The Cowgirl's Man. Ruth Dale Jean

toward the two men sitting on the back edge of the bandstand, talking quietly.

      “That’s just it.” Dani looked pained. “I’m afraid…she won’t be coming.”

      Clay raised his brows. “Because…?”

      “Because…” Dani looked at Toni who looked at Rosie who looked distressed.

      Finally the mayor did her reluctant duty. “Niki says she doesn’t want to be in the contest,” she admitted faintly.

      “You’re kidding.”

      “I wish. She didn’t actually even enter—somebody else did it without checking with her first,” Rosie explained uneasily. “She wasn’t real happy when we surprised her with the news at our big Fourth of July bash but we were kinda hopin’ she’d change her mind.”

      “Being a finalist in a big national contest isn’t exactly an insult,” he pointed out.

      “We all told her that,” Toni said. “We want her to do it—everybody in town wants her to do it.” The other two nodded agreement. “It’s just that she’s stubborn. The more we push her, the harder she digs in her heels. Now we’re at the point where I don’t think anything could change her mind.”

      Clay smiled. “Well,” he drawled, “maybe I can just come up with a way if I think on it real hard….”

      THE FRONT DOOR to the Sorry Bastard flew open and in walked the sexiest man Niki Keene had ever seen in the flesh. He was followed by half—the younger half—of the males in this part of Texas. Two photographers trailed along behind.

      Laughing, talking, the men pulled together several of the tables and hauled up chairs with much scraping of chair legs. Dylan Sawyer thumped a fist on the tabletop and shouted, “Beer all around, Niki! We got us a celebrity here we’re tryin’ to impress…my buddy Clay Russell.”

      “Coming right up, Dylan.” Being careful to avoid looking at the “celebrity,” she hurried to the bar where Cleavon was already drawing beer into frosty mugs.

      This might be harder than she’d expected. She’d been unable to stop thinking about Clay Russell after only one very low-key glimpse of him. Now he was back full force, confident and charismatic as if he’d just been fooling the last time.

      He had been fooling, she realized, picking up the tray of beers. He’d been incognito, undercover—spying on her, in fact.

      She distributed the beers, smiling and friendly while trying to keep her gaze averted from his. She didn’t want anything to do with this man. He was a threat to her…boring existence, if her sisters were to be believed.

      But when push came to shove, she just couldn’t carry it off. Placing a cold mug of beer before him, she slowly raised her gaze until it met his amused one. “Goodness me,” she said in her best Texas-belle accent, “I sure never expected to see you again, Mr. Russell. The last time you dropped in, you said there was nothing around here you really wanted.”