Rodeo Baby. Mary Sullivan

Chapter Thirteen

       Extract

       Copyright

       Chapter One

      The second Violet Summer laid eyes on the stranger, an unreasonable swell of sexual awareness bloomed.

      The man wasn’t even her type, yet here she stood stunned, and bothered, with Lester Voile’s coffee and Mama’s Best Meat Loaf cooling in her hands.

      Rats.

      Rodeo, and the Summertime Diner, rarely saw anyone like the stranger sliding into the second booth from the front door—suave, urbane...and dressed like a cowboy?

      If he’d ever ridden out on the range, Vy would eat an old boot.

      He looked like a movie star acting the role of a cowboy but not playing him well.

      She chronicled every detail, including the neatly ironed jeans. What cowboy worth his salt ironed his jeans? How many decades had it been since anyone ironed jeans?

      Vy started toward his booth.

      He set his cowboy hat, sweat-free and spotless, on the table in front of him. Sunlight streaming through the window shot rays through his golden hair. His strong, clean-shaven jaw sent shivers through her.

      Even knowing he was too slick and polished to be a real cowboy, she found him attractive, deep in her gut where reaction came before thought.

      No, he was not her type, but good grief, just what she needed—an instant attraction to an imitation cowboy. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about these days.

      Irritated, she plunked Lester Voile’s meal on his table.

      Ignoring Lester’s muttered thanks, she approached the stranger’s booth, self-protective instincts on high alert.

       Why, Vy? He’s just a guy who’s dropped into your diner. A stranger. You know nothing about him. There’s nothing to protect yourself from.

      Except her own unruly attraction.

      She pulled out her notepad and waited, giving the stranger a minute to adjust to her presence. He knew she was there. As she’d approached, he’d checked out her legs from under his blond lashes.

      He set aside the menu and looked up. With that blond hair, she’d expected blue eyes, not the deep, cool gray that studied her.

      He smiled, his grin broad and confident. Good Lord, the man had dimples and used them to good effect.

      Well, he could grin all day long. She was immune. Plus his smile didn’t reach his eyes, so it was just charm, not innate good humor or character, which she valued a heck of a lot more than personality.

       Or, Vy, maybe he’s in a bad mood and trying to rise above it. Don’t make assumptions. People do have them, y’know. You’ve seen enough people come into the diner when their lives were low to not take it personally. Don’t do it now. Park your paranoia in your apron pocket and do your job.

      She asked, “Can I take your order?”

      “I’ll have the World’s Best Cheeseburger with everything but onions.” Why did he have to have a melodious, deep voice that spoke to Vy’s longings? She hardened her defenses.

      She had her hands full running the diner, not to mention pulling together all of the concession stands for the revived fair and rodeo at the end of August.

      Handsome men were not on her agenda.

      Slowly, the man pulled his eyes away from hers and said, “What do you want, honey?”

      Huh? What did she want? And who was he calling honey—

      A young voice to her right spoke. Vy glanced toward the other bench of the high-backed booth.

      Oh. He wasn’t alone. How had she missed that?

      A young girl glared at the man. She couldn’t be more than twelve, maybe thirteen, cloaked in not only enough black punk accessories to build body armor but also plenty of baby fat and attitude. Straight white teeth and a flawless complexion hinted at beauty in development. The kid would be a knockout someday, despite her current wardrobe.

      Vy had learned early to be a quick judge of character. Unless she missed her guess, the kid belonged in a prep school somewhere, not in a diner in a small town pretending to be tough.

      Vy knew a lost baby chick when she saw one.

      She used to be one.

      “Chelsea, I’ll ask only one more time,” the man said, voice thick with forced patience. “What will you have for lunch?”

      When the girl crossed her arms with a mulish jut of her jaw and refused to respond, the man ordered for her. “My daughter will also have a cheeseburger, but top hers with plenty of onions.”

      “Daaad.” Chelsea sat up straight. “You know I hate onions.”

      He held up one finger. “Then the next time I ask you a question not once but twice, you’ll do me the courtesy of responding.”

      Hmm... With many of the fathers she knew, local cowboys and ranchers, the conversation would have gone something like “When I ask a question, you answer. Got it?” Nothing as refined as “You’ll do me the courtesy of responding.”

      Vy bit back a smile. This fake cowboy gave himself away at every turn.

      To Vy, he said, “We’ll both have fries with the burgers. I’ll have a coffee and my daughter will have a glass of milk.”

      “But I want a soda.” Again with the whiny voice.

      “Goes back to what I said earlier. I ask and you respond.” His attention swinging back to Vy, he held on to his grin desperately, but cracks in the wall of his charm showed. “Bring her milk.”

      “Got it.” She pointed to his cowboy hat. “No need to leave your hat on the table.”

      She indicated the hooks that lined the walls on both sides of the front door.

      “Wouldn’t want you to spill anything on your spotless, brand-spanking-new hat.”

      Laughing, she returned to the kitchen, glad to leave the tension coiled at the table like a rattlesnake. She regretted that they’d wandered into her diner. She welcomed all business, but not the heartache on that poor girl’s face and the fissures in the careful facade of the father’s cultured shell.

      The man looked like he belonged more in the Tradition Golf and Country Club way up the highway in Festival than he did in the Summertime Diner in Rodeo, but who they were and what they were doing here were none of her business or concern.

       Ha. As if you could ever keep your nose out of other people’s business.

      Vy grinned and turned her attention to picking up orders.

      * * *

      SAM CARMICHAEL, AKA Sam Michaels, watched the waitress walk away, the sway of her nicely rounded hips captivating.

      Her nametag read “Violet,” a soft, old-fashioned name for a woman with intelligence and cheekiness snapping in her gaze.

      Violet Summer.

      One of the five.

      No, at last count there were six of them, the people who were reviving his grandfather’s amusement park, the people he’d come here to investigate. Using Gramps’s fairgrounds, five local women planned to stage a fair and a rodeo at the end of the summer. Recently they’d added a newcomer,