Dream a Little Dream. Debra Clopton
man must think her an absolute loony tune. But at the moment, she was thinking the same thing about him. Here she was trying to help him find a wife and he had this bull problem. And it wasn’t anything to pooh-pooh away. Didn’t he understand, great investment or not, if that crazy bull killed someone, he was going to have a hard time finding a wife from behind bars?
Rounding the corner of Prudy’s Garage, she came face-to-face with her mangled car, and her knees almost buckled at the sight of it. Her mouth went dry and her palms grew damp—it was as if she were back in that moment. She could feel the car shaking as Sylvester slammed into it. She could see the solid wall of pure bull muscle bunching and rippling. Feel the car tilt and start to roll. She winced. The toast she’d forced down for breakfast suddenly threatened to revolt and, covering her mouth with her trembling hand, she whirled away. On shaking legs, she stumbled back to the street, praying for the Lord to help her keep her breakfast down.
If the diner had been a fiasco, the feed store was a circus. Applegate Thornton and Stanley Orr were hunkered over their endless game of checkers, a mixture of the Odd Couple, Grumpy Old Men and Mayberry. The two old-timers, who normally played checkers down at Sam’s Diner every morning at daylight had recently moved their game to the feed store. It had been a surprise to everyone. Applegate, Stanley and Sam went way back with one another and now to have this rift between them was just plain confusing. Something had happened two weeks ago and no one had been able to figure it out. Or get any of them to talk about it. To Pete’s sorrow, they still weren’t on speaking terms with their old buddy Sam, a fact they made everyone aware of on a regular basis because, though hard to believe they could get any grumpier, they were like grumpy old men on spinach.
However, they were still in touch with their newspaper. Something Bob found out the instant he stepped through the door to purchase feed.
“Bob,” Applegate shouted. As usual, his hearing aid was off. “Says here you’re out to get married. Who’s the woman?”
“Come on, Bob,” Stanley added when Bob didn’t respond. “It’s all right there in the paper. Next thang ya know one of them gossip magazines is gonna have Bob’s picture plastered across it. Like a hunk of the month or somp-thin.”
Bob spun toward the two men. “Applegate, my picture isn’t going to be in any kind of magazine. This’ll be old news tomorrow.” If he could only be so lucky.
“I don’t know about that, son,” Stanley said, scratching his bushy eyebrow, his wrinkled face drooping with a doubtful expression. “My cousin’s son’s barber’s grandson’s friend had himself a little sit-chi-ation involving a dead body in his backyard and before you could blink, it was on the cover of the Inquirer. Right smack on the front. You remember that, App?”
“Huh?” Applegate shouted. “I thought that was yer sister’n-law’s, brother’s, ex-stepmother’n-laws father?”
“Hey, guys,” Bob held out his hands to halt the mind-spinning deluge, holding on to his temper as best he could. This was getting more ridiculous by the second. “I won’t be on the cover of any magazine. Thankfully I don’t have the same connections your friend had.”
Stanley shot him a glare of disbelief. “He wasn’t my friend! The twerp ended up going to prison. Turned out he killed the feller. Them magazines, they get it right ever once in a while—though I ain’t of the mind that Elvis is alive. That one I’ll have to see for myself.”
“You say Elvis is alive?” Applegate asked, having totally misunderstood what was being said. “Why, that’s about the all-fired most foolish—”
Pete showed up with Bob’s order on the dolly, and he didn’t slow down as he wheeled it outside. Bob wasted no time following.
“I’m telling you, Bob, if those two don’t get over this feud they have going on with Sam, I’m going to go mad! If it’s not one thing it’s another. I’ve about had all the—well, you don’t need to hear about my problems. I read the paper, too, and it looks like you have enough on your plate.”
Bob started stacking the heavy bags onto his truck. “I feel for you, Pete. At least I can load this up and hop in my truck and go home. If you don’t see me for a month or so you know where to find me.”
Pete, a large man, dusted his hands on the front of his well filled-shirt. “You really fixin’ to hole up at your place for that long?”
“I wish. If I could I would. Believe me, there’s plenty to keep me busy, the place was pretty run-down when I bought it. So I imagine I’ll be back and forth.” He paused and glanced at Pete. “Truth is, I’m about ready to commit a murder myself. This is just not right, Pete. You should have seen the fellas down at Sam’s. As long as I’m around, I’ll never live this down. I mean, how could she have said all that, that flowery stuff? The woman is trying to make a name for herself writing about all us cowboys and she’s clueless about how the boys take stuff like that and run with it.”
“Oh son, I feel your pain,” Pete laughed, slapped him on the shoulder then headed back inside to his own problems. Bob slammed his tailgate shut and paused to take a calming breath. That’s when he saw her. She was coming around the edge of Prudy’s Garage, greener than the snake she was.
Without another thought, he struck out down the middle of Main Street, his spurs clinking with every step.
It was time for a showdown.
Chapter Three
The familiar sound of clinking spurs drew Molly’s attention away from almost upchucking in the middle of Mule Hollow’s Main Street. The sight of mild-mannered Bob storming toward her sent a shiver down her spine.
The blaze in his eyes meant only one thing.
He’d read the article.
Retraction. There was nothing mild mannered about the man storming toward her.
She swallowed hard, sucking in a calming breath. It was time to face the music.
Bob halted three feet in front of her, legs spread shoulder-width apart and planted his hands on his narrow hips. If he’d been wearing a Western duster, she could envision him sliding the coat back behind the gun holster, his fingertips wiggling just above the pearly-white pistol, itching to draw and shoot.
Get a grip, Molly.
“H-hello, Bob.” She lifted her chin, trying not to look as queasy as she felt.
He lifted his chin in acknowledgment, or challenge, his eyes boring into hers. The man did have the nicest square chin and the most stunning eyes…angry eyes at the moment, but gorgeous. And why was she thinking about them, when he was obviously thinking about wringing her neck? “I, well I was just looking at my car. It’s a mess.” She laughed nervously as he raised an eyebrow. “Okay, okay.” She raked a trembling hand through her ponytail. “I see you’ve read the article. I’m sorry. I should have asked. I should have made certain that something like that, I mean, an entire article about you should have had your okay on it.”
He nodded. That’s all. Just a curt nod and nothing. Except that his eyes kind of glinted in the morning sunlight like a ping. An “and you call yourself a reporter” kind of ping.
“But,” she rattled on, “you said it and, and well, my editor had asked me to do an article that focused solely on you.” He lifted his eyebrow and guilt washed over her but she stumbled on. “It’s what a poll of the female readers said they wanted. I started not to do it. Really, but then I overheard you talking to Clint. I mean, really, there I was sitting in Sam’s minding my own business and you just happened to be sitting in the booth right behind me, talking about wanting a wife.” She was rambling. There was nothing pretty about rambling, but how else to tell the tale? She just hoped he’d understand. She smiled nervously.
He wasn’t smiling, so her smile melted like a deflating balloon into a pathetic shriveled pucker. “And well, I think you get the rest of the idea. It was just too coincidental to pass