That Wild Cowboy. Lenora Worth

      By the time he’d returned, she’d polished off the cake and downed most of the big glass of milk. And she’d talked herself out of any notions of a big strong man in her life. How old-fashioned and clichéd did that sound?

      He had brought more food. A whole tray full of sliced cake, cold chicken and steak strips, tortillas and chips and salsa. And a bottle of sangria.

      “What are you doing?” she asked as he spread out the food with all the flourish of a maître d’.

      “I’m feeding you,” he replied with a grin. “Now eat up, and between bites tell me about you.”

      She grabbed a soft tortilla and threw some meat and salsa on it then rolled it tight and started nibbling. Clint poured them both some sangria and pushed a goblet toward her.

      After she took a sip, she sat back to stare over at him, thinking he really was a paradox. “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome. Where were you born?”

      “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

      “I have a lot of catching up to do, remember?”

      She nodded, smiled, glowed with a full tummy and a nice calm. “I was born in Dallas, of course.”

      “But you’re not the cowgirl type.”

      “No, I grew up in a trailer park. It was nice and clean but crowded and...certainly not upper class.”

      “Class isn’t in the upper or lower,” he said. “It’s all in how you handle life.”

      She lifted her goblet to him. “A cowboy, a playboy and a philosopher, too. You never fail to surprise me.”

      “Sometimes, I surprise myself.” He gave her a look that seemed to include her in that realization. “But back to you. So what happened with your life?”

      “You mean did I have a happy childhood?”

      “Yeah, I guess.”

      “My parents got a divorce when I was a teen so my childhood pretty much ended.” She shrugged. “But it wasn’t all that great to begin with. I learned to fend for myself since they didn’t seem capable of taking care of business.”

      “That’s tough.” He pushed more cake toward her then broke off a piece for himself. “But you survived.”

      Victoria thought about that, memories filtering through her mind like falling leaves. “Barely. My mother worked hard and my dad—he sent a little money but it was never enough.”

      “Did he leave y’all?”

      “He did. He traveled here and there, always looking for some sort of dream. He died never finding that dream, but he sure had some tall tales to tell.”

      “Don’t we all?”

      She wiped her mouth and put down her napkin. “I suppose so. I think I like this job because even though our show is based in reality, we always manage to get into people’s heads and find out what really matters. Most people have dreams they keep to themselves.” She motioned to the guitar. “Like you. You should pursue that again.”

      “Maybe.”

      Clint went silent, his head down, so she pushed on. “You have this big vast family. Noise and laughter, shouting and drama. But it’s kind of nice to see you all living together. Not what I expected at all.”

      He shrugged, gave her a soft smile. “I know—it makes for good television.”

      “No, I mean, I didn’t have that growing up. It was quiet and sad most of the time around my house. Like we were mourning.”

      “Maybe you were.”

      She glanced out at the lights shimmering in the pool. The water glistened in shades of aqua and azure. A group of palm trees swayed in the wind near a constantly streaming foundation that emptied into the deep end. It felt foreign, being the one on the hot seat.

      Finally, she turned back to Clint. “Are you mourning for anything?”

      He looked shocked then he gave her an evasive gaze. “I do miss my dad. We didn’t see eye to eye, but I thought I’d always have him.”

      Victoria zoomed in on that admission. Here was something to bring out, something the audience could understand and identify with. So could she.

      “I miss my dad, too,” she said, hoping to draw him out. But her words were the truth. “He just never got it together and I always wondered what my life might have been like if he’d had a different mindset.”

      “You might be a different person now,” Clint said. “Or I might not have ever met you. And that would have been a shame.”

      Okay, she needed to steer this back around. “Tell me more about your daddy.”

      He didn’t speak for a minute, then said, “He didn’t like me dabbling in songwriting, so I gave it up and became a rodeo star.” That evasiveness again. “Among other things.”

      Back on track, she continued probing. “Did you like being on the rodeo circuit?”

      He nodded. “I did. It was dangerous, a challenge, and I had friends all over the place. But a lot of times after a big event, I’d sit in my hotel room, alone, strumming on my guitar.” He grinned over at her. “I think I’ll write you a song.”

      Victoria lifted her head, grabbed her towel. This was getting way too intimate for her. A song? Soon he’d have her bawling like a baby. Or worse, pining away like a forlorn lover in a twangy country song. “It’s late. I’d better get inside. Early day tomorrow.”

      “Victoria?”

      She didn’t dare turn around. How had he dragged that out of her about her father? She didn’t miss people. She put people in little compartments and shut the door on her feelings about them. She needed to do that with Clint, too. She also needed to remember she was the one good at digging up secrets. He had no reason to delve into her hidden places.