Chapter 44

When Wyatt arrived at the Bull Dancer a week from the following Sunday, the first thing he noticed was that he couldn’t find an open parking spot on the street in front of the bar. He pulled around to the back lot and got his second surprise—an eight-foot board fence around the patio, the formerly barren space covered by white canvas sheets that rippled like sails in the breeze. The noise hit him next—voices, laughter, music, and an odd clattering.

And then he smelled it.

His digestive juices kicked into overdrive at the scent of fresh-baked bread and fried chicken. He had to stop short inside his newly acquired back gate to avoid a wheeled steer dummy that came zipping toward him, pursued by two men with ropes. The first captured the horns and turned left, dragging the dummy like a steer in the arena, and the second scooped up the hinged wooden hind legs. Onlookers hooted and cheered from tables set up against the brick rear wall of the building.

“Five point three seconds,” a woman announced, holding up her cell phone to show the timer. “Rowdy and Darrel, you’re next.”

Rowdy glanced over, saw Wyatt, and tossed him a grin. “Just in time…this is the first round of a three-header. Wanna enter up?”

“Not this time, thanks. Have you seen—”

Melanie strolled out the door in low-cut jeans and a bright-yellow tank top, her hair rippling loose and a drink in each hand. The sight of her was like a flower bursting into bloom in Wyatt’s chest. She sauntered up, passed him a whiskey and Coke, and gave him a wifely peck on the cheek. “Welcome home, honey. How was work?”

“Not as busy as you.” How in the hell had she done all this in ten days? He gazed around in wonder at the worn concrete stained to a rustic brown, the cracks and chips simply adding character. The swivel chairs and glass-topped tables were made from wooden barrels that bore the stamps of local wineries, and were nearly all occupied by people talking with the broad gestures and bursts of laughter that guaranteed tall tales were being told. And on every side, the board fence was plastered with banners he’d collected from rodeos across the country and piled in the storeroom until he could figure out where to hang them.

It was exactly what he’d imagined, even though he hadn’t been able to picture it until now.

“Cool, huh? We invited the saddle club members to initiate our new roping pen this afternoon.” Melanie slipped her arm through his and steered him inside. “Come and see the rest.”

As they stepped into the back hallway, the scent of the food intensified. Wyatt drew a long, appreciative breath. “Please tell me that tastes as good as it smells.”

“What do you think?” a new voice demanded.

He stared at the woman who filled the doorway to the kitchen. “Helen?”

“In the flesh, and there’s still a whole lot of it.” She folded him into a hug that was like being swallowed by Mother Earth, then stepped back and looked him up and down with a critical eye. “All gaunted up from the road, just like Joe used to be. You go on in and find a seat. I’ll fix you a plate.”

Melanie tugged on his arm, guiding him past vaguely familiar faces that smiled and nodded in greeting. Wyatt responded in kind as she deposited him in a booth. Gordon grinned at him across the table. Melanie patted Wyatt’s head as if she could tell it was spinning. “I’ll go get that plate for you.”

Wyatt nodded vaguely, his attention caught by the room around him.

“So…how do you like what we’ve done with the place?” Gordon asked.

“I…wow.”

With a few basic changes, she’d transformed a faded bordello into a rustic hotel, replacing gilt and velvet with historic black-and-white rodeo prints and vintage signs. Oversize flat-screen TVs hung on the walls at either end of the room, framed in wood to blend with the decor. On the one directly above his booth, Wyatt saw himself in the arena at the National Finals, waiting for a bull rider to nod his head. The other was showing footage of the recent Oregon State High School Rodeo.

Gordon patted a tablet mounted in a bracket on their table. “Folks can take their pick from a whole list of videos on these gizmos, including every Pendleton Roundup that’s ever been filmed. Or they can watch live-stream events.” He nodded toward a table full of men around his age. “It’s great for guys like that who don’t do the Internet. And most of ’em don’t get food like this at home.”

Melanie slid a plate heaped with chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans in front of Wyatt, all drowned in gravy. A smaller plate held two golden dinner rolls glistening with melted butter. His taste buds had a minor orgasm in anticipation. It had been a long, long time since he’d had the pleasure of Helen’s cooking.

Melanie gestured toward a corner, where a steam table had been set up. “We’re serving everything buffet-style—one entree, two vegetables, bread, and a dessert. Meat loaf on Tuesdays, pot roast on Wednesdays, chili and corn bread on Thursdays, and fish and chips on Fridays. Saturday is cook’s choice, and we’re open from one until seven on Sunday for Gordon’s Special Chicken Dinner.”

Wyatt took a huge bite of a crispy fried drumstick and groaned at the explosion of flavor on his tongue. “Dear God, that’s good.”

Gordon beamed at him.

Melanie laughed. “I knew we’d make a praying man of you again.”

He caught her hand as she started to turn away. “This is amazing. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Your autograph on the bottom of my paycheck will suffice. I’m just doing my job.”

Her job. With all that had happened between them, it was easy to forget she was only here because he’d hired her to fix his bar. She’d succeeded beyond his wildest dreams—and in a fraction of the time. The thought settled over him like a cold, creeping fog.

He’d assumed—hoped—that it would take weeks. Maybe months. And as much as he loved the result, he couldn’t help wishing she wasn’t quite so efficient.

One of the saddle clubbers poked his head in from the back hall. “Hey, Melanie! Ain’t you gonna come out here and show us how it’s done in Texas?”

“Nah.” She waved him off. “I don’t want to crush your manly pride.”

He grinned. “I don’t mind losing to the woman who helped Howie Jones find his balls.”

She laughed, but shook her head. “I have to see if Louie needs help behind the bar.”

“What is he talking about?” Wyatt asked, tightening his grip to keep her from escaping.

“I, um, may have had a small disagreement with Donetta Jones.” When Wyatt’s eyes narrowed, she hunched her shoulders defensively. “She was being horrible to their daughter. All I did was suggest that maybe she could get on the horse and do better. Grace was the one who told her to shut up and pay attention, and when she got all pissy, Howie told her to go sit down.”

Wyatt nearly spit up a green bean. “Are you kidding me?”

“Ah. I see you know her.”

“Everybody knows her. She is the bane of the school board, the Girl Scouts, the city council…” Wyatt settled back in the booth and stared up at her. “I’ve been schmoozing my ass off at Chamber of Commerce events for over a year and couldn’t get a soul into this place. You go pick a fight with the president of the saddle club, and suddenly we’re the hottest place in town?”

“I tried to tell you—never underestimate the power of the roping pen.” She smiled brightly. “Which is why you are going to the saddle club with me next time.”

Oh hell. Even after seeing him in action, she was going to stick him on a horse. With a rope. And an audience. Nothing like total humiliation to ensure that no one was intimidated by what Melanie called his supercool image.

On the bright side, if she intended to stick around long enough to make a roper out of him, she might never leave. And there he went again, wishing on a star that he knew full well was just a meteor, destined to burn out and leave only a trail of brilliant memories behind.

* * *

Much later that night, Melanie stretched, enjoying the slide of her well-used body against the lean length of Wyatt’s. The north breeze cleared away the usual downtown potpourri in favor of the cool dampness of the river with a hint of sweetness from flowers blooming in the nearby park. She’d offered to follow Wyatt to his condo when they’d closed the bar, but he’d insisted on hauling an overnight bag up to her room.

It made sense, given their mutual determination to keep this short term. Why not use this fantasy room to play out their affair? It was, after all, what the place had been built for, and when they were done, he wouldn’t be left with her imprint on his personal space, and she wouldn’t have to imagine the life they might have had there. Everything would be contained within these walls, a scene inside a crystal ball that only looked into the past.

She laid her hand over Wyatt’s where it was splayed out on her stomach, and his arm tightened in reflex as if his body, at least, didn’t want to let her go.

She pushed away the bittersweet thought, determined to savor this man, this day, and her unequivocal success. Her smug sense of well-being wasn’t just about the amazing sex. She’d taken a run-down bar and a handful of vague suggestions and crafted them into the answer to his…well, maybe not prayers, but close. The satisfaction of watching Wyatt’s eyes light up when he saw it all brought to life…

That was what she wanted.

She could claw her way to the top of the corporate ladder. She was tough enough, talented enough, and had the kind of connections that could make the ugliness at Westwind irrelevant—Tori’s father, Joe’s stepfather, even Wyatt. But the thought of the meetings, the travel, the unrelenting pressure and convoluted office politics only made her tired. She’d set out to be a trailblazer, determined to knock down doors and break through ceilings—and that way had led to her own brand of madness.

Imagine, though, if she could do for someone else what she’d done for Wyatt. If she could use the gifts God had given her to help manufacture dreams. Instead of promoting herself, why not use her skills to lift up others? There were plenty of government and private organizations dedicated to helping business start-ups—especially those whose owners began at a disadvantage. Even better, there would still be room in her life for the pleasure of good horses, good friends, and good roping.

And a good man…if she was ever that lucky.

She wriggled around to get more comfortable, drawing an appreciative sigh. Lifting Wyatt’s hand, she brushed her lips over his knuckles. He breathed a sleepy kiss into her hair, and she had to squeeze her eyes tight against the hot rush of tears.

Who was she kidding? No one had ever been able to push Wyatt out of her heart. And nothing would ever compare to this little slice of perfection.

So she would have to be sure that she savored every bite.