Date with a Cowboy. Diana Palmer

campaign of World War II.”

      Her heart jumped at the subject he’d mentioned. She cleared her throat. “Would you like all of them at once, then?”

      One eyebrow went up. “The customer is always right,” he said shortly, as if he thought she was making fun of him.

      “Of course he is,” she agreed. Her teeth hurt from being clenched in that smile.

      “Get me a sheet of paper and a pen. I’ll make you a list.”

      She wouldn’t kick him, she wouldn’t kick him, she wouldn’t kick him … She found paper and pencil and handed them to him, still smiling.

      He made a list while she answered a phone call. She hung up, and he handed her the list.

      She frowned as she read it.

      “Now what’s wrong?” he asked impatiently.

      “I don’t read Sanskrit,” she began.

      He muttered something, took the list back and made minor modifications before handing it back. “It’s the twenty-first century. Nobody handwrites anything,” he said defensively. “I’ve got two computers and a PDA and an MP3 player.” He gave her a curious look. “Do you know what an MP3 player is?” he asked, just to irritate her.

      She reached in her jeans pocket, produced a small iPod Shuffle and earphones. The look that accompanied the action could kill.

      “How soon can you get those books here?” he asked.

      She could, at least, make out most of the titles with his so-called handwriting corrections. “We order on Mondays,” she said. “You’ll have as many of these as are in stock at the distributors by next Thursday or Friday.”

      “The mail doesn’t come by horse anymore,” he began.

      She took a deep breath. “If you don’t like small towns, maybe you could go back to wherever you came from. If you can get there by conventional means, that is,” with an edge to the smile that accompanied the words.

      The insinuation wasn’t lost on him. “I’m not the devil.”

      “Are you sure?” she queried, all wide-eyed.

      One eye narrowed. “I’d like these books delivered. I’m usually too busy to make a special trip into town.”

      “You could send your bodyguard.”

      He glanced out the door at the big man who was leaning back against the driver’s door of the pickup with his arms folded. “Tony the Dancer doesn’t run errands.”

      Her eyes widened more. “Tony the Dancer? Are you in the mob?”

      “No, I’m not in the mob!” he growled. “Tony’s last name is Danzetta. Tony the Dancer. Get it?”

      “Well, he looks like a hit man to me,” she returned.

      “Known a few of them, have you?” he asked sarcastically.

      “If I did, you’d be double-checking your locks tonight,” she said under her breath.

      “Can you deliver the books?”

      “Yes, but it will cost you ten dollars. Gas is expensive.”

      “What do you drive?” he asked. “A Greyhound bus?”

      “I have a VW, thank you very much, but your place is six miles out of town.”

      “You can tell me the amount when you call to say the books are here. I’ll have my accountant cut the check. You can pick it up when you deliver the books.”

      “All right.”

      “I’d better give you the number. It’s unlisted.”

      She turned over the sheet of paper with his list of titles on it and copied down the number he gave her.

      “I’d also like to get two financial magazines,” he added, naming them.

      “I’ll see if our distributor carries them. He might not.”

      “Serves me right for moving to Outer Cowpasture,” he muttered aloud.

      “Well, excuse us for not having malls on every street!” she shot back.

      He glowered. “You’re the rudest clerk I’ve seen yet.”

      “Get your bodyguard to loan you his shades and you won’t have to see me at all.”

      He pursed his lips. “You might get yourself a book on manners.”

      She smiled sarcastically. “I’ll see if I can find one on ogres for you.”

      His pale eyes swept over her with calculation. “Just the ones I listed, if you please. I’ll expect to hear from you late next week.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      He cocked his head. “Your boss must have been pretty desperate to leave you in charge of his sole means of support.”

      “It’s a she, not a he. And my boss likes me very much.”

      “Good thing someone does, I guess.” He turned to leave, pausing at the door. “You’re wearing two different shades of hose under those slacks, and your earrings don’t match.”

      She had problems with symmetry. Most people knew her background and were kind enough not to mention her lapses. “I’m no slave to popular fashion,” she informed him with mock hauteur.

      “Yes. I noticed.”

      He left before she came up with a suitable reply. Lucky for him there wasn’t anything expendable that she could have thrown after him.

      Dee Harrison rolled in the aisles laughing when she heard Sara’s biting description of their new customer.

      “It wasn’t funny,” Sara protested. “He called Jacobsville ‘Outer Cowpasture,’” she grumbled.

      “Obviously the man has no taste.” Dee grinned. “But he did want us to order a lot of books for him, so your sacrifice wasn’t in vain, dear.”

      “But I have to deliver the books to him,” she wailed. “He’s probably got people-eating dogs and machine guns out there. You should have seen the guy driving him! He looked like a hit man!”

      “He’s probably just eccentric,” Dee said calmingly. “Like old man Dorsey.”

      She gave her employer a narrow glance. “Old man Dorsey lets his German shepherd sit at the table and eat with him. This guy would probably eat the dog!”

      Dee just smiled. A new customer was just what she needed, especially one with expensive tastes in reading. “If he orders a lot of books, you might get a raise,” Dee ventured.

      Sara just shook her head. Dee didn’t understand the situation. If Sara had to be around that particular customer very often, she’d probably end up doing time for assault and battery.

      She went home to her small house. Morris met her at the door. He was an old, battle-scarred yellow tabby cat. Part of his tail was missing, and he had slits in his ears from fights. He’d been a stray who came crying to Sara’s back door in a thunderstorm. She’d let him in. That had been eight years ago. Her grandfather had commented that he looked like trouble. Sara defended him.

      She never agreed with her grandfather, even after she had to replace a chair and a throw rug that Morris had ripped to shreds. She bought the old cat a scratching post and herself a water pistol. Morris hated water. When he did something he wasn’t supposed to, she let him have it. Over the years, he’d calmed down and stopped clawing furniture. Now, he just ate and sprawled in the sun. Occasionally he sat in Sara’s lap while she watched her small color television. But he wasn’t a cuddling cat, and you couldn’t pick him up. He bit.

      She stroked him while they watched the latest episode of