. “Dylan Sawyer, you know me better than that.”
“Well, heck, Niki, a woman can always change her mind.” He shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Now that you know Clay Russell’s involved…”
“That doesn’t change a darn thing.”
“I dunno, Niki.” Travis wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, his expression dubious. “This could be an awful good thing for the town, having you sashaying around the country as Miss Queen of the Cowgirls or whatever it is.”
“Et tu, Travis?” She gave him a reproachful look.
“Now, think about it,” he urged. “From what I hear, you’ll get money, prizes, fame, glamour….”
“I don’t want any of that.”
Dylan leaned forward. “You’ll get your picture took with Clay Russell,” he said. “That wouldn’t be none too shabby.”
Niki shivered. She didn’t want her picture taken with the handsome stranger who’d confused and unnerved her. Remembering his final words in light of this new information—I don’t think there’s anything here I really want—made her suppose he thought she wouldn’t have a chance of winning anyway.
Which should make her feel better but didn’t. She picked up her tray. “I don’t want to talk about this,” she said. “I appreciate your good intentions but the subject isn’t open for discussion.”
“But Niki—”
Undeterred, she went about her business, which lasted until the next customer entered.
“Have you seen the San Antonio Sun?”
That’s all she heard for the rest of her shift. By the time she turned in her apron and prepared to leave, she was heartily sick of all the gratuitous advice she’d been receiving, all of it the same: do it for us. Do it for the town.
Well, she wouldn’t! Not this time. She’d—
“Hey, Niki!”
She whirled to find Miguel Reyes, a cowboy she’d known ever since she moved to Texas, standing there grinning at her. She grinned back, but warily, waiting for him to ask if she’d seen that darned newspaper.
Too bad, really. Miguel was one good-looking guy, and just as nice as he was cute. She’d actually been thinking lately that she might want to go out with him…. She wasn’t too crazy about cowboys as a rule but her choices were limited and she did sometimes get lonely for a little male companionship.
“Got a minute?” he asked, twisting his hat between big, competent hands.
“Yes.” Niki said cautiously. Now he’d ask her if she knew who the stranger at the picnic had been and she’d have to go through the whole song-and-dance again.
“Uh…would you like to go to the movies with me Friday night?”
“Miguel, I’ve been all through this and—” She stopped short. “What did you say?”
“I asked you to go to the movies with me Friday. Any chance?”
“There’s always a chance,” she said lightly, trying to catch her balance again. “But Friday…that’s not good for me.”
“Why not?” Miguel asked softly. “Got to wash your hair or something?”
Niki felt hot blood rush into her cheeks. “No, of course not,” she protested, but he’d hit the nail right on the head. “I…uh…have to help with the dude talent night at home. I’m sorry…”
And she really was, sorry she hadn’t yelled “Yes!” at the top of her lungs. Now it was too late.
Watching Miguel make his way through the barroom, she sighed. If she didn’t quit turning down men who wanted to date her, they’d eventually quit asking.
Or maybe not. She didn’t view many of them as favorably as she did Miguel and some of them had come back so many times she’d lost count.
Unbidden, a mental picture of the stranger—Clay Russell, she knew his name now—flashed before her eyes. He didn’t look as if he’d ask anyone for anything.
He probably didn’t have to, she thought darkly. He was probably fighting the girls off with a stick.
Not this girl; never this girl.
3
IT TOOK CLAY more than two weeks to make it back to Hard Knox because he and Eve agreed that it wouldn’t be a good idea to let Niki Keene know they were out to get her, so to speak. To cover their tracks, Eve arranged a tour for her star asset: stops at all the other eleven finalists’ hometowns for meetings with the contestants, photos to see how they looked with Clay, and interviews to make sure they could “talk.”
She reasoned that if they created a big enough public hullabaloo, Niki would feel obligated to cooperate even before they got there.
Hell, Clay thought philosophically, it was worth a shot.
As a result, he hit Hard Knox on a Saturday afternoon in late July, this time amidst much fanfare and ballyhoo. A reception committee met him at the edge of town and led him to the park where he’d skulked on the Fourth of July. There the mayor waited. Almost before Clay could climb out of his pickup truck, the park began to fill with curious and eager citizens of all ages.
Escorted to the bandstand by the rotund chief of police, he was met by the beaming mayor. Behind her, a couple of photographers hovered, fingering the cameras draped around their necks. One would be in Eve’s hire and the other was doubtless from the local newspaper.
The mayor nodded happily. “Rosie Mitchell,” she said, grabbing his hand and shaking it with both of hers. “Welcome to our fair city, Mr. Russell.”
“Call me Clay.” He looked around for Niki and spotted