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The Cowgirl's Man
Ruth Jean Dale
BEAUTYOf course, Niki Keene had followed her sisters 1 to Hard Knox, Texas–the Keene triplets wereinseparable. And yes, she helped run their fledgling dude ranch. But when the townsfolk entered her in the Queen of the Cowgirls contest, she had to laugh. How could you be Queen of the Cowgirls when you were terrified of horses? Besides, she was sick to death of being "the beautiful one."AND THE BESTShe wasn't laughing when hotshot cowboy Clay Russell launched an all-out campaign to change her mind. He was so sexy and so persuasive, she figured she was doomed one way or the other. It was either ride and rope–or lose the only man who'd ever made her glad



“Could you use a little help, darlin’?”
Clay spoke softly in Niki’s ear, but she still jumped as if he’d grabbed her. “I wish you’d quit sneaking up on me that way!”
She gave him an annoyed glance, but she still looked beautiful. A long wisp of hair blew across her mouth and she started to push it aside.
“Let me do that.” Slowly he smoothed the silky lock back behind her ear. As his fingers skimmed the corner of her mouth, his body leapt to throbbing readiness in an instant.
“Oh, my,” she said softly, breathlessly.
Clay let his hand fall aside, which required all of his considerable willpower. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“You asked a question?”
He laughed. “I asked if you needed any help.”
“You don’t want to do dishes.” Her voice had recovered a bit of its usual spice.
“Says who?” He shoved up the sleeves of his shirt. “You’d be astounded at what I want to do.”
Dear Reader,
And so with this book, the saga of the Keene triplets draws to a close…or does it?
I really hate to think about leaving Hard Knox, Texas. That’s the biggest problem I have with miniseries: I never want to let go. I get to know and like the characters, not just my heroes and heroines but their friends and adversaries and relatives, the town where they hang out and the homes they live in. And no matter how happy the ending, there are always loose ends left behind, characters who deserve their own happily-ever-after.
But I wonder…. Niki, Toni and Dani may only think they’re the last of the Keenes. I’ve heard rumors that their daddy, Wil Keene (the old reprobate), may have sown a few more wild oats than any of them know. It wouldn’t surprise me a lick if a tenderfoot brother turned up one of these days to claim his share of the Bar K.
Another Keene GONE TO TEXAS? I may just have to look into that one of these days.
Thanks for joining me on this trip. I’ve had fun and hope you have, too.
Sincerely,
Ruth Jean Dale
The Cowgirl’s Man
Ruth Jean Dale


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to everyone who’s ever wanted to pull up stakes and start over.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained!

Contents
Chapter 1 (#u0868b357-12a9-53b2-a2f5-bb3c2768e65b)
Chapter 2 (#u259f990b-9440-5ee9-8e75-64801982fe6a)
Chapter 3 (#u3a9e0b33-9a1f-5e98-bbea-89b20bc638c5)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

1
NIKI KEENE attracted cowboys like honey attracted bees…like catnip attracted cats…like candy attracted kids. This natural phenomenon never failed to amaze Tilly Collins, proud grandmother to the Keene triplets, among whom Niki was the youngest by a mere twenty minutes.
Not that Tilly didn’t think all three of her granddaughters were pretty special. Sitting at a wooden picnic table beneath a spreading pecan tree at the annual Hard Knox Fourth of July picnic and barbecue, she fanned herself idly while watching Niki turn aside her crowd of admirers with ease. As they said, practice makes perfect.
Back home in Elk Tooth, Montana, Niki had been labeled the “pretty one,” Toni the “nice one” and Dani the “smart one.” To their doting grandmother, each of the twenty-seven-year-old triplets was equally pretty, nice and smart. Still, she had to admit that there was a fortune to be made in bottling whatever it was that beautiful Niki had in such abundance.
It was only a passing thought, though, for like everyone else who’d turned out at the city park for the celebration, Tilly was content just to enjoy the holiday atmosphere. With all the guests at the Keenes’ Bar-K Dude Ranch present, she was free to simply enjoy herself like everybody else.
Crowds milled around, as Bar-K guests mingled with townsfolk and visitors to other Hill Country dude ranches. In the background, the amplified voice of Mayor Rosie Mitchell droned on. Mayor Rosie obviously enjoyed this part of the program, the presentation of awards and certificates and honors to what was beginning to feel like an interminable list of Hard Knoxers, as the local newspaper had long ago christened locals.
“Hi, Granny.” Dani Keene Burke sat down on the picnic bench next to Tilly. “Whew, is it ever hot!”
Tilly glanced around for Dani’s eleven-month-old daughter. “Not hot enough to make you forget what you did with Elsie, I hope.”
Dani laughed and her brown eyes sparkled. Marriage to neighboring rancher Jack Burke had done wonders for her; Tilly had never seen Dani happier.
“Jack’s got her,” she said. “He’ll be along as soon as he gets the kids a cup of lemonade.”
Tilly nodded, knowing that “kids” in the plural included Jack’s orphaned six-year-old nephew, Pete, adopted when Jack and Dani married. “Are Toni and Simon here yet?”
Dani nodded. “I saw the newlyweds drive up just a few minutes ago. They’ll be here soon.” She glanced around at the crowd. “Where’s Niki?”
Tilly pointed in the general direction. At that moment, the crowd parted and they saw Niki, still in the middle of a horde of male admirers. She was looking up with a non-committal smile at a tall cowboy.
She was gorgeous. Something about long black hair and blue eyes, Tilly supposed. Whatever it was, Niki had lots of it.
The loudspeaker sputtered and Tilly caught a single word from the mayor: Niki. Sure she’d misunderstood, Tilly glanced at Dani, who looked equally puzzled.
The mayor’s voice became stronger: “Niki Keene, please, dear, will you come up here?”
Niki glanced toward her family, shapely black brows rising in a question. Dani shrugged and Toni, just arriving, waved.
“What do they want with Nik?” she inquired. “Simon and I just got here so—”
“Come on up, now,” the mayor’s amplified voice interrupted. “Don’t be shy!”
At Mayor Rosie’s urging, Niki’s admirers lifted her to her feet and guided her toward the bandstand in the middle of the park. A sprinkling of applause built to a crescendo, despite the fact that no one appeared to know what was going on.
Tilly certainly didn’t, but whatever it was, it was bound to be good. They didn’t do bad things at community picnics in Hard Knox, Texas. So she smiled and applauded along with everybody else.
Mayor Rosie held up her arms for silence while Niki waited uneasily, casting her sometime boss dubious glances. Niki had gone to work as a barmaid at Rosie and Cleavon Mitchell’s Sorry Bastard Saloon soon after the Keenes’ move to Texas a few years back. She still worked there part-time, not because she needed the money anymore, but because she enjoyed it. Niki was a simple girl with simple needs.
“Friends and guests,” Rosie said in her deep Texas drawl, “we got us a real nice surprise today. Seems like our own Niki Keene, darlin’ of the Sorry Bastard, has been named a finalist in the Queen of the Cowgirls contest sponsored by Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds! And I got a certificate here to prove it!” She waved the document triumphantly aloft.
Tilly frowned and muttered, “What’s Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds?”
Toni chuckled. “It’s a western clothing company. In fact, it’s a favorite of Niki’s. That vest she’s wearing is a Mother Hubbard.” She glanced at Dani. “Can you believe it? Entering a contest and not even telling us, her own sisters.”
“No, I can’t believe it.” Dani shook her head firmly. “There’s something funny going on here. That contest has been publicized far and wide in magazines, even on TV. No way Niki would go for that. The winner will have to spend the next year being company spokesperson and posing for photographers. Niki would sooner walk on hot coals than do that.”
Sad but true, Tilly thought as she watched a protesting Niki shake her head vehemently. If there was one thing her beautiful granddaughter didn’t like it was being in the limelight.
Niki leaned forward to be heard via the microphone. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake, Rosie,” she said, hastily amending that to, “Mayor Rosie.”
Rosie grinned and shook her head, but her expression turned slightly desperate. “No mistake at all, Niki. That’s your name on this certificate, see?”
“Nevertheless,” Niki said in gentle but determined tones, “this is obviously some kind of a mistake. Thank you very much, but I didn’t even enter the contest.”
With a smile to soften her position, she turned away.
“Wait, Niki!” Now the mayor looked really worried. “This is no mistake, hon. Whether you entered or not, you’ve made the finals, which is a wonderful thing for your adopted hometown. Won’t you—”
“I wish I could, but it’s impossible. Thanks, but no thanks.” With a wave of her hand, Niki walked down the steps and disappeared into the crowd.
A pregnant pause ensued. Then Granny sighed. “Niki doesn’t even like horses,” she announced, her voice clear in the stunned silence. “If those folks want a cowgirl, they’ve definitely got the wrong gal!”
LURKING NEARBY, Clay Russell, World Champion All-Around Cowboy and well-paid national spokesman for Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds, heard every word the old lady said. Wearing subdued western garb and dark glasses, his hat pulled low over his eyes, he’d managed to avoid being recognized thus far. A desire to keep it that way was the only thing that prevented him from approaching the Mrs. Santa Claus look-alike.
Out of rodeo for the moment with an injury that had left him doubting his future, Clay was traveling from town to town and sometimes state to state at the insistence of Mother Hubbard herself—Eve Hubbard, autocratic guiding force behind the phenomenal success of the western clothing manufacturing company. His current assignment: to scope out the twelve finalists chosen from thousands of photographs generated by the contest and then report back to Eve.
Hard Knox was his final stop before heading back to Dallas to make his report. Eve not only wanted to know how each contestant looked in person, she wanted to know how Queen of the Cowgirls wannabes handled themselves when they were informed of their finalist status.
Niki Keene had failed that test, Clay thought, still idly eavesdropping on her family, joined now by two men apparently married to her sisters. All the other finalists in all the other towns had squealed and jumped up and down and hugged—in some cases kissed—everyone in sight. This one had said a firm “thanks, but no thanks” and walked away.
Obviously, she wasn’t Queen of the Cowgirls material—but she was drop-dead gorgeous. Although he’d only seen her for a few minutes, she’d formed an indelible impression in his mind’s eye—heavy black hair hanging over her shoulders in thick braids to frame a perfectly oval face dominated by high cheekbones, full red lips and eyes so deep a blue they were almost purple. Her golden skin glowed and the curves of her body were as perfect as her face.
And if he wasn’t mistaken, she was wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds: faded form-fitting jeans and a denim vest fastened across her breasts with leather tabs. The bottom edge of the vest barely met the waistband of her jeans, giving tantalizing glimpses of a taut middle. The shadowy cleft between her breasts, shown to advantage by the deep vee of the easy-fitting vest, made promises he suspected would easily be fulfilled.
So she was good-looking. So were all the others, he reminded himself. But judging by what the little old lady had just said about horses, Niki wasn’t worthy of the title with all the perks and prizes that came with it. Too bad—but maybe there had been a mistake.
“How do you suppose this happened?” It was the sister bouncing the toddler on her lap who asked. “Niki was obviously dumfounded.”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Dani.” The other sister shrugged. “But she should go for it and grab it if she gets the chance. Tons of prizes come with that title. I know how Niki feels about exploiting her looks, but it’s not like this would be the first time. She was Miss Elk Tooth who knows how many times, and Miss Texas Barmaid and Miss Sunshine for the weather people and Miss Smile for that dental association and Miss—”
“Oh, my!” The grandmother flsung up her hands. “Don’t go any further, Dani, for heaven’s sake. She got finagled into each and every one of those titles.”
Yeah, sure, Clay thought. One title maybe, but all those? I don’t think so.
“I think she ought to do it.”
“Now why would you say that, Jack?” The grandmother inquired mildly.
The man hovering over the sister with the baby, the one who looked like a rancher, shrugged. “It’d be good for the town. We could put it in the Bar-K brochure and it would be good for business.”
“You talk like she’s already won,” the other man remarked.
Both sisters blinked in surprise and the one with the baby said, “And your point is what, Simon?”
The man Simon, who didn’t look like a rancher, a cowboy or any other country type, leaned down and kissed the top of Toni’s head. “Just because Niki’s great looking doesn’t mean this contest is a slam dunk. She isn’t the most beautiful girl in the world, after all. Toni is.”
“Simon!” Toni gave him a satisfied glance. “You’re prejudiced.”
“Newlyweds are supposed to be prejudiced,” Grandma said. “Dani, what do you think? Would Niki take it?”
“Absolutely not.” Dani, still bouncing the baby on her knee, shook her head vehemently. “After what happened the last time, she swore her Miss Whoever career was over.”
“What happened?” Simon inquired.
“The contest coordinator got fresh with her,” Dani said darkly. “They also over-scheduled her and were downright unreasonable in their demands. So no, I don’t think she’ll change her mind and I don’t suppose I can really blame her.”
Clay edged away. It was just about time for him to hit the road for Dallas to report on the total unsuitability of this particular contestant. Regardless of what her family might think, she wouldn’t be a shooin even if she competed.
“And then…” The grandmother sighed. “There’s that thing she has about horses.”
A quick glance showed Clay nothing but uniformly glum faces. What the hell was this about Niki Keene and horses, he wondered. Not that it mattered. She had too many other negatives and only one positive that he could see.
Grandmother turned suddenly brisk. “It’s not up to us anyway. Dani, I’m going back to the ranch now. If you and Jack would like to stay and help Toni and Simon herd our dudes, I’ll take the children with me.”
“Jack?” Dani deferred to her husband.
“Sounds good. We can drop by the Sorry Bastard and try to talk some sense into our stubborn beauty queen.”
“‘Try’ is the word, all right.” She turned to the other couple. “Okay with you guys?”
While they made their plans, Clay drifted away. He really ought to hit the road for Dallas. It was going to be late before he got there as it was.
Still—
What was Niki Keene doing at a saloon? He’d noticed the Sorry Bastard on his arrival in town hours earlier. Was she a closet drinker or did she work there? Unbidden, her image flashed again across his mind’s eye and he shook it off. No way she could be as good-looking as he remembered.
Nevertheless, he might just trail along to the Sorry Bastard out of simple curiosity—and to take one more look.
WHEN NIKI SAW her sisters walk through the door to the Sorry Bastard, she was ready for them. They’d be on her case, no doubt about it. They’d nagged her into accepting the Miss Elk Tooth title back in Montana, even though she’d never entered the contest; they’d nagged her into taking the Miss Texas Barmaid title and the Cowboys’ Dream Girl title and all the rest.
But Queen of the Cowgirls? That was going much too far. What about truth in advertising?
Niki turned toward the bar, stifling a smile. She wasn’t a cowgirl, had never been a cowgirl, didn’t want to be a cowgirl. The fact that her family owned a dude ranch hadn’t changed her mind about that one iota. Let them saddle the horses and guide the trail rides and herd the cows. Niki was perfectly content cleaning cabins and peeling potatoes.
“Two draft beers, Ken,” she said to the mustachioed bartender. While she waited, she surveyed the room with detached interest. The large barroom with its hardwood floors and broad log pillars boasted a good-size crowd, many of them strangers in town for just a day or two for the annual festivities. Then there were always the dudes, who came and went so regularly that—
Her restless gaze stopped short on the broad back of a man standing before that god-awful display Rosie and Cleavon had made of Niki’s past exploits. It was an utter embarrassment to her that her pictures took up the entire back wall: Niki as beauty queen with satin ribbons across her chest and insincere smiles on her lips. They said it was good for business and maybe it was, but she felt funny about it just the same.
But who was the man lingering before the display? A stranger, she knew instantly, without even seeing his face. Not a dude, judging by the way he wore his jeans and western shirt, and the way he’d removed his hat and held it in front of him as he perused the wall with care.
Slim hipped and broad shouldered, long legged and narrow waisted… As she watched, he moved slightly and a beam of light from the dusty window touched his hair, turning it from dark to golden-brown. Thick hair, worn stylishly shaggy—
“Beers are ready, Nik.”
Ken’s voice snapped her out of her examination of the stranger and, gratefully, she turned. She didn’t like to be distracted that way. She wouldn’t say she was exactly down on men, but she wasn’t exactly “up” on them, either.
She delivered the beer, then bowed to the inevitable and made her way to her sisters’ table. They gave her such ingratiating grins that she knew she was in for it.
“Where’s the rest of the family?” she inquired, trying to head them off at the pass.
“Granny took the kids home and the men are rounding up dudes,” Dani said. “Toni and I thought we’d drop by and say hello to the next Queen of the Cowgirls.” Her brown eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Ha-ha, very funny.” Niki dredged up a resentful smile. Suddenly she straightened beneath the impact of a new thought. “Did you two enter me in that contest?” It was more accusation than question. “Because if you did, I swear I’ll—”
“Not me!” Dani threw up her hands and looked at Toni.
“Not me, either, although obviously somebody did. But now that it’s happened…” She fixed Niki with an assessing stare. “You might have been a bit hasty, Nik. This is a biggie.”
“Oh, really!”
“Don’t scoff, this contest is national. The winner gets a modeling contract and a year’s worth of public appearances for that clothing company. What’s the name…?”
“Mother Hubbard.” Niki looked down at herself. “As luck would have it, I wear a lot of clothes from that label.”
“It’s fate,” Toni declared. “The winner also gets a great Mother Hubbard wardrobe.”
Niki groaned. “Like I care? I can afford to buy my own clothes. Look, we’re really busy around here. Can I get you something or did you just drop by to torment me?”
“I’ll have a diet anything,” Dani said.
“Me, too,” Toni agreed. “But seriously, Niki, you should think this over more carefully. If you were Queen of the Cowgirls, it’d be great for the town, and the ranch, too.”
Niki didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that comment. “Antoinette Keene, you bite your tongue! I’m not even a cowgirl, let alone queen. They could get me for fraud.”
“Don’t be silly.” Dani waved a hand airily. “It’s just a name. They don’t care if you’re really a cowgirl, they just care if you look good in their clothes. And you do, so what’s the problem?”
“The problem, Sister dear, is that I’d feel like a fraud whether anyone else thought so or not. Plus I don’t want to be a model—” She shuddered. “—and I sure don’t want to get tied up for an entire year.”
“But the town! The ranch!”
“Are doing very well, thank you very much.” Niki glanced around restlessly. “Look, I’m perfectly happy with my life as it is. I don’t need any new complications.”
“Maybe you won’t win,” Toni suggested hopefully. “I mean, silly as that seems, there are eleven other finalists according to what I read in some magazine or other. The winner will be chosen in Dallas, I think it is. So you could just take the publicity for being a finalist—for the good of the town, of course—and hope you’d lose.”
Nikki shivered. “Do you have any idea how much I would detest standing up with eleven other contestants to be judged like a Holstein cow? If I was ever in doubt—and I wasn’t!—you just made the decision for me, Toni. No, no, a thousand times no. End of conversation.”
“But—”
“Hey, Niki!”
Niki turned toward the voice automatically, then grimaced. “Oh, good lord, there’s the reporter from the Hard Knox Hard Times. Don’t tell me she wants to talk about this cowgirl nonsense!”
“Then I won’t tell you,” Dani said smugly, “but it’s a big deal, whether you want to admit it or not.”
“I’m too busy.” With a quick wave toward the reporter, Niki shrugged as if she had no choice, then turned toward the bar. “I’ll get those sodas right away.”
“Coward!” Toni called after her fleeing sister.
Niki ignored that unjust comment.
THE SALOON was so dim that with his dark glasses firmly in place, Clay could barely see to make his way across the room between crowded tables and thick log supports. He’d spotted an empty table behind one of the broad beams near where the Keene sisters sat. If he could just reach it before someone else spotted it—
Stepping around the log barrier, he came face-to-face with a cowboy who looked equally startled.
“Sorry,” Clay said, “but I’m after that—”
Table. The one at which the young cowboy now sat, smiling up ingenuously.
“No problem,” the cowboy said. He stuck out his hand. “Name’s Dylan Sawyer. You lookin’ for a place to sit?”
No, Clay was tempted to snap back, I just enjoy dashing across crowded rooms. Instead he said, “Yeah, and I almost had one.” He shook the other man’s hand. “Call me Clay.”
Dylan Sawyer nodded. “Will do. I’m expectin’ a few friends, but you’re welcome to join us.” He indicated an empty chair.
Clay didn’t have to be asked twice. Sitting down, he put his hat, brim up, on the table. “You work around here?” he inquired.
Dylan nodded. “At the Bar-K.”
Clay’s scalp prickled. “I…think I’ve heard of it.”
“Belongs to the Keene triplets. You a stranger?”
“Just passing through.”
“You still might’a seen Niki Keene earlier when they tried to give her that Cowgirl prize, whatever it was.”
“Queen of the Cowgirls. Yeah, I saw. But… I thought she was just a finalist.”
Dylan laughed incredulously. “Same difference. I figure it’s in the bag. That is, if anybody can get her to change her mind about pullin’ out of the contest.”
Civic pride accounted for the young cowboy’s confidence, Clay figured. Curiosity made him add, “Think she’ll go for it?”
“Who knows.” Dylan shrugged. “But if she does, she’ll win and I’d put money on that. I mean, did you ever see a better-lookin’ woman in your entire life?” Twisting around in his chair, he stared pointedly at the bar where Niki was picking up another tray of drinks. “She’s real nice, too.”
“She’s a looker, all right,” Clay conceded softly.
And just at that very moment she looked up and her gaze locked with his.
THE STRANGER’S bold stare shot through Niki like a jolt of electricity and she caught her breath. It was the man she’d seen before, only she’d seen him from the back. He’d been looking at her pictures and now he was looking at her with an intensity that made her pulse pound. Questions arose.
Why in the world was a cowboy wearing dark glasses in a dim bar?
And why was he sitting at a table with Dylan Sawyer as if they were old friends?
“Niki, table nine’s waitin’ for those drinks.”
“Sorry, Ken.” Flustered, she picked up the tray and tried to ignore the stranger. She was sure she couldn’t actually feel his gaze pinned between her shoulder blades but it certainly seemed as if she could. Every hair on her head prickled with awareness.
And she was going to have to walk up to that table and take his order. Sure, she could get Tracy to do it but that would be cowardly. Niki was no coward.
Beers delivered, she straightened her shoulders and pasted a smile on her lips. For a moment she was tempted to find that reporter and subject herself to the unavoidable newspaper interview, but that would only delay the inevitable.
Chin up, she approached the two men. The closer she got, the better the stranger looked—except she couldn’t see his eyes. She could see the hard jaw that contrasted so strikingly with a full and sexy mouth, though. When he smiled his teeth were an even white flash against dark skin.
“Dylan.” She acknowledged the young rider for the Bar-K with a dip of her head. Her gaze swept over to include his companion. “You gentlemen ready to name your poison?”
“I’ll have a draft,” Dylan said. “Clay?”
For a moment the stranger named Clay hesitated. Then he rose slowly, strong hands braced on the tabletop and sunglass-shaded gaze boring holes in her. “I guess there’s nothing here I really want,” he said, softly and politely. Picking up his hat, he nodded, turned and walked out of the saloon.
Niki stared after him, lips parted in astonishment. She couldn’t believe what had just happened.
The man hadn’t been talking about a drink at all. He’d had something entirely different on his mind and she didn’t think she liked the possibilities that presented.
“Beer coming up,” she snapped at Dylan, as if it were his fault. And for the rest of the day she brooded about the good-looking stranger who might have been putting her down…or maybe not.

2
CLAY CLIMBED INTO his dusty black pickup truck and drove out of Hard Knox, Texas, in a blue funk. Hell, no wonder Niki Keene declined to compete. She didn’t have to. Her friends and family would do it for her.
Thinking dark thoughts, he headed east. Eventually he’d hit Highway 35 and then it was a straight shot north to Dallas. It wouldn’t take him more than five, six hours at the most.
That was five or six hours to brood over the delectable but elusive Niki Keene. Jeez!
By the time she’d reached his table at the Sorry Bastard, he’d been tight as a drum and jumpy as a mustang with a burr under its saddle. The way people in that town talked, she was some kind of goddess or something. That didn’t sit too well with Clay since he was the one accustomed to such adulation, not the other way around.
Of course, in all fairness he had to remind himself that none of that came from her. Her only crime appeared to be a reluctance to be judged…how had she put it? Like a Holstein cow.
That brought a reluctant grin. So, she had a sense of humor. Big deal.
She also had a whole pack of other titles judging from what he’d seen on the back wall of the Sorry Bastard. She’d been named every Miss-Whoever-That-Came-Down-The-Pike. She was on a roll, gathering in every beauty title around. So what was Queen of the Cowgirls, chopped liver?
Brooding mile after mile, he hit the highway just north of Austin and turned north. By then he’d just about convinced himself that:
One, Niki Keene wasn’t as good-looking as he’d at first thought.
Two, if she didn’t want to compete for the title, he, for one, wouldn’t try to force it on her.
And three, she must not be too bright because if she had the sense God gave a goose, she’d see what a great opportunity this was.
But damn! She’d been wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds and she filled them out real good.
CLAY SLEPT late the next morning in the small but luxurious apartment Mother Hubbard herself had provided for a home base while he ran her errands. Although he rarely used it and considered his uncle’s spread in Oklahoma an uneasy home, it had turned out to be a handy pied-a-terre, as Mother called it.
“Ped-a-what?” Clay had demanded incredulously.
“Home away from home, dear boy,” she’d explained with a somewhat superior smile. “C’est la vie!”
That was Mother Hubbard.
He took his time over breakfast at a handy diner before heading for the head office of Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds. He’d come to know the towering steel-and-glass structure since he’d been hired as company spokesman just over two years ago.
At first he’d felt ridiculous, getting all duded up and having his picture taken with all the solemnity of an Important Happening. After a while he got used to it, though, and now it was just another job—a job that brought in big bucks.
“Mr. Russell!” The receptionist beamed at him. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, Marla. The boss lady in town?” He rolled his eyes toward the elevators that rose to the top floor where Mother Hubbard held court.
Marla’s smile revealed perfect teeth. “Not only that—she’s expecting you.”
“She doesn’t even know I’m in town,” he objected, startled by her comment.
She shrugged, eyes widening. “Don’t ask me, I just work here. But I’ve heard it said she has eyes in the back of her head.” Smiling, she returned her attention to her computer screen.
Clay crossed the lobby toward the elevator, his boot heels clicking on the marble. Mother always seemed to know everything so why was he surprised? Punching the up-button, he waited patiently, his gaze wandering around the lobby, sensing a change.
Something new had been added: a blowup of a famous old ad campaign that had sold a helluva lot of denim. It featured “Mother Hubbard,” a lovely white-haired little old lady who—now that he noticed—looked a lot like Niki Keene’s grandma. She looked straight into the camera, pointing her finger and wearing a mischievous smile while declaring, “You should listen to your mother!”
Yeah, he thought as he stepped into the elevator. Listening to Mother Hubbard was what had gotten him into this strange world in the first place—that and a ton of money.
THE REAL Mother Hubbard looked absolutely nothing like “Mother Hubbard,” a fact that never failed to startle Clay. The first time he’d met the sleek, blond and sophisticated Eve Hubbard he’d thought it was a joke.
It wasn’t. Eve herself had explained why she’d hired an actress to play the part of Mother Hubbard in public—because Eve herself was not the image she wanted for her company. When the actress died three years ago, Clay had been brought in as spokesman to “take the company in a new direction.”
“I design the clothes because I love them, but I can’t wear them and I sure as hell can’t represent them properly in public,” Eve had explained bluntly, her scarlet mouth curving down in an unhappy line. “I just don’t project the proper image, hence the Queen of the Cowgirls contest.”
She’d winked. “Every cowboy needs a queen,” she’d said. “I’m doing this for you, dear.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You’re only half the package, darling. When I launched this company twenty years ago on a damned shoestring, I vowed never to let vanity, mine or anybody else’s, get between me and a strong bottom line.”
She obviously never had. Today her company was a multi-million-dollar success with Eve still flying high as chief designer and eccentric head honcho. Aggressive and smart, she terrorized most of the people she dealt with.
Clay liked her.
Her secretary waved him through with a smile and he entered the plush and modern office—another shock considering that the company produced down-home western styles. Eve rose quickly from behind a massive glass-and-chrome desk, her sleek red suit the only touch of color in the room.
“Darling!” Coming around the desk, she offered her porcelain cheek for his kiss.
“Howdy, Mother.” He pressed his lips to her cool skin.
“Do tell me about your adventures.” She plucked a manila folder off the desk before drawing him toward a black leather couch near the glass wall.
“Saw a lot of good-lookin’ women.” He sat down beside her.
“Twelve of them?” Eve asked sharply, spilling out the contents of the folder on the cocktail table: the eight-by-ten glossy photographs which had earned these women entrance into the finalists’ round. “Any duds, pardon the expression, in the bunch?”
Clay laughed. “Not a one. They’re all real good-lookers.”
“How about the girl from Tulsa?” She slid a photo from the messy pile before her and held it up.
“Pretty, but she’s kinda…guess you’d call it inarticulate. Put a microphone in her face and she starts to giggle.”
“She’s out, then.”
Startled, Clay frowned, thinking that the rest of the contest judges might not agree with her.
“How about that one near Denver?” She held up another photo, this one of a dazzling green-eyed blonde.
“A possibility. She looks good but there’s something kinda… I guess you’d say cold about her. Her personality, I mean.”
“I wonder if that would photograph,” Eve mused, squinting at the color likeness. She sighed and tossed it aside. “Let me think…. There’s got to be one in this group who’s just right.” She brightened. “How about the girl in that little jerkwater town south of here… Hard Hat, Hard Work—something like that.”
“Hard Knox.”
“That’s it.” Eve pulled out a photograph of Niki wearing a big grin and a Stetson. “How was she?”
How was she? Clay stared at the picture, startled all over again by the brilliance of those dark blue eyes, the vitality of the straight black hair. He’d spent most of the night trying to figure her out and failed miserably.
“She’s…a good possibility,” he said carefully, surprised to find he wasn’t ready to explain Niki’s reluctance to participate just yet.
“And the girl in Cheyenne…”
Eve continued questioning Clay closely and he answered as fully as he could, considering the fact that most of the things she wanted to know weren’t really things he noticed—carriage, grace, presence. If that’s what Eve wanted, she should have sent someone else.
The only contestant he’d noticed who had all those things to any discernable degree was Niki Keene and she didn’t want any part of the Queen of the Cowgirls competition. He really should tell Eve and get it over with but she was going to ask a bunch of questions he wasn’t prepared to answer so to hell with it.
“How many were wearing my clothes?” she asked suddenly, her expression moving from inquiring to serious.
He was ready for that question but sorry it had come so early in the proceedings. “Only one that I’m sure of,” he said slowly. “Niki Keene was wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds but—”
“Niki Keene…this pretty thing?” She waved the picture.
“Yes, but—”
“Can she talk beyond monosyllables?”
“Yes, but—”
“Is she as attractive in person?”
“More so.”
“Guess that settles it, then.”
“Settles what?”
“The winner of the first Queen of the Cowgirls title. That’s what we’ve been talking about, right?”
“Sure, but—”
“What’s your problem, darling?” she snapped. “Aren’t you used to women who can make decisions?” To emphasize her point, she snapped her scarlet-tipped fingers.
“I thought this was an honest contest,” he blurted.
“It is.”
“How can it be if you just decide who the winner is on a whim?”
“Good grief, the boy’s disillusioned!” Smiling almost diabolically, she patted his knee. “Don’t be. I always go with my gut instincts which is what makes me great.” She raised one carefully groomed brow. “Besides, I’m the final judge so what difference does it make if I pick the winner now or later?”
“I’d guess it makes a lot of difference to the other contestants.”
“Don’t get huffy, dear boy. They won’t know. It’ll be our little secret, if that makes you feel any better.”
“It doesn’t,” he said bluntly. “Before this goes any further, there’s something I think you need to know.”
She straightened and her hazel eyes narrowed fractionally. “Such as?”
“Niki Keene has shown a certain…reluctance to compete.”
“What the hell does ‘a certain reluctance’ mean?”
“That when the mayor made the announcement and presented the certificate, she said thanks but no thanks—and that’s a direct quote.”
Eve’s shock was almost comical. “You’re kidding!”
“I wish.”
“But…what woman in her right mind would turn down this kind of opportunity? Women have committed murder for less!”
“That’s what her friends and family were asking. She just kept saying she wasn’t interested.”
“Hmmm…” She rose to stalk to the desk and back again. Stopping, she fixed him with a determined gaze. “Did she mean it?”
“Sounded like it to me.”
“Hmm… You say she’s as gorgeous in person as she is in that picture?”
“Gorgeous-er, even.”
“And she was wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds.”
“That’s right.” And she looked damn good in them. “But if she doesn’t want to compete, nobody can force her,” he pointed out.
“Who’s talking force?” Eve’s head lifted and she grinned suddenly, as if she’d just puzzled out the problem to her satisfaction. “I’m more subtle than that, darling.”
“You could’a fooled me,” he observed dryly. “How do you intend to pull off this miracle of persuasion?”
“Not me, love. You. You’re going to convince our reluctant heroine that she longs for the Queen of the Cowgirls title more than anything in her entire little world.”
“No way!” He stared at her, appalled. “How am I, a perfect stranger, supposed to—”
“That’s the key, because you are perfect, stranger or otherwise. Why do you think I signed you on as Mother’s spokesman? Because you support charitable causes and are kind to kids and animals?”
“How do you know I’m kind to—?”
“I have ways of finding these things out.” She waved off his astonishment. “With your looks and charm, she won’t stand a chance.”
“Gimme a break.” Embarrassed, he sunk lower into the butter-soft leather. “I can’t just—”
“You certainly can. I want you to hightail it back to Hard Times—”
“Hard Knox.”
“—and convince this girl that she must compete.” She marched to her desk and sat down, began pulling open drawers in search of something, adding, “Without telling her the contest is basically fixed, of course.”
Clay gritted his teeth. This was not shaping up to his liking. “No,” he said. “I won’t do it.”
She pulled a sheaf of papers from a drawer with an exclamation of satisfaction, slammed the drawer closed again and leaned back in her massive leather chair. “Of course you’ll do it.”
Her certainty sent up red flags. “I said I wouldn’t.”
“But you’re going to change your mind as soon as I point out a certain little paragraph in your contract.” She tossed the sheaf of papers on the desktop. “It’s the one that says I can terminate your services on a moment’s notice if you refuse any reasonable assignment that doesn’t conflict with your primary career which is rodeo, and which of course, this doesn’t.”
He surged to his feet. “Dammit, Eve, I—”
“Darling, darling, don’t despair!” She came to meet him, all motherly concern. “I’m not asking you to do anything immoral or illegal. I’m simply sending you to convince this beautiful child that Mother Hubbard can make her life infinitely better.”
“While selling a whole passel of jeans and tight shirts.”
“That, too,” she said with a satisfied smile. “Look, I wouldn’t pressure you this way—”
“Yeah, right.” He rolled his eyes, feeling somewhat mollified.
“—but I have such a strong feeling that this is right for everyone concerned. You know about my ‘feelings,’ of course.”
He nodded, because everyone at M.H.W.W.D. knew. She always based business decisions on those “feelings.” This made the suits crazy and delighted everyone else, including Clay up to but not including the present moment.
She patted his cheek. “If you pull this off, and I’m confident you will, there’ll be a nice fat bonus in it for you,” she wheedled. “Don’t be difficult, darling. Trust me. This will work. Not only that—it should be a lot of fun, hanging around some little burg where you’ll be a big hero, spending time with a drop-dead gorgeous woman. What part of ‘summer fun’ don’t you understand?”
Clay sighed, because she had a point. He was not adverse to getting to know Niki Keene better…a lot better, he realized as his groin tightened. “Give me time to think about this,” he hedged, unwilling to concede total victory so quickly. “Maybe I have plans. Maybe I—”
“Love to,” she cut him off, “but we’ve got a press conference slated in a few hours to announce details of the actual contest. It’ll be held at my ranch—had I told you that?”
“No.” He knew her “ranch” was actually a spectacular estate on the outskirts of Dallas where her minions raised a few head of longhorns and a few quarter horses often used as publicity props for her company. It would provide an elegant setting for a dozen beautiful girls.
She nodded. “Well, it is. Now, I’ve just got time to brief you and then we’ve got to doll you up in the new Duds line. Trust me, Clay, this is going to be a great boost for everyone involved….”
NIKI BALANCED the tray of dirty dishes on one shoulder with professional ease and smiled at the handsome mustached man sitting alone at a table at the Sorry Bastard. “Hi, Travis. What brings you to town on a Tuesday?”
Travis Burke, Dani’s father-in-law and a popular rancher whose XOX Ranch was one of the biggest dude-and-working outfits in the country, grinned back at her. It was certainly easy to see where his son, Jack, got his good looks.
“Pa’s got a doctor’s appointment,” Travis said, referring to the elderly but still plenty salty Austin Burke. “Doc Wilson’s got an emergency so who knows when he’ll be done?” He shrugged. “I figured I’d grab a bite and then take something back to Pa. He’s convinced he’ll lose his place in line if he leaves.”
“He could be right. What can I get you?”
“A hamburger and a beer should do it.”
“Comin’ right up.”
When she returned a few minutes later with his order, he nodded toward an empty chair. “I sure do hate to eat alone,” he said plaintively. “Since most of the rush seems to be over, maybe you could sit down a minute or two?”
He was right; only two other tables were being used and the occupants of both were finishing their food. “Don’t mind if I do,” she said, sitting.
He piled condiments on his burger: pickles and onion and lettuce and tomato. “I’ve been wantin’ to ask if you ever found out who entered you in that contest,” he remarked.
She sighed. “It was Mason Kilgore, a photographer I worked for in Montana before we came here. He used to take pictures of me when he was bored. He got the bright idea to send one in and pulled it out of his files.”
Travis picked up his burger carefully. “It was a bright idea, apparently. When’s the contest?”
She looked at him in surprise. “I don’t know. Since I don’t intend to participate, it really doesn’t matter.”
“You meant what you said the Fourth of July, huh?” He took a big bite of his burger, his gaze curious.
“Of course, I did,” she said indignantly. “Why on earth would I want to—”
“Niki!”
Dylan rushed across the room, the sharp urgency in his voice making her start. Whatever had him in an uproar was all to the good, though, since she’d been meaning to track him down for some straight talk ever since she’d seen him with that strange, and very attractive, cowboy on the Fourth of July.
He galloped up, his face actually pale beneath his wide-brimmed hat. She felt a rush of alarm.
“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 her sisters almost at once but the reluctant contestant herself was not in evidence. “Uhh… I don’t seem to see—”
“That’ll wait.” Rosie hauled him to the edge of the platform and held up her hands for attention. “Folks, I’d like y’all to meet Clay Russell, World Champion All-Around Cowboy. Let’s give him a big ol’ Hard Knox welcome!”
At her urging, everyone applauded, some politely but most with enthusiasm. Clay acknowledged their welcome with a smile and a friendly wave but his thoughts were elsewhere, with a certain blue-eyed black-haired malcontent.
When the applause died away, he tried again. “Mayor Mitchell, I don’t see our contestant anywhere. I hope Ms. Keene—”
“Yes, yes, we’ll talk about that,” Rosie said. “But first—”
One of the men loitering nearby rushed forward, carrying a large gilt key.
“The key to the city,” Rosie said expansively, offering it to Clay with a flourish. “We’re mighty proud to welcome you to Hard Knox and hope you’ll stay around long enough to appreciate lots of good old-fashioned Texas hospitality.”
Somewhat taken aback, Clay accepted the key to the accompaniment of more applause. About eighteen inches long and made of balsa wood, it glittered with brilliant metallic gold paint. A bright blue ribbon streamed from the shaft.
“I’m overwhelmed,” he said. “Thank you all for this nice welcome. Now if I can just meet our contestant—”
“You can meet everyone!” Rosie waved expansively to the crowd. She added in a joking tone, “Now don’t y’all push and shove, folks.” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “I’m sure you’ll all get to shake the hand of our honored guest—maybe even get yourself an autograph.”
And that’s what happened for the next hour and forty-five minutes. Not once did Niki Keene show her beautiful face, nor did her sisters join the line of autograph seekers. In fact, after a while they wandered off.
This did not portend well for the success of his mission but he wouldn’t let that little quibble get him down. It was in his own best interest to get Nikki to compete, so compete she would.
OVER AT the nearly empty Sorry Bastard Saloon, Niki strove in vain to ignore what she knew was going on outside. She wanted nothing to do with the duplicitous Mr. Russell but neither did she want to be rude. Maybe if she simply stayed away, he’d take the hint.
But she couldn’t forget the words he’d said on the Fourth of July: nothing I want here.
Definitely an insult.
Cleavon, working behind the bar, waved her over. Rosie was definitely the more popular member of that duo but Niki had always been fond of her other boss, too.
Tall and thin, he’d wrapped the white bar apron around his skinny body a couple of times. As always, his long brown hair was pulled back into a wispy ponytail that drooped at the nape of his neck.
Flopping a towel on the bar, he leaned forward. “Why don’cha just go on over to th’ park?” he urged plaintively. “It’s gonna look real funny, you not bein’ there with that big rodeo cowboy comin’ all this way to see you.”
Niki felt her spine stiffen. “Don’t start on me, Cleavon,” she begged. “Please.”
He sighed. “I won’t, but you showin’ up would sure save Rosie’s bacon. She’s out there makin’ a fool of herself and hopin’ against hope you’ll do this one little bitty thing for the town.”
Niki rolled her eyes. “That’s what you said when you talked me into taking that Cowboy Dream Girl title. Cleavon, I’m twenty-seven years old which is too old for all that beauty contest nonsense. I’m afraid I’ve done just about all the little bitty things I can for this town.”
With a wave, she moved away to wash down tables that didn’t need it. She’d taken only a couple of steps when the door opened and her sisters walked in. With a groan, she bowed to the inevitable and went to meet them.
“What’ll it be?” she asked cheerfully, just as if they were regular customers. “Cleavon’s got a special on the Sorry Burger, if you’re hungry.”
Dani and Toni exchanged exasperated glances and Dani said, “All we want is you, Nik—out there acting nice.”
“This is as nice as I get these days.” Niki spun away.
Toni jumped in front of her. “Rosie’s dyin’ out there, trying to act as if everything’s all right. She was so sure you’d change your mind.”
“Just because I always have before, after being brow-beaten and bullied for a couple of weeks? I’m sorry but I can’t do that again.”
“But this guy is cute.” Dani joined the offense. “I mean, really cute. At least come out to meet him and let the photographers take a couple of pictures. ”
“What part of no way, never, forget it don’t you people understand?” Niki wrung her hands together. “This is making me crazy! My own sisters…” She let her voice trail off mournfully.
Dani, seemingly undeterred, fixed Niki with a level gaze. “Okay, we tried. If you really don’t want to do this, I don’t suppose we should give you any more flack about it.”
“But on the other hand…” Toni tried to turn the tide.
“No, really,” Dani said sanctimoniously. “I guess Niki’s happy in her own little rut. Far be it from us to try to shake her out of it.”
Toni frowned. “I wouldn’t say she’s in a rut, exactly.”
Dani’s brows soared. “No? She works at the ranch and here and that’s it. She doesn’t date—”
“I certainly do,” Niki said huffily.
“When’s the last time you had a date?”
“I…I don’t know. When’s the last time you had sex? Oh—!” Niki clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was way out of line.”
“This morning about six.” Dani’s expression was challenging. “And I liked it!”
“I’m sorry,” Niki said again, miserably. What had possessed her to say such a thing? Sex wasn’t a topic often on her mind….
“I repeat, when’s the last time you went out on a date?”
“Who was it with?” Toni chimed in, apparently catching on.
“I don’t remember. There, are you satisfied?”
“Not hardly.” Dani pursed her lips. “I just felt it necessary to support my contention that you’re in a rut. You need something to shake you out of it—not for the good of the town but for your own good.”
“I am not in a rut.” Niki recognized the defensive edge in her tone and hoped her sisters didn’t. “I’m happy with my life.”
“Really? Hiding out here at the Sorry Bastard or back at the ranch, a big fish in a little pond? No husband, no kids—hell, Nik, you don’t even have a dog of your own!”
“Dani!” Niki stopped short, surprised by the laughter bubbling in her throat. “Oh, all right,” she grumbled. “You’ve made your point.”
“Will you at least think about it?”
“Yes, I’ll think about it. Now go away and let me do my job.”
She watched them leave, feeling the weight of melancholy settle upon her shoulders. If her life was as dull as they made it sound, was she then equally dull? Maybe if she wasn’t reasonably pretty, she wouldn’t have any friends at all.
Talk about a depressing thought….
NIKI’S SISTERS eventually reappeared and were last in line to meet the guest of honor. Ignoring the crowd of men and boys still clustered around Clay in a loose but attentive semicircle, the dark-haired one stuck out her hand and said, “I’m Dani Keene Burke.”
The one with lighter hair added, “Toni Barnett. We’re Niki Keene’s sisters and we thought we…” She looked uncomfortable. “…uh…we owed you an explanation.”
Mayor Rosie heaved a gusty sigh of relief. “Thank heaven y’all showed up,” she said. “I’ve been dreading havin’ to do this alone.”
Clay, who knew exactly what they were talking about, smiled warmly. “I’m pleased to meet you,” he said. “Will your sister, Niki, be joining us soon? We’ve kept the photographers waiting as it is.” He gestured 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.”

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