The Cowgirl's Man. Ruth Jean Dale
heading for the head office of Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds. He’d come to know the towering steel-and-glass structure since he’d been hired as company spokesman just over two years ago.
At first he’d felt ridiculous, getting all duded up and having his picture taken with all the solemnity of an Important Happening. After a while he got used to it, though, and now it was just another job—a job that brought in big bucks.
“Mr. Russell!” The receptionist beamed at him. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, Marla. The boss lady in town?” He rolled his eyes toward the elevators that rose to the top floor where Mother Hubbard held court.
Marla’s smile revealed perfect teeth. “Not only that—she’s expecting you.”
“She doesn’t even know I’m in town,” he objected, startled by her comment.
She shrugged, eyes widening. “Don’t ask me, I just work here. But I’ve heard it said she has eyes in the back of her head.” Smiling, she returned her attention to her computer screen.
Clay crossed the lobby toward the elevator, his boot heels clicking on the marble. Mother always seemed to know everything so why was he surprised? Punching the up-button, he waited patiently, his gaze wandering around the lobby, sensing a change.
Something new had been added: a blowup of a famous old ad campaign that had sold a helluva lot of denim. It featured “Mother Hubbard,” a lovely white-haired little old lady who—now that he noticed—looked a lot like Niki Keene’s grandma. She looked straight into the camera, pointing her finger and wearing a mischievous smile while declaring, “You should listen to your mother!”
Yeah, he thought as he stepped into the elevator. Listening to Mother Hubbard was what had gotten him into this strange world in the first place—that and a ton of money.
THE REAL Mother Hubbard looked absolutely nothing like “Mother Hubbard,” a fact that never failed to startle Clay. The first time he’d met the sleek, blond and sophisticated Eve Hubbard he’d thought it was a joke.
It wasn’t. Eve herself had explained why she’d hired an actress to play the part of Mother Hubbard in public—because Eve herself was not the image she wanted for her company. When the actress died three years ago, Clay had been brought in as spokesman to “take the company in a new direction.”
“I design the clothes because I love them, but I can’t wear them and I sure as hell can’t represent them properly in public,” Eve had explained bluntly, her scarlet mouth curving down in an unhappy line. “I just don’t project the proper image, hence the Queen of the Cowgirls contest.”
She’d winked. “Every cowboy needs a queen,” she’d said. “I’m doing this for you, dear.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You’re only half the package, darling. When I launched this company twenty years ago on a damned shoestring, I vowed never to let vanity, mine or anybody else’s, get between me and a strong bottom line.”
She obviously never had. Today her company was a multi-million-dollar success with Eve still flying high as chief designer and eccentric head honcho. Aggressive and smart, she terrorized most of the people she dealt with.
Clay liked her.
Her secretary waved him through with a smile and he entered the plush and modern office—another shock considering that the company produced down-home western styles. Eve rose quickly from behind a massive glass-and-chrome desk, her sleek red suit the only touch of color in the room.
“Darling!” Coming around the desk, she offered her porcelain cheek for his kiss.
“Howdy, Mother.” He pressed his lips to her cool skin.
“Do tell me about your adventures.” She plucked a manila folder off the desk before drawing him toward a black leather couch near the glass wall.
“Saw a lot of good-lookin’ women.” He sat down beside her.
“Twelve of them?” Eve asked sharply, spilling out the contents of the folder on the cocktail table: the eight-by-ten glossy photographs which had earned these women entrance into the finalists’ round. “Any duds, pardon the expression, in the bunch?”
Clay laughed. “Not a one. They’re all real good-lookers.”
“How about the girl from Tulsa?” She slid a photo from the messy pile before her and held it up.
“Pretty, but she’s kinda…guess you’d call it inarticulate. Put a microphone in her face and she starts to giggle.”
“She’s out, then.”
Startled, Clay frowned, thinking that the rest of the contest judges might not agree with her.
“How about that one near Denver?” She held up another photo, this one of a dazzling green-eyed blonde.
“A possibility. She looks good but there’s something kinda… I guess you’d say cold about her. Her personality, I mean.”
“I wonder if that would photograph,” Eve mused, squinting at the color likeness. She sighed and tossed it aside. “Let me think…. There’s got to be one in this group who’s just right.” She brightened. “How about the girl in that little jerkwater town south of here… Hard Hat, Hard Work—something like that.”
“Hard Knox.”
“That’s it.” Eve pulled out a photograph of Niki wearing a big grin and a Stetson. “How was she?”
How was she? Clay stared at the picture, startled all over again by the brilliance of those dark blue eyes, the vitality of the straight black hair. He’d spent most of the night trying to figure her out and failed miserably.
“She’s…a good possibility,” he said carefully, surprised to find he wasn’t ready to explain Niki’s reluctance to participate just yet.
“And the girl in Cheyenne…”
Eve continued questioning Clay closely and he answered as fully as he could, considering the fact that most of the things she wanted to know weren’t really things he noticed—carriage, grace, presence. If that’s what Eve wanted, she should have sent someone else.
The only contestant he’d noticed who had all those things to any discernable degree was Niki Keene and she didn’t want any part of the Queen of the Cowgirls competition. He really should tell Eve and get it over with but she was going to ask a bunch of questions he wasn’t prepared to answer so to hell with it.
“How many were wearing my clothes?” she asked suddenly, her expression moving from inquiring to serious.
He was ready for that question but sorry it had come so early in the proceedings. “Only one that I’m sure of,” he said slowly. “Niki Keene was wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds but—”
“Niki Keene…this pretty thing?” She waved the picture.
“Yes, but—”
“Can she talk beyond monosyllables?”
“Yes, but—”
“Is she as attractive in person?”
“More so.”
“Guess that settles it, then.”
“Settles what?”
“The winner of the first Queen of the Cowgirls title. That’s what we’ve been talking about, right?”
“Sure, but—”
“What’s your problem, darling?” she snapped. “Aren’t you used to women who can make decisions?” To emphasize her point, she snapped her scarlet-tipped fingers.
“I thought this was an honest contest,” he blurted.
“It is.”