The Cowboy And The Countess. Darlene Scalera
if need be. But believe me, in here—” he flattened a palm across his chest “—there beats the heart of one of the last true wranglers.”
The man looked at him, his expression glazed. He muttered several profanities. “Listen to me, you’re no cowboy. You’re the founder, the CEO of Landover Technology. Generation X’s golden boy. The digital era’s David. The youngest head honcho of a company ever to earn a Fortune 500 ranking. Cowboy?” The man’s fleshy cheeks jiggled as he spoke. “Cowboy?”
One of the white-coated trio stepped forward and touched the fat-faced man’s elbow.
The man turned. “You know he’s Kent Landover.” His voice ballooned; his body seemed to expand. He looked at the other two men in white. “You know he’s Kent Landover.”
The white coats were doctors, K.C. decided. The one now murmuring to the florid man had fine lines around the mouth and eyes that spoke of too many deaths and too few miracles. He held a chart in one hand and, with the other, steered the sputtering man toward the hall.
“I’m telling you, the man lying there is the same man named 1994 Man of the Year by PC Magazine. CEO of the Year by Financial World in 1996. We land this deal with Sushima Components, and that man in there will be on the cover and in the headlines of every business publication in the world. Three-fourths of the civilized world knows he’s Kent Landover. Everyone…” The man halted at the door. His flushed face turned to K.C. Their gazes caught and held. “Everyone except him.”
The doctor ushered the man into the hallway.
“Is he going to be okay?” K.C. asked.
One of the other doctors looked up from the bag of yellow fluid attached by a slim hose to K.C.’s arm. He smiled with already-perfected reassurance. “He’ll be fine. You rest now. We’ll be right back.”
The doctors left, closing the door halfway. K.C. looked out the wide room window, seeing a slice of gauzy sky wedged between too many buildings. He heard the spurt and crackle of the short man’s voice outside the door. That’s what comes from living too close to concrete for too long, he thought.
He laid his head back against the propped pillow and closed his eyes. He saw the mountains in the bleached light of a high noon sun. He missed home. He missed Anna.
The door swung open. The man, his neck no longer inflated and now almost too thin for his large jaw, came back into the room. He smiled at K.C., but his features kept a nauseous cast.
Behind the man came a woman, her head held erect, her beauty carried like a brocaded mantle. She smiled full, colored lips at him. He nodded, courteous, curious. She was handsome, and he was intrigued but not drawn. Her beauty was too hallowed. Where was Anna?
The woman came to his bedside, her smile serene. She leaned over and touched her smooth cheek to his forehead. His brow furrowed against her glassy flesh. His skin felt tender, bruised.
“Oh, my darling.” It was between a song and a sigh. The sweep of the woman’s hair fell in a dark curve, curtaining K.C.’s vision so he only saw the lower half of the short man’s face. The man’s lips were pursed, triangling his jaw.
The woman straightened. The white-coated chorus of doctors had returned and was watching. The woman’s hand lay against his cheek. “You remember me, don’t you, darling?”
He looked up into bottle-green eyes, their whites iridescent with expectation. “Are you a friend of Anna’s?”
The woman’s touch tensed against his face. Her eyes deepened to emerald. With a slow, elegant twist of her neck, she turned to the short man at the end of the bed. “Who’s Anna?”
The man shrugged. “All he told me was he’s a cowboy named K.C.”
The woman’s head swiveled. She looked down at him. “K.C.?”
“Yes?”
Her hand made small strokes against his cheek. She was gimlet-eyed. Her teeth were tiny and glistening. “Who’s Anna?”
“The woman I love.”
Her hand stilled. He watched the muscles in her slim throat ripple.
“The woman you love?”
He nodded. “I’m going to marry her…if she’ll have me.”
The woman’s smile came back less full. Her hand stroked his cheek once. “Why would she say no to you?”
“She’s a countess.”
“A countess?” There was a quiver in her well-modulated tone.
“And I’m an ol’ cowpuncher.”
“An ol’ cowpuncher named K.C.,” the woman repeated. She stared at him. Her smile spread soft, indulgent.
He nodded.
“Your name isn’t Kent Landover?”
“In fact, ma’am, it is.”
“It is?” The woman threw a glance at the man at the end of the bed.
“That’s my given name—Kent Coleman Landover.” He winked at the woman, pleased she looked less upset, almost happy. “K.C., for short.”
The woman’s smile vanished. She straightened.
“He’s only been awake for a brief time,” advised the doctor holding the chart. “Any family?”
“His parents divorced when Kent was in high school. Father passed away about five years ago—heart attack,” the short man said.
“His mother is on her third or fourth marriage. I’ve lost count. She lives somewhere abroad—Denmark, Sweden, Norway,” the woman said. “One of those Scandinavian countries. She sends fabulous Icelandic sweaters at Christmas.”
“No brothers or sisters?”
The man and woman both shook their heads. “Only child,” the woman said.
“I knew three boys grew up on the Ponderosa Ranch in Nevada. One father, three different mothers.” K.C. rolled his eyes. The others stared at him.
He sat up. There was soreness when he moved, as if he’d sat too long in a cheap saddle. “I realize I must have been off my feed, doc, but I’m feeling spry now and ready to move on.”
From the corner of his eye K.C. saw the woman mouthing “off my feed.”
“When do you think I can move ’em up and head ’em out?”
“Move ’em up and head ’em out,” the woman’s lips formed.
The doctor came to the side of the bed. “How many fingers am I holding up, Kent?”
“Call me K.C. Everyone does.”
The doctor nodded. “Okay. How many fingers am I holding up, K.C.?”
K.C. smiled. “Three.”
The doctor touched his forehead. “Any headaches, dizziness, nausea?”
He shook his head.
The doctor pulled down the lower lid of his right eye, then his left. “Any double vision?”
“Nope. I’m ready to saddle up and be on my way.”
The doctor laid his fingertips against the inside of K.C.’s wrist. “Where would you be heading?”
K.C. looked to the window and the smog-shrouded cityscape. “I’m here to find Anna.”
“She lives here in L.A.?” The doctor lifted K.C.’s arm, bent it up and down at the elbow.
K.C. nodded. “Somewhere in one of those big mansions. Bel Air or Brentwood or the Hills. She’s a countess.”
“So you mentioned,” the doctor said. “And you’re here to find her?”