The Rancher's Surprise Marriage. Susan Crosby
later, to figure out how she felt and how she would deal with it. She’d gotten way too good at keeping her feelings at bay.
“I have to think about it,” she said. “And talk to my agent and my manager. And Garnet. Can’t make a move without my publicist’s input, right? You know the drill.” Anger began to take center stage, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her reaction. “What I need at the moment is for you to keep it to yourself for a while so that I can figure out the next step.”
He crossed his arms. “Two days, Maggie. That’s plenty of time. I want to move forward.”
“Go public, you mean.” Just as he had three weeks ago when they’d announced their engagement to the world. He’d been in a hurry to make their relationship public then, too. “I’ll be in touch. You can go now.”
“I’m really sor—”
“Just get out.”
He got to the door, put his hand on the knob.
“Wait.” She yanked off her engagement ring and tossed it. He caught it on the fly. “I’ve heard Gennifer doesn’t mind secondhand goods.”
He looked at her with the puppy-dog gaze that made women everywhere swoon. “Someday you’ll be glad about this.”
“That would ease your conscience, wouldn’t it?” She watched the door close then latched it behind him. She didn’t want any more surprises.
No wonder she’d barely heard from him. His movies, all hard-driving, nonstop action, took longer and were more physically exhausting than hers, so she’d believed him when he said he hadn’t had any free time.
What a joke.
They’d had a deal. A commitment.
Maggie clenched her fists. Her jaw hurt. She couldn’t stay in the hotel, couldn’t spend the evening as if it was like every other evening. Her gaze landed on the envelope with the script pages she was supposed to learn for tomorrow.
“Later,” she muttered. She wouldn’t sleep tonight, anyway. She headed to the shower, tried to wash off Scott’s betrayal along with the ranch dirt.
The ranch. She turned off the water, reached for a towel. The cowboy. The cowboy bar.
That’s what she could do. She could meet the crew at the Red Rock Saloon.
But how to get herself there? She didn’t want Dino to drive her. He was way too good at reading her, so she needed to stay away from him, at least for tonight. She wanted to just hang out with the crew, figure out how to announce her broken engagement. For tonight, anyway, she could fake that life was still okay, or else she didn’t have the right to call herself an actor.
Maggie phoned the concierge, generally the most discreet employee in the hotel. After a short discussion, she’d lined up transportation. Then she called Leesa and Dino and told them she didn’t want to be disturbed under any circumstances until 6:00 a.m. Dino grunted assent. Leesa gave her the verbal equivalent of a wink.
Maggie dressed in her favorite jeans and boots, added a new red Western shirt bought for the trip, stuffed her ID and some bills in her pocket and sneaked out of the room. She felt better wearing the outfit. Stronger, more in control. The boots gave her confidence, too, as if her father was walking beside her. He’d instilled in her his love for John Wayne and the cowboy ideal of standing tall. If her father were here he’d be reminding her she’d survived a whole lot worse than her fiancé falling in love with someone else.
She left her hair down so that it could fall against her face, hiding her as much as possible. The concierge met her in the parking lot, handed over the keys to his own car and gave her directions to the Red Rock Saloon.
She was bound to be recognized, no matter where she went, but she hoped for enough time to anesthetize her pain a little first.
Maggie counted eight vehicles in the saloon parking lot: six pickups, one van and a motorcycle. She parked her borrowed, ridiculously out-of-place Ford Focus next to the van she figured belonged to the film crew.
Deciding to get the lay of the land first, she stepped over an evening’s worth of cigarette butts on the ground and eased open the back door, wincing as it creaked. She slipped inside. The jukebox played a twangy ballad. Pool balls clacked. Low, male voices drifted down the dark-paneled, rough-hewn hallway, then the higher pitch of a woman’s laugh. The scent of beer filled the air. The bar probably served little else.
It was her kind of place, a statement that would surprise a whole lot of people. She may have grown up in front of the camera, but behind the scenes she’d been raised simply. She felt ten times more comfortable in a bar like this than a fancy restaurant or trendy club. And tonight, when she was hurting, the whole place seemed to wrap her in a hug.
Maggie peered into the main room. She counted thirteen people, including the bartender. Four were from her crew, all crowded around the pool table. Only two were women, both in their twenties. The other patrons hung out in small groups, either at the long bar or around tables.
Absurd disappointment struck her. She’d hoped the cowboy would be there. Why would he? Should he be able to read her mind? Catch her wish drifting through the air that she wanted to see him, the memories he evoked both comforting and exciting? Crazy. It was absolutely crazy to be thinking like that.
She walked to the pool table, dug into her pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill, which she plunked down by a corner pocket. “I’ll take the winner,” she said, getting the attention of the players, cameraman Pete and grip Warren.
“Hey,” Pete said, grinning. “Thought you were tired.”
“Got my second wind.”
“Grab yourself a cold one. Warren here’s gonna be done in a minute.”
She wandered over to the bar. “I’ll have a glass of what’s on tap,” she said.
The sixty-something, ponytailed bartender nodded and grabbed an ice-cold mug.
She put a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. “That’s for me and those four over by the pool table. Let me know when you need more, okay?”
He eyed her. “Okay.”
“Aw, Mags. You don’t hafta do that,” Pete called out.
“You’ll be paying for it one way or another,” she said in return. “I’ll just be using your winnings.”
Hoots and hollers came from her friends. She grinned. She leaned against the bar and took a sip. As she lowered her mug she saw a photograph of herself on the wall, among a slew of other star photos, male and female. She moved closer to look at them. A few were autographed to a guy named Tex. Most weren’t signed at all.
A black-and-white drew her closer. It was her cowboy in full rodeo gear, his signature scrawled across one corner. The shot looked to be maybe twenty years old.
“Are you Tex?” she asked the bartender.
“Sure am.”
“These people all been through here?”
“Most. Some are just particular favorites of mine or my regulars.”
Which meant she was a particular favorite. She took another long sip, happy to be honored at the Red Rock Saloon, then started toward the pool table.
“Miss?” Tex said, gesturing with his head to come closer.
Maybe he didn’t recognize her. After all, she was platinum-blond in the picture and wearing a gold sequined dress—the Oscars ceremony from a few years back, when she was a presenter.
“I’d be honored if you’d sign your photograph before you leave,” Tex said. “And in case you’re wondering, if anyone here bothers you, I’ll send ’em on their way.”
She appreciated his concern. “I’d be happy to sign the picture for