Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning (2 page)

“Hey,” Grover objected. “Colfax got more soul than any Broadway or some such place. And Bonfils is a fine theater, so —”

“Oh, don’t start with me about fine theaters. You might have done television in your day, but I’ve been in more theaters than you can begin to imagine, young man.” Maudie drew herself up, taking advantage of Grover’s open-mouthed blinking at being called a young man. “And don’t change the subject from Donna meeting this boy. Now, if you’ll move aside, she can get on her way.”

“Go on,” encouraged Grover, stepping back and wisely not engaging Maudie in further battle. “I don’t want to be seeing that long face of his another night anyway.”

“Another night?” Donna didn’t budge.

Maudie peered at her. “That’s right, second night he’s been here. Meet the boy.”

“Yeah,” chorused Grover, “put him out of his misery and—”

“Fine.” Donna wrapped her coat tight, holding the crossed-over material with her arm. She needed to sew buttons on her fabulous find, and she would, as soon as she found ones that matched those on the cuffs. “Only so you two will stop going on about it.”

She moved past them, muttering about poor boy and pushy people as she swung open the stage door with emphasis
.

The heavy door took some doing to get started, something she’d learned yesterday, since Grover rarely actually opened it. But in this moment, the resistance was gone, because someone was opening it from outside with far more
oomph
than she’d supplied.

The swing of the door carried her with it, causing her to step back, as Angela Ford, “Sweet Charity” and star of their company, glided in, drawing with her a billow of cold, snow-smelling air.

“Why thank you so much, honey,” Angela said with the husky voice that added to her portrayal of Charity. She smiled up at the young man who had opened the door for her from outside.

Donna wouldn’t have been flattered by
honey
, even if it had been meant for her
.
Angela called everyone
honey
, not bothering to pretend she knew their names.
Honey
made it onstage, too, when she forgot character names.

“I’ll just get my umbrella. When I come back . . . ”

“Thank you, ma’am, but —”

Donna saw the door-opener’s mouth below the brim of his lowered cowboy hat for a slice of a second — her heartbeat jumped tempo — before he raised his head. His eyes came to her. Her heart gave a lurching thud that threatened to buckle her knees.

Him
.

The man from the hotel lobby.

“— I’m here to see Miss Roberts.”

He held out a large, work-toughened, immaculately clean hand.

Donna was aware Angela’s would-be chuckle held an edge — she wouldn’t have appreciated that
ma’am
. And she
really
wouldn’t have appreciated anyone, much less an attractive male, devoting attention to Donna instead of her.

“How sweet,” Angela said, sweeping away. “Maudie! Maudie, I need you!”

Donna hardly noticed. With the man from the hotel lobby looking down at her with that same unsettling light in his eyes as yesterday, she concentrated on putting her hand in his with an appearance of calm. His hand closed around hers with a gentleness that indicated he did not abuse his strength.

Her heart did that lurching thud again, and his hand tightened as if he’d felt the same knee-buckling stumble.

“May I take you to supper, Miss Roberts?” A smile lightened the formality.

“At the diner around the corner,” Maudie said from behind Donna.

Angela also would not like Maudie ignoring her summons.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

Donna felt a giggle rising at Angela’s reaction if she knew he’d put her and Maudie in the same
ma’am
category.

“What’s your name, young man?” Maudie demanded.

“Ed Currick, of the Slash-C Ranch in Knighton, Wyoming, ma’am.” He used his free hand to tip his hat to Maudie.

“Well, see that you behave yourself, Ed Currick of the Slash-C Ranch in Knighton, Wyoming.” Maudie’s sternness was counteracted by her giving Donna a firm shove on the back to send her toward him, then closing the stage door behind her.

They stood in the stark brightness of the security light. He — Ed Currick — was so much taller that she had to tip her head back to look into his face, and that did no good because the light beating down on his cowboy hat left his face in shadow.

“Are you a cowboy?”

“You might say so. I’m a rancher, Donna.”

Something about the way he said her name made her abruptly aware that he still held her hand. She drew free, overlapped the edges of her coat more tightly.

“Right. You mentioned a ranch. If you haven’t eaten you don’t want to go to the diner. It’s mostly sandwiches.”

“Your friend will worry if we’re not there.”

She smiled. “Maudie’s a company institution, but she doesn’t have to decide where we eat.”

“Your friend will worry if we’re not there,” he repeated. Apparently that settled it for him.

And she supposed he was right. Maudie would worry. “A sandwich is good for me, but I suspect it takes more to fill you up.”

“It’ll do fine.” He stepped back, raising a palm-up hand inviting her to walk past him, then turned in beside her.

They walked in silence to where this alley alongside the building intersected the sidewalk fronting the theater. She was aware of him slowing his pace to accommodate her. Some men didn’t bother. Some men made a production of it. He simply gentled his pace to match her shorter stride.

“Grover and Maudie said you were here last night.”

“I was.”

“You saw the show?”

“Yep.”

“Both nights?” She turned the corner onto the sidewalk and nearly came to a standstill as a gust of wind hit her in the face.

“Yep.”

She looked up at an angle, squinting against the wind. “You didn’t come backstage last night?”

“I did.”

“But . . . ” Her first thought was of her temptation to look around when they left last night. He had been there. Did that mean — No. It didn’t mean anything.

“You came out with two other girls,” he said, “all talking about how tired you were, how you were going right back to the hotel for hot baths, and a good night’s sleep before today’s two shows.”

“Oh.”

One side of his mouth quirked up. “A smart man knows better than to try to compete with that.”

The wind had eased, letting her look at him without her eyes watering. “Are you a smart man, Ed Currick?”

“Passable smart.”

She laughed at the assumed deadpan humility.

They reached the diner. He moved ahead to open the door.

“Two nights in a row? You must like musical theater.”

“Can’t say. Didn’t pay much attention to most of it. I came to see you.”

She was saved from needing to respond by the business of entering the small restaurant, finding a table, and taking her chair. A tableful of company members waved, eyebrows waggling suggestively at her companion’s back.

She ignored them, arranging her coat over her chair. He’d offered to hang it up, but she liked to keep it close. She didn’t expect anyone to take it, but she’d be so heartbroken if they did that it didn’t seem worth the risk. Then she concentrated on the menu. It didn’t require much time.

Finally, Donna gave Ed Currick of Knighton, Wyoming a stiff smile. What was she doing here with him? Not only were they a pair of Lydia’s ships passing in the night, while she was more of a permanent mooring type — if that meant what she thought it meant — but what did they have in common? What would they talk about?

He looked back. Those steady gray eyes had a darker rim around the edge, and lashes that were long and full, yet took nothing away from the overt masculinity of a strong-featured face.

He’d removed his cowboy hat, and there was a hat-shaped dent in his thick dark hair. Her fingers itched to delve into it — only to fix the dent, of course.

Heat flowed through her.

Oh, Lord, her hormones were
not
thinking about talking.

“So are you or aren’t you a cowboy?” It came out abrupt. Strange. She was usually so good with people.

He’s a
man
, not people
, some voice inside her head said.

Definitely, certainly a man.

“Ranching calls for some cowboying.”

“What else does it call for?”

“A fair amount of everything.” People who weren’t paying attention, weren’t looking into his eyes might miss the glint of humor.

“That doesn’t tell me—”

The solitary waitress, harried by the influx of theater people, rushed up. He ordered two beef sandwiches, a salad, fries, and a milkshake to her sandwich and cup of soup.

“Is it always like that?” he asked with the waitress gone.

“Like what?”

He tipped his head backward toward the boisterous table behind him.

“Pretty much. Sort of like when a family with lots of siblings gets together.” She was careful not to make eye-contact with any of the table’s occupants. Especially Lydia or Henri.

“And yesterday afternoon? At the hotel?”

“Not usually that bad.” She laughed. Then made a discovery that stopped her breath in her throat and started her heart hammering like she’d danced back-to-back-to-back numbers.

Steady gray eyes could burn.

She thought it had been a fluke in the lobby. It wasn’t. The spotlight of his eyes concentrated heat inside her like she’d never known. Those eyes could burn . . . and they could ignite.

She sucked in air, but it brought with it the heat from his eyes. So now it was inside as well as surrounding her. She’d go right up in flames completely, if she didn’t . . . didn’t . . .

“They’re letting off steam. We’ve had a hectic week,” she said in rush. “We closed in Omaha Sunday night. Traveling on Monday is normal, but instead of having Tuesday off, we were supposed to rehearse for last night’s benefit and today’s two. A tough schedule even if everything went right.”

“But something went wrong.”

“Exactly. First, road construction. Brad fussed at him, so the driver tried a detour of the detour.
Then
our bus broke down. Usually our truck travels with, but because of the tight schedule it left Sunday night with whatever crew squeezed in to start on set-up. So, we were alone. It was mid-afternoon before help came. We were all wearing pounds of clothing by then. The mechanic says he can’t repair the bus in time to get us here. They send for another bus, but in the meantime there we all are — well, not the crew that went ahead, or the principals or conductor, because they’re driven separately, but the ensemble, and orchestra, and some of the crew, and — anyway, we’re crammed into this tiny, isolated service station, devouring every crumb from the vending machines, because we hadn’t had lunch or dinner. Then something amazing happens.”

He still watched her intently, but the flame in his eyes had lowered. A smolder now. Not nearly as unsettling — no, not unsettling. She wasn’t unsettled. Just cautious.

“What was amazing?”

She blinked, abruptly realizing she’d been staring into his eyes. And he’d been staring back.

“People.” She swallowed, cleared her throat and started again. “People started showing up, a whole stream of pickups. They loaded us all up, and took us to a church. By now it was dark and cold and we were
so
hungry, but this church glowed with lights from every window, and when we stepped inside —” She closed her eyes, breathing in remembered aromas and sounds. “— it was like coming home on Thanksgiving, having all those wonderful scents and the swell of welcoming voices. Oh, how I missed that.”

It had been tough last week. Missing her favorite meal, missing her family even more, missing being where she was loved. But that was to be expected. Part of being a professional. Paying those dues.

“You weren’t home for Thanksgiving?”

“Not this year. I got home for Thanksgiving and Christmas last year. I could make my own schedule because I wasn’t steadily employed,” she said dryly.

“What did you do when you weren’t steadily employed?”

“Kept trying to
be
steadily employed. I had a few small things, then a nice off-off Broadway show last winter. Short run, unfortunately. Otherwise, it’s casting calls and classes and waitressing so I don’t have to beg from my parents — not that they wouldn’t help. They’ve always encouraged us to go for our dreams. It’s just that they worry. You know, New York, the theater.”

“Here.” The waitress plopped a plate with two big sandwiches in front of her. Ed efficiently swapped the plates.

“So folks had gathered at the church because word got around about a busload of people needing help,” he prompted.

“How did you know?”

He shrugged.

“Well, you’re right. People brought blankets, cots, sleeping bags so we’d be comfortable sleeping in the church. But first — ”

“First you ate.” Lines fanned from his eyes like ripples of smiles.

“Now, how’d you know
that
?”

“It’s the way people are in this part of the world.”

“Oh.” So his — Knighton? — was like the people at that church? She didn’t think it could get any more different from New York City. Though, perhaps, not so very different from Indiana. “Well, you’re right. We ate.
Such
good food. Even the ones who fuss about weight piled up their plates. And cookies? Delicious. They had Christmas cookies already — What’s your favorite Christmas cookie?”

“Chocolate chip.”

She
tsk
ed. “Those are for everyday. You have to have special cookies at Christmas.”

“Christmas is a day, too. Chocolate chip,” he insisted.

“Fine. So, in
addition
to chocolate chip, what kind of cookies?”

“These chocolate bar things with a little crust under them and nuts on top.”

“Those sound good. What are they called?”

“The chocolate bar things with a little crust — Ow.” Like her light swat on his arm made an impression . . . although she
had
felt a tingle. “Okay, Mom calls them toffee bars. What’s your favorite?”