Tight-Fittin' Jeans. Mary Baxter Lynn
about to plop down on the couch when the phone rang. He stopped in midaction. This was the first time in a week he’d heard that sound.
Garth grimaced, thinking that before he’d been forced into this change of scenery, he’d come to think of the receiver as a permanent part of his body. He wished it was his office calling, but he knew that wouldn’t be the case. Under no circumstances were they to bother him. His family, however, was. a different matter.
“Dixon,” he said, then realized he didn’t recognize the voice on the other end of the line.
Once the conversation had ended, Garth hung up, a bit disconcerted. The caller was a man who owned a nearby ranch, Jeremiah Davis, whom he had run into on several occasions at Irma Quill’s general store.
Garth paused in his thoughts, a smile relaxing his drawn features as his mind switched gears to Irma, who was in a class all her own. In fact, he’d never met anyone like her, except in books and on TV. With her birdlike features and antiquated way of dressing, bonnet and all, she reminded him of a character straight out of “Little House on the Prairie.”
Since he’d been in Pennington, Irma seemed to have taken a liking to him, though he hadn’t encouraged her. Still, when she insisted on loading him down with homemade bread and jam, he hadn’t turned it down; the smell never failed to revive his appetite.
However, it wasn’t Irma he should be thinking about now, but rather, the favor Jeremiah Davis had asked of him. Jeremiah had told him there had been an emergency in his family and asked Garth if he would keep an eye on things while he was away, explaining that he was leaving his daughter behind with a friend.
Garth had consented, though he wasn’t excited about the neighborly deed, as he didn’t particularly want to be neighborly.
Hell, all he wanted was a one-way ticket back to Texas.
One
“You don’t run this department, you know.”
Tiffany Russell eyed her boss, at the same time swallowing a scathing retort. She was well aware that she wasn’t in charge of ladies’ fine apparel, and that was the problem. She knew she should be.
Hazel Mason, unaffectionately known as “Witch Hazel,” might have enough style to make her large, rawboned stature seem elegant, rather than offensive, but that was as far as her assets went. Tiffany held fast to the notion that the woman’s tongue was sharper than her mind. When it came to doing something different, to branching out, Hazel was not interested, period.
Tiffany mellowed her voice as much as she could. “I’m aware of that, Hazel. Still, I can’t see why you object to entering the twentieth century.”
“If that’s meant to be funny, it isn’t.”
“Look,” Tiffany said, pushing a wad of natural blond hair behind her ear, “if we don’t do something soon, the competition is going to continue to kick our butt right into oblivion.”
“And you seriously think your idea of half-naked models parading through the racks serving pineapple is going to up the sales?”
“I do.”
“Well, I don’t.” Hazel’s tone was as cold as her blue eyes. “Even if I agreed with the beach-party idea, which I don’t, that line of swimwear you want to buy is simply too far-out for our ladies.”
“I beg to differ with you,” Tiffany countered, standing firm. “Anyway, how will we know until we try?”
“It’s simply too costly a gamble. And since I have the final word, it’s not going to happen.”
Tiffany literally had to bite her lip to keep from voicing another opinion, one that would most likely get her fired, even though keeping her thoughts to herself went against her grain. She wanted to lash out at this woman, whose face now reminded her of a prune, it was so severely wrinkled in distaste.
She doubted Hazel’s hair had ever been out of that bun, or that she’d ever done anything daring, such as wearing a two-piece bathing suit The idea of her parading naked in front of a man was even more incredible. How she’d ever had two kids was beyond Tiffany. She would bet her favorite Magic Lift Bra that Hazel and her husband made love with the lights out and the covers over their heads.
“Well?”
Tiffany shook her head and stared at her boss. “Well, what?”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“Right”
A few minutes later, Tiffany was back in the stock-room., staring at the boxes of clothing that had arrived late yesterday afternoon. Ordinarily, she would have torn open the boxes filled with lovely clothes and accessories with vigorous anticipation, thinking of how lucky she was to have Christmas on a daily basis.
But not today. She was still seething from her goround with Witch Hazel. These confrontations were coming far too often. Tiffany loved her work, though she didn’t necessarily love the company she worked for. As a buyer for women’s clothing for Cunningham’s at the Galleria, she had her own ideas of the market and what would sell and what would not
Unfortunately, her boss did not agree with her.
Feeling her frustration and anger rising, Tiffany turned her back on the boxes and made her way into her office, which was nothing but a cubbyhole. But it was hers, and she could be alone there and give in to the emotions churning inside her.
She perched on the edge of her desk and swung her foot. Hell’s bells, maybe she ought to quit. But she wasn’t a quitter. Too, she wasn’t ready to give Hazel the satisfaction of running her off. She couldn’t deny, though, that she was going home every day with a headache.
Suddenly Tiffany’s frown burgeoned into a smile as thoughts of her best friend, Bridget, leaped to mind. At one time, Bridget’s career as an attorney had been in the toilet, or so she had thought. Now she was happily married and living in a small town in Utah.
Tiffany’s smile broadened. She took full responsibility for her friend’s sudden and unorthodox marriage. Why, if she hadn’t insisted Bridget attend that crazy bachelor auction, she wouldn’t have bid on Jeremiah Davis and won him.
Tiffany laughed out loud as she thought back on the moment when Bridgat had lunged out of her chair and yelled, “One thousand dollars!”
Aghast, Tiffany had jerked Bridget back down in her seat. However, the damage had already been done. Bridget had gotten what she paid for, a tall, slow-talking rancher who wasn’t about to let the best thing that had ever happened to him slip through his fingers.
Shaking her head, Tiffany eased off the desk and walked over to where she kept her two-cup coffeemaker. She filled a cup full of French vanilla and sipped; although it soothed her stomach, it did nothing for her clicking mind.
While she envied Bridget many things, her marriage was not one of them. Tiffany had come close to getting married only once; thank God it hadn’t come about. The man had been—and still was—a lush, though she hadn’t realized it. Even at thirty, which years ago would have classified her as an old maid, a ring on her finger wasn’t what she wanted. Her desires leaned more toward life’s amenities: a great job, a nice house, a fancy car and a hefty bank account, and not necessarily in that order, either.
Although she had none of the above at the moment, Tiffany intended to remedy that. Her goal was to eventually have enough money, borrowed or otherwise, to open her own shop, a shop that catered to rich and privileged women. Working at Cunningham’s was merely a stepping-stone.
Tiffany took another generous mouthful of coffee, savoring the taste, only to have it tainted by sudden thoughts of Hazel. She wasn’t sure just how much longer she could take the woman’s abuse, along with her lack of enthusiasm. She had about as much innovative energy as molasses running uphill.
“Grrr,” Tiffany muttered, then drained her cup.
There